Running the Rift: A Novel
Winner of the Bellwether Prize for Socially Engaged Fiction, Naomi Benaron has written a stunning and gorgeous novel that—through the eyes of one unforgettable boy— explores a country’s unraveling, its tentative new beginning, and the love that binds its people together.
wriggled her arms, and it fell to the floor with a whispered shush. Zigzags of light streaked her breasts, her dark, encircled nipples. Kneeling in front of her, he unwound her pagne, pulled down her lacy leggings. She stepped free of them. He traced the angled patterns on her skin, first with a finger and then with his tongue. BOOK THREE DEATH BECOMES HUNGRY Urupfu rurarya ntiruhaga. Death eats and is never full. TWENTY-FOUR THE NEXT MORNING, Jean Patrick would leave for
His skin went cold. A woman burst into the yard, running with long-legged strides, arms pumping. With a sinking feeling in his belly, he recognized Honorine, the distance runner. A group of guys chased her, slipping and sliding in the wet grass. A bottle hit her on the back of the head. She kept going. In the pack, Jean Patrick recognized teammates and friends he used to sit beside in class. He took off after them as Honorine disappeared around the corner of a building. They didn’t follow, the
a time since I was a young child when both my eyes slept at the same time.” She stepped across the rutted earth, the basin steady atop the ingata. “We can never forget we’re Tutsi, eh? It’s a curse but also a blessing.” She leaned her weight into the hill as if pushing against an opponent. Jean Patrick found a rhythm of movement, swinging crutches and then body to keep up with her. The padding on the handles had started to unravel. In the distant fields, women bent and swayed with the rhythm of
flour.” Jean Patrick shaped a ball with his fingers. “You do like this.” He surrounded a piece of fish and pulled it from the bone, then popped fish and ugali into his mouth. The waiters watched from behind the bar. “Comme ça?” Jonathan copied him. With the first taste, his nose wrinkled. “Needs a little help. It reminds me of Play-Doh, the paste I played with when I was a kid. I ate enough of that to do for a lifetime.” Before Jean Patrick could stop him, he picked up a bottle of pilipili and
do.” Susanne picked out a photo of a skinny black dog with matted fur. “Here’s our new puppy. She was wandering around my hut in the mornings, so I started sharing my breakfast. Once she had me pegged as a primary food source, she wasn’t going anywhere. We’ve named her Kweli, after one of Dian Fossey’s beloved gorillas. The children about died when I told them we named a dog.” Ineza put her arms around Jonathan and Susanne. “Why don’t you join us for Easter? It’s such a beautiful time in