Butare, early morning.
The sky wasn't fully bright yet, and the city was still in the dim light of dawn.
After a night of fierce fighting, the rebellion sparked by the rebel militia was temporarily suppressed, leaving bullet holes on both sides of the city streets, and some cars reduced to frames were still emitting blue smoke.
A Toyota pickup truck delivering fresh meat trudged through the hazy morning light, its rusty wheels rolling over the pothole-ridden streets of Butare City, each jolt making the carriage groan under its weight.
The headlights cut through the lingering night fog, illuminating the occasional silhouette of patrolling soldiers by the roadside.
Inside the cab, Amina gripped the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles were white, sweat beading on her dark brown forehead.
Ahead, the high walls of the President's Mansion were faintly visible, with the searchlights on the sentry post sweeping back and forth like the pupils of a one-eyed giant.
