Kovu Bizimana
The road to Bujumbura, Burumbi, feels endless sometimes. It's not just the heat or the weight of the banana plants stacked on my bike; it's the constant sense that something could go wrong. One slip on these winding, uneven roads, and I could lose everything. There’s a reason so many of my friends have scars, broken bones, or worse. This job doesn’t forgive mistakes.
I load up early in the morning, twelve banana plants strapped to the frame, the weight pushing down on the old bike. I’ve had to fix it so many times that I’ve lost count. The welds holding it together look like a map of all the places it could’ve fallen apart, and sometimes I wonder how much longer it’ll hold. But this bike is my only way to make a living. At 22, with two kids and a wife depending on me, there’s no other choice.
On the downhill stretches, I barely touch the brakes. If I did, I’d lose the momentum I need for the next climb. It’s risky, especially when I hit close to 100 km/h, but saving energy is more important than the fear. The wheels sometimes feel like they’re burning up beneath me, and I can only hope they won’t give out on one of these trips. Going uphill is even worse, though. When a truck passes by, I grab onto the back and let it pull me up. It’s dangerous, but so is everything else in my life.
When I reach the market in Bujumbura, the heat is unbearable, and I’m soaked in sweat. The humidity makes the air feel thick, and every movement feels heavier. I sell the banana plants for about $5, just enough to keep things going. I have two kids and a wife back in my village, so every bit helps. Then I find a ride back to the mountains—sometimes on a truck, sometimes with a friend on a moped—and prepare to do it all over again.
At night, lying next to my wife, I think about the trips I’ve made, how many times I’ve been lucky enough to make it home. Maybe that’s all it is—luck. Or maybe there’s something, someone, watching over me. Either way, I’m grateful every time I wake up and realize I get another chance to keep going.