To some, ink might appear chaotic, but when we look, look closely, a soul stares back at us. There is a threshold there: between what we see and what we feel. I invite people to enter that space. In my drawings, nothing is accidental. Even the pauses matter.

Please, introduce yourself.

My name is Selemani CHERUBALA Philippe-Dan, but the public knows me as OKLM. I am a multifaceted artist, a musician and a visual director.

My identity and creativity feed on my roots, proudly anchored between two pillars of Africa: DR Congo and Burundi.

I define my work as a mixture of authenticity and modernity.

My goal is simple: to use my director’s eye and my musician’s ear to offer a complete and unique artistic universe.

Your piece IREMBO feels both dense and calm. Please tell us more.

IREMBO means beauty, but not the loud kind. It’s the beauty that settles after struggle. The kind that remains when the noise is gone. It is about someone who no longer searches for his place in the world, but for peace within himself.

Your work feels deeply rooted. Tell us more about the soil you grew from.

I was born into a large family — I’m the seventh child. My childhood was rocked by combat sports, but even more by music. I started singing at four years old, in a Catholic choir. I inherited that love from my mother; she was a singer and a youth leader when she was young.

Our house was always full of things: music, fighting sports, drawing, pastry… creation in many forms.

I discovered drawing through manga, and through my older brothers, who were already drawing a lot.

My family gave us a principle to follow:

If you want to do good things, start with the small ones — and do them well.

Remain authentic.

Put God at the centre of everything, even your talents.

And above all — do what you love, and truly do it.

In Burundi, there’s a saying: “Ukurusha abandi si uwiruka cane, ni uwamenye iyo aja.” The one who goes far is not the one who runs fastest, but the one who knows where he is going.

That stayed with me.

How did it begin with art? What difficulties did you encounter, and what arts bring you as a state of mind?

I can’t say that I encountered art; I can say that art chose me. As I mentioned before, I was born into a large family where everyone had their own talent or particular gift, but music was something that truly belonged to us. I discovered it at the age of five, and I have continued to practise it up to this day.

As for drawing, I can say that I discovered it and that it, too, chose me. By watching manga with my older brothers and seeing them reproduce certain characters, I began to wonder how they managed to do that... It was from that point that I also started drawing, and that’s when I realised I had a particular talent in that world as well.

Of course, it wasn’t easy —

especially in the society I grew up in, a society that saw art as a waste of time, a society that did nothing but talk and criticise…

But fortunately, it’s thanks to that very society that I developed the mental strength and mindset I have today.

Art, for me, is a second nature, a second home, a life.

It’s something that allows me to express myself, to express things I maybe couldn’t express verbally or directly. I would say that art came into my life to show me who I really was and why I loved art so deeply.

One of your most striking works, INGABO, radiates strength.

Here, force is silent, dignified, indomitable. He is the son of the hills. He is the rock of the country. INGABO means shield. Not the kind you swing, but the kind you become.

The piece MUKULU feels intensely personal.

It is my Inkingi — my pillar. The eldest. The one who opened the road so that I wouldn’t stumble. He wasn’t only a big brother; he was my shield and my first support. Mukulu — the eldest — is blood, foundation. The one who gave everything so I could stand upright.

This portrait is my debt of recognition. In Kirundi, we say:

“Uwutagukingiye mu mvura ntazokubakira izuba.”

The one who didn’t shelter you from the rain won’t build you a house in the sun.

He sheltered me.

Your lines feel almost obsessive — dense, layered. Why this intensity?

Because memory is never clean. Life doesn’t arrive in straight strokes.

I don’t rush faces. I let them tell me when they are ready.

When someone stands before your work, what do you hope they carry with them when they leave?

Stillness.

If they feel seen — even briefly — then the passage has worked.

Because sometimes a single look, patiently drawn, can hold a thousand lives.

Thank you for today’s conversation. We wish you all the best in your life and your career.

To learn more about Dan and his art, please check his profile.

I will begin with something that isn’t standard. So maybe you’ll feel a bit uncomfortable, because it’s not the kind of question that’s usually asked. If you want, you can answer; otherwise, we’ll change the question, okay?

Yes, let’s try.

Okay, so when you woke up this morning, a Congolese national, but resident in Burundi, what did you think about? What was the first thing you did?

This morning, when I woke up, I was thinking about what I was going to do and where I was going. I’m going on holiday, but it won’t be completely a holiday because I’m going to another country. I thought about what I could create, what I could do there, how I could enjoy it — because it’s not easy to leave our country and go to another one. For us here in Africa, it’s really not easy; it’s something difficult.
So, I thought about trying to create something, to build a network. I thought about taking my works with me and trying to create something there, to make the most of it.

And where will you be travelling?

I’m going to Uganda. From Burundi.

You said you want to create something. Is that instinct to create — wherever you are, wherever you go — part of who you are? Or is it more about being useful, using the moment to gain experience, visibility, recognition?

Yes, that’s it exactly. Visibility, recognition, and creating a network. Starting with a continental network is much better for a career. For us, especially when we have the chance to travel like this, we take advantage of it. I am talking to the Ugandan artists — creating a network with them — it’s something many people never get the chance to do. To move, to go somewhere else. So it’s about networking, recognition, doing as many things as possible. Creating an exhibition with them, growing the portfolio — that kind of thing. I’ll work with a man here who does acrobatics. I’ll talk to him, I think.
I want to create something here first, then let it grow.

The inspiration will come.

Maybe from myself, maybe from there.

Creating an exhibition will take time; it all depends on how the conversations go with the people I meet there.
But I’m ready and open to everything: artistic collaborations, galleries in Uganda, new contracts — everything.

You have more than four years of experience.

Since 2020, I really started drawing professionally. Before that, I enjoyed it since childhood. I even helped with organising drawing competitions and exams. Even when I was a student myself, I’d take part in an exam I helped to create. So from a very young age, drawing was already there. But professionally, it started in 2020, and I was never an art student.

Now let’s talk about your artworks. Let’s start with this piece, Idéalisme. Where does the idea come from?

This work talks about identity. African identity, especially. Our children here don’t live in the same world as children in Europe.
You see the empty plate — that’s important. That’s why I called it Idéalisme. He’s developing ideas on his own, without guidance. He doesn’t know who he’ll become, how he’ll start, which path he’ll take to become who he wants to be — or who he believes he is. But he keeps going.
There’s hope. There’s a smile — a confident smile. He tells himself that one day he will become something, one day he will have something. That’s why I represented it with the empty plate. He has nothing — not even a T-shirt like mine — but he still has hope. That’s the idea behind it.

So the plate symbolises lack, and he’s full of hope and aspiration?

Yes.

What emotion do you want to evoke in the viewer?

It’s like a call for support.
When we see these children — many of them living on the streets — they are children who lack material things, but they are incredibly intelligent. Truly intelligent. Often, more than children who grow up wealthy.
They have hunger, desire, and ambition. So when we see these stories, it pushes us to support them, to help children who believe they can become something. That’s it.

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Are you speaking a little about yourself in this work?

No. I’m speaking about what I’ve seen — what I see now. Burundi is one of the countries with many street children. We see this everywhere: on the way to university, in the streets. As artists, we have to try to do something.

I think it becomes another job for artists. As they grow and practice their art, they see that many others could do it too, but there’s a lack — a gap, as we say in English. Talent alone isn’t enough; some conditions need to change, and we can help change.

Let’s talk about Naître digne — Born with Dignity.

That was the first work I created when I arrived in Burundi. It’s a tribute to childhood and growth.
You see the hand pouring water — the source of life. It speaks about rights: the right to education, the right to life.

The water represents education and all the good things. The large hand pouring it symbolises the responsibility of adults, of society.

A child can’t give themselves an education;

it’s their first time living.

They must be guided.

And Résignation?

“Résignation” is something else. That one is more about me. All the people you see in my works exist — they’re around me, friends, people I know. I created Résignation during a moment of chaos. I was preparing an exhibition, but I was down. I couldn’t work anymore. I had no resources to continue.
I still had hope. I prayed and worked at the same time. Résignation was a decision taken when the mouth can no longer speak, when you can’t express yourself anymore — but inside, you tell yourself you can continue, without panicking.
People saw the exhibition, but they didn’t know what had happened inside me — financially, emotionally, everything. After that resignation, I got up and continued working. And now, honestly, I feel like I’m entering another resignation. I’ve been down for some time; I haven’t worked for a month. But I believe I will work again soon.

Where does that inner calm come from?

It depends on the person. Everyone has their own way. For me, going somewhere I like, visiting someone I care about, going to a museum or cultural space.

When I see others succeeding, it gives me strength.

I tell myself: that’s my place too.

I need to stand up and work.

How is access to art in Burundi today?

It depends. Many people focus on portraits and commissions. I do them too, but I don’t think it’s a good long-term path for an artist.
An artist has a mission: to create a world, to transmit something, to build exhibitions. Portraits decorate homes, but they don’t always serve that mission.
Art requires patience. You might not be visible — the work is in front, not you. Many young people don’t like being invisible. And it’s not something that pays quickly.
I started in 2020. Maybe I’ll sell a work that supports me fully in 2035. Until then — how do I live?
That’s why I study telecommunications and IT. I combine it with art: graphic design, video editing. If art smiles, great. If not, I work. That’s how you survive as an artist here.

And Rouge intérieur — Inner Red?

That was a moment of fire. A period when I couldn’t work anymore. I took a photo of myself in my room and drew it.
It came before Résignation. First, there’s the inner disturbance, the discouragement, the fire inside. Then comes resignation. It was a strong moment — a whole collection.

I didn’t go to art school. It’s a gift. I discovered myself in 2020 — learning shading, detail. I learned by working with others, older artists, tutorials. There is the Academy of Fine Arts in Congo, but I couldn’t afford it.

Difficult moments have no age. When you’re a child, not getting candy feels hard. As a teenager, heartbreak feels hard. As an adult, money problems feel hard. It evolves.

Perspective changes. So what you’re telling young artists is that this passes — it’s a phase?

Yes. Exactly.

Patience is everything — not just to start, but to finish. Many artists are depressed because they expect talent alone to be enough. It isn’t. You need work, networks, courage to write to people, to apply, to show yourself internationally. Social media matters. You must work on your network as much as your art.

Many people are afraid to write. But you must. Even if they don’t reply the first time, insist. That’s how things grow.

Art is inspiration, collaboration, reaching beyond your reality. That’s how we move forward.

Let’s talk about Bomoko. In Lingala, that means Unity / Union.

Yes, yes. This resistance is what it actually describes.

I love everything that’s in the piece. And in fact, there is the pagne — the traditional cloth. I made the pillows with the pagne that’s on the right side. That’s why every time I see something like that, it immediately touches me. I even have a book — when I read it, honestly, it’s very good — We Are All Birds of Uganda. The first version I read had a different cover, but this cover has that pagne. I don’t know if you can see it, but it shines. When I saw it, I said, “Mama, I already love this.”

It’s a work that many people loved — Bomoko. Yes, it’s a piece that really resonated with many people. People say, “We really love it.” It’s cool, it’s traditional, it’s collective — even for me. Normally, it’s a work about crisis, but above all, it’s about African unity among Africans. I don’t know where you are right now, but you experience this unity among Africans wherever you are. That unity is always there. Because the pagnes in the background represent unity: they are different fabrics, with different patterns, connected together. Pagne is something you find in Africa — it’s made mostly in Africa. It’s one of those deeply traditional African elements. I wanted to illustrate that in the background — these fabrics touching each other. That’s what it shows: African identity. How we are united everywhere. That unity is felt even in the West — everywhere, everywhere in Europe. That’s why this artwork exists. Why do you find this piece incredible?

Because of the hands — at first, I don’t know why, I thought they were feet and hands. When I saw it for the first time, I was confused. Then I understood the posture — it could only be the hands.

Your inspiration — because you said it comes from the people around you, from yourself, from inner processes, emotions, the passage of time — everything that is shared by all of us. And beyond that, what other inspirations do you have?

Inspiration — this is something more personal. It depends on how each person lives their own story, everything they go through in life. For me personally, when something bad happens to me, or something hurts me more deeply, I’ve noticed — especially recently — that when something painful happens, I become very inspired.

Many difficult things happen to me, but it is precisely in those difficult moments that I feel more inspired.

There are also moments when I go to green spaces, places with open air. There is the city everywhere, but I go where I can breathe, and there I feel inspired, in nature, places like the beach. That’s where I feel inspired. So it really depends. For me, that’s what being inspired means.

So tell me: when you’re at home, where do you usually go to feel comfortable, to breathe, to pass time — not to make art, but just to be yourself?

I spend most of my time at the beach, by the lake. There is a whole neighbourhood there with two beaches. You may have heard of Lake Tanganyika. There are beaches, waterfalls, and almost everything.

Yes, there is real calm there. Burundi has its bars, cafés, and bistros are not very noisy like in Congo. People are calm, they drink quietly without disturbing others. Outwardly, everything is calm — even if inwardly people may be troubled. But that calm allows everyone to reflect, to take time, to concentrate.

You are very young, and you taught yourself — through YouTube, like many of us — how to do certain things. So we can say you are very independent.

Yes, totally independent, because necessity forces you to be.

There is no other way — no one comes to hold your hand and say, “Come, learn.”

So you learn to make use of available resources. Where we are born, we learn to be self-sufficient.

Were there relationships in your personal or professional life that really supported you? It could be your mother, an artist who spoke to you, or another important figure.

When it comes to relationships, I really value lived relationships — real relationships with people. First of all, my parents, because they are the first people. Then my friends from the Academy of Fine Arts, friends who are still there now. We share almost everything. There are my parents, my friends — many friends.

Even though I didn’t have the means to attend the Academy, I stayed connected to those who are there. We spent good times together, lived in the same city, shared new things. They tell me what’s new, what’s happening — other artists too: Jean-Luc, almost everyone. They share their experiences with me — what they live, how they exhibit, their new ways of working.

These are people I will never forget. They really help me in my career. Many people don’t see the difference between me — independent — and those at the Academy. But we share the same values. We work almost the same way. We have the same mission. It’s really thanks to them that I do so much and discover so many things.

And what are your artistic dreams?

My artistic dreams were once very unclear, especially considering African realities and everything we live. But now, as we start gaining visibility and recognition — respect, even — we begin to see change. People call you “artist.” You go to university, to public places, and people show respect.

That gives me courage. It’s something worth pursuing to the end — especially internationally. When you pursue something, you first have to look at your immediate environment. That’s something entrepreneurship teaches: start locally. See if it works. See if your efforts lead somewhere.

Today, we see great artists at home who still end up in poverty. It happens everywhere. Many great African — and especially Congolese — artists have made a name for themselves, are respected, but still live poorly. No one lets them walk on foot, yet they don’t even own a car.

So we should copy their work — but not copy the choices that led them into poverty. I always make the effort to learn from others’ work, but not to copy their path. I have my own sensitivity, my own way of creating.

It’s not about fleeing the country or denying nationality. I love leaving, going somewhere, working, doing great things — and then coming back to invest at home. That’s what I want. Because staying only means stagnation. But if you leave and return, you bring something back to your society — something that helps younger people who follow you. You become an example.

There is this Lingala proverb: EBALE ENTENGAMA PO EZANGAKA MOTEYI. The river got crooked because of a lack of an adviser.

You started well, I’ll expand on this favourite saying of yours.

This is just one of many wise Lingala sayings— there are many. The world is in need of mentors, advisers, even seers — and if they’re not there, that’s when we struggle, because it can take us much longer — much longer — to find our path, right? Is that it?

Yes, that’s it. If you don’t pay attention, you’ll end up like the riverbank. You see, the riverbank is never straight, never level; it’s always slanted. And if you lean only to one side, you’ll find yourself lost.

Today, the artistic world is a risk. Being an artist is a risk. I think even working in communication today is a risk. We accept taking these risks. But if you’re not careful while taking them, you’ll become tilted, unbalanced.

So we’re obliged to follow certain paths, certain directions, guided by elders, by those who came before us. Personally, I don’t know — I’ve always been guided by elders. I try to consult some, even those who aren’t drawers or artists. In Congo, being an artist — it’s almost like an illness. Most of our great artists often end up poor.

There are people who can walk — who should never have to walk long distances on foot — there will always be people to help them, yet they themselves don’t even have a car. You see that kind of person? They have the touch, they have everything, but there’s something they didn’t do to reach the level they should have reached. That’s what it’s about. These are people to learn from — but also people whose mistakes you shouldn’t repeat. You have to do something different.

There are also others who call themselves producers and so on. We try to understand them, then we try to follow them. I told you at the beginning, too:

I’ve always had people at the academy, everywhere, guiding me.

They tell me: no, this weakens here, do it like this, like that. They guide us constantly. Among young people, that’s how it works. And it really helps in a course of study, in a career.

I think you touched on a very important subject: having talent without help. Either it’s advice or practical help to get where you’re going. Yesterday I watched something where an actor — a professional — said that what’s missing in the education of artists today is someone saying: I see you. I think you’d be good at this. I see you in this profession. You have something vital. Like a seer who sees talents, who sees where we can go. What he said was that young people going to artistic schools — actors, artists — get greeted by this very old mentality of pushing them down, making them like new soldiers in the army. I don’t know if you know that practice of crushing people — breaking them — thinking something good will come out of it. He said he disagrees, and I agree too. They crush you, show you that you’re nothing, that you’re worth nothing, and they call that education. But that’s not the method. I don’t know anyone who was told they were useless and then grew up strong and confident. We’re missing elders who say: Yes, you’re not perfect, but I see you here. I see how you could get there. Another thing he said is that what we often hear when we’re young is: That’s too difficult. That’s impossible. That business is too hard. From the very beginning, you’re discouraged, made to feel guilty because it’s “too difficult”, you will never get there.

That’s how it is. In Africa, when a child isn’t considered intelligent at home, they’re sent to draw.

And today, the way artists dress — letting their hair grow, for example — people see them as crazy. At least they have hair, they say. Contemporary fashion, copied by many artists, makes the story harder for spectators and outsiders to understand. They always say we’re crazy. How do you manage? You create a world, but look at your hair. All of that.

So there’s a distinction between what’s considered reasonable — technical jobs, useful things — and those “crazy” people who don’t fit anywhere, who produce strange, incomprehensible, mad things. And yet, young people are actually very intelligent, because they make things that the old generation tries to discourage. One of the questions children ask each other in my culture — because we don’t really have small talk —is: Are you more humanistic or more scientific in the way you think? We asked that when we were young to see where we were oriented, where we functioned best, where our capacities lay. People can see, for example, that you have two sides: a technical side that you use for earning a living, and an artistic side that’s more about vision. And you want to combine them. That’s what many artists actually are. If you only have one side, in many circumstances, it is hard to survive.

It’s something to fuse, something to combine.

That’s why we need culture, training, broader education — to mix things.

In art, there’s entrepreneurship: knowing how to sell your work, knowing ethics, knowing how to talk to clients, and knowing how to communicate. You’ll do interviews, public appearances; you need leadership. All of that is important.

As artists, we have to work on all these points and neglect nothing — technical skills, video, everything. For a start, it’s always difficult. You can’t have everything from the beginning. You need at least a base in everything, and then people will come.

A message and encouragement for young artists…

So encouragement to everyone who aspires to art — and I’m not speaking only about drawing, but art in general.

To those who are new to art, who are inspired, who breathe visual and contemporary art, my message is: work, persevere, and above all, be patient. Do a lot of research. Work.

I might even be an example myself. People ask whether I had training — I had none. It came through work, through searching, through curiosity, through teamwork.

And finally, what can we wish you for the future?

For my career? I want to combine drawings with performance, creation in big spaces, and collaborate with major personalities. I think I’ve already taken a step— that’s already something. The essential thing is to keep working, keep researching. Work alone isn’t enough; you have to mix things. I also plan to study, because talent alone isn’t enough. I need structure, knowledge. Sometimes we work without even knowing what we’re doing, and others use technical terms we don’t understand. Yet we do it well. That’s why education matters.

I want to go further, work with great people, become a role model, especially because we still have many “rivers” to straighten.

Where I come from, it’s rare to see that. People see my photos on social media and think I’ve already made it, that I’m already living a higher life than they are. But in reality, we’re still working.

To learn more about FLORENT MWARABU and his upcoming projects, please check his profile:

Where from?

From something called the internet.

OK, stalking me.

Hehe. Before talking to you personally.

My main source of information was Komez Art. This is where you sell your pieces, don’t you? So there’s not an awful lot of information about you apart from, you know, your profile, the representation that we all know: Fine Art Painter, multidisciplinary visual artist who uses his work as an instrument to tell real-life stories and highlight the most important aspects of life to society.
Here we would like a little of your personal story, if this is what you would like to share with us.

From those platforms, you only learn a couple of lines about the artist — sorry to say, just a simple biography.

Well, obviously that’s what they do, but not what I tend to do.

OK, so please let me know — what do you want to hear from me?

I would like you to tell me things that no one knows.

OK, so secrets.

Yes, absolutely, still without pulling you by the tongue. You will tell me what you want to disclose. I was wondering first: is there anything from you as a city boy that impacted who you are today as a person, as an artist?

I think it has been. That’s where I feel really connected.

You are drinking Fanta.

Oh my God, yeah.

Yeah — famous soft drink of Rwanda.

Yeah, I just have to drink it because I don’t see it in Europe, so I have to find it here and drink it.

Yes. So I was asking about your childhood. We don’t know anything about it. We don’t know how you grew up, who you grew up with, what happened on the way, or what made you start to paint. Please, tell us about it.

OK. I was born and raised here in Kigali. I would say that I’m a city boy, as you said. I was born in 2002, from a very big family — six, children and parents. We got lucky to live with our parents all the time.

Growing up, I couldn’t see anybody in the family who was an artist, for real. But my father was an architect at that time, so I could see some sketches on paper — houses, not paintings or whatever, but sketches. So I think that really drove me to love art.

I remember the first person who told me I was talented was my nursery school teacher. Luckily, we are still in contact — we still talk, and she knows my progress. So I would say that I started drawing in nursery school, as far as I can remember.

Growing up, it wasn’t easy for me to choose art because my parents didn’t really believe in art before. Not only my parents — also uncles, aunties, everybody in the family couldn’t believe that I could pursue art and become who I am today. They wanted me to be maybe an administrator, engineer, or whatever. But it wouldn’t be just to blame them because it’s the society and the country we grew up in, the economy and everything. It wasn’t easy for parents to understand how a kid could be an artist and make a living from it.

But fortunately, I made it.

So I went to normal schools — government-sponsored schools here in Kigali. I went to primary school in a neighbourhood called Kacyiru. From 2009, the system was still in French, and then they shifted to English. I would say I was in the first promotion that started with English. It was new, even the teachers were struggling to speak fluent English, so it wasn’t easy.

That’s why I asked if it’s David or Davide.

I remember when I was in P4, primary four, I used to draw African maps, Rwanda maps, on the blackboard for the kids — graphical things. I started to be a star from that time. Everybody knew the guy who was really good at drawing maps. So I got a lot of motivation.

From that time, I started to think of continuing art in high school as well. It wasn’t easy, but I made it. In 2018, I joined an art school.

Nyundo.

Oh, you know it. Yes.

Before that, I made some money drawing pencil portraits, but I was just doing it for fun. Joining school really shaped me into a professional artist.

I started thinking: how am I going to survive with this talent? How am I going to make sure that the school fees were a return on investment?

I approached galleries, painters I knew. I was lucky to know many painters because I was born and raised in Kacyiru. It was the first neighbourhood where art really started in Rwanda around 2008–2010. Galleries were born there. I grew up knowing artists.

I remember my first exhibition — a group exhibition. I exhibited with big artists and all my pieces sold.

I was like, wow, this is it.

I started making money and proved to my parents that this could work.

I graduated in 2021 and joined many galleries in Kigali as a professional artist. I started travelling — Europe, selling works to the USA, Germany, Netherlands, Italy, France, Philippines and Qatar. I taught for a few months in Belgium in art academies. I did exhibitions there.

So my professional journey started then — building a portfolio, working with big galleries.

So may we say that Ecole D’Arts De Nyundo really opens the door to an artist?

Yes, Nyundo really opened doors. It’s not only about the school itself but also about society when you find yourself, the peers, the colleagues, you can see that you have to compete. This is when I had to open my eyes and do incredible things. So I would say at school, that school had really opened the doors for many, many different artists, not necessarily through exhibitions, but through exposure.

Who influenced you later on?

From childhood, I worked with watercolours, inks, and pens. In art school, I started oils and acrylics. After graduating, I met Akimana Fabien, a local Rwandan artist.

Fabien later opened ABIEN ARTS CENTRE.

Yes, the centre, you know that guy?

Not personally. His work is displayed at the NIYO art.

Yes, it’s him.

He told me: You can try to make all these practises, the styles into one unique style.

That’s how I came up with a mixed media style: pen, paint, ink and many different things. So I would say that that guy really. He gave me a brilliant idea and really influenced my style ’cause from that time I started to mix up everything that I know, like the things that I have been working on since childhood and to this point.

I’m also influenced by a lady from the USA called Deborah, whose work I love. Colleagues influence me too.

Style always changes. Sometimes I look at work from three years ago and don’t like it. Other times, I look at work from ten years ago and think, wow, I can’t even do that again.

I destroy my work sometimes. Even yesterday, I cut a painting into parts. I flipped works so I don’t keep adding to them.

Camille Pissarro said: “Work at the same time upon sky, water, branches, ground, keeping everything going on an equal basis and unceasingly reworking until you have brought it to the point you want.” And that point you want often doesn’t arrive.

Very true.

I would like to talk to you about your artwork, particularly pieces that struck me. There is “Wild Dreams” with a man with a peculiar look, rather traditional outfit in front of the White House…

It was a farmer whom I talked to, he lived in a remote village in Rwanda, had many great ideas, and dreamed of becoming President of the USA. And here he was, where he was. I called it Wild Dreams. Dreams have no limits. I wanted him symbolic. There is a small ball at the bottom. It symbolises the brilliance. Brilliant ideas, bright future, brilliant everything.

Actually speaking a little bit about my process, I get an idea, and I go into my sketchbook. I try to combine everything, every idea that I have. Even in this case, started like that.

And the text on kitenge?

The texts on clothing come from books and old magazines. Don’t you worry, I don’t destroy people’s books. I select words that fit the idea. Recently, I also used AI-generated text, printed and cut.

I must ask about the women figures in your painting, that incredible painting, entitled “Queen”. Pink background, flowers and in the middle, a woman in a pink dress with disproportionately big slippers or shoes? Tell me. Tell me more about it.

People have been asking me why I love painting male figures. Why are you into it a lot? And there was like, you know, let me try to challenge myself to work with the female figures, to hear their stories. And I think currently, I’m loving them a lot. So in that particular work, many different women love pink, so I went to explain the feminine energy, trying to romanticise it with a very good dress, the flowers and everything, yeah. I do believe that every woman should feel like a queen.

Absolutely.

Children appear a lot, too.

I had a friend in Belgium. She’s a very good lady and a good friend of mine. She has PhD in psychology. So she asked, ‘David, tell me more about your story, about what you’ve been through, about everything’. So we, we had a conversation, a very good conversation. And after a while, she was like, ‘I asked you that question so that I can try to reflect on the work that you do.’ Cause, you know, sometimes artists cannot really explain what they’re doing, it just comes naturally, an expression of the things. So when you hear about what they have been through, you can be like, oh, OK, now I get it. So I think that’s my, my, my perspective on love. Bring the kids a lot. Yeah. It’s just my life, what I have been through as a kid.

Do you think you have ever portrayed yourself?

No, no, no, no, no. The self-portrait. Yeah, as a key to adulthood. Maybe, maybe, maybe I don’t have good pictures of myself.

These paintings of children are incredible. I love them.

Thank you. And I have a new collection of the works that I will be posting in the coming days.

I can see so many already, for example, that girl in “Glipse of Legacy 04”, she has that incredible, piercing look. And then you have the pieces of material as clothing, the background is painted. Tell me more.

Well. I would say that I mixed up many different things, as I told you. Growing up working with watercolours, I use them mostly in the dresses and the hands and legs and everything. Paper cutting, you know, oil paints just as a background, a landscape in the back, I use acrylics and oil paints, and sometimes even use pastels. I use watercolours. I mean, I use many different things.

It’s like problem-solving or challenging myself. Why can’t I use this? Why can’t I try to put on some clothes on the things? But for me as a person, I believe that the best artists are the artists who are not limited to any sort of materials, are the artists who can do art without needing many things.

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Inzu.

That means the house.

The house in Kinyarwanda.

We’re going to talk about the culture connected to the house — to our enclosures, to what is closest to us. Thank you for being here to share in this conversation. First, why don’t we still build a circle? Why aren’t we still in that space where there was family, the circle of friends, in fact, the community?

In fact, because originally, constructions in Rwanda were linked to a family lineage, meaning that people lived within a lineage. For example, you could live on a hill and find, for instance, the head of the family with his first wife, his second wife, of course with their children, and then you would find the married sons who did not yet have the means to build their own house. And so the word Inzu means house, but Urugo was originally a word that referred precisely to all these constructions that were placed within enclosures, and these enclosures were connected to each other.

That’s what was called Urugo. Indeed, in the current state, because Rwandan families have changed, we are mostly dealing with families, I would say, meaning father and mother, mostly monogamous families. But indeed, those constructions which were for extended families also included polygamous families.

That’s why maybe they make less sense now because people’s lifestyles have changed. So the construction has adapted. But yes, that’s mainly what has changed in the current construction of Rwanda.

I’m deeply drawn to the aesthetics of the past — and, like you, I find a unique beauty in Rwandan architecture, particularly in its attention to detail. Could you tell us more about the traditional finishing techniques and what makes them distinctive?

The details of the construction. Indeed, all these houses were built… it was almost like wickerwork. In fact, they called a construction “wickerwork” (architectural basketry, practised only by men, used in the construction of houses, grain granaries, and fences). It was a wooden structure on which horizontal elements were woven.

So, all the vertical wood was placed like an inverted basket, and the ends were joined to form the dome, and then everything around was woven with wood fibres, so it was ropes with flexible wood. And on that, a basket structure was created, and these basket structures were then covered with dry grass, which we called ISHINGE, and inside, we would weave again, like in a basket. It was completely woven.

So, for those who had the chance to visit the King's Palace in Rwanda, you can see it. So, it’s completely woven.

We could say it was an ancient wallpaper.

Yes, exactly. It’s like an ancient wallpaper, except it was handmade, completely woven.

And to make partitions inside, we also used removable partitions in wickerwork, which were fitted into semicircular elements made of baked clay, which we call IGITABO in Kinyarwanda.

IGITABO, because IGITABO means to bury — earthen.

IGITABO K’INKOMANE — A threshold served to protect the interior from water runoff and to the privacy of the occupants. INKINGIYA YA KANAGAZI — column supporting the part of the roof covering the entrance of the house. They marked the separation between the inside and the outside of the house.

Interestingly, the word IGITABO also means book. That’s it.

That’s fascinating. Is it why you decided to annotate the book with the original terms?

Precisely, it was important to preserve the words, because you could also find a finesse in the words. Contextualising words was also very important. So here, in the book, I included all the descriptions of constructions in Kinyarwanda. That’s how I myself personally learned all these words.

Some I knew, others I didn’t. I knew the word IGITABO, but IGITABO, which means this semicircular element that serves as a threshold to enter the house, which also serves as the semicircular element to hold the partitions—I didn’t know it was called that.

But that’s why I said the words were very important to update, because with the words, we understand better. I’m talking about the words here in Kinyarwanda. With these words in Kinyarwanda, we understood better the architecture of that time, because it’s actually difficult to analyse it if we’re not also trying to understand the original words, the words people used to describe what they built. Indeed, all this basketry is truly beautiful. I think Rwanda was remarkably sophisticated — perhaps because it was a centralised and stable state for several centuries, which gave people time to refine their techniques. And so, all these magnificent partitions, which obviously make Rwanda shine, but not only, all the woven baskets, etc. For example, here, all this wickerwork, in a period photo, you can see them woven; they all had completely different patterns.

And what you can also notice is that they had a great variety in shapes as well. That is, in terms of uniformity of patterns. You should also know that in ancient Rwanda, each pattern had its name. Here, we see them in the reconstruction of the King's Palace in Nyanza.

Of course, there were two types of partitions. There were completely opaque partitions through which one could not see. Partitions in Kinyarwanda are called Insika. And then there were those through which you could see a little bit. And so, inside, we could see what was happening outside, but people outside could not see us.

And those were called Insika Zibiomanzi. But those were mainly placed at the entrance. And the ones that were more densely woven, completely opaque, were placed in the living room. But obviously, this was very expensive work, often found in wealthy families and, of course, with the king.

But for example, here, there was a fireplace inside. So it was a huge clay slab, molded in place.

It’s original, it was like that?

It was like that. This is the reconstruction, of course, of the King’s Palace in Nyanza, where we see all these magnificent woven partitions, woven with natural materials. And this is the living room of the king’s house. Here, we see the chair on which he sat when he had guests.

This is an entrance, actually, to go… to his bed. And in the centre, in this living room, there was a huge clay fireplace, called IBUMBA, as we say in Kinyarwanda, and on it was placed, basically, a pot, if you like, made of iron, in which firewood was burned to provide lighting inside.

Also, inside, sometimes cow dung balls were placed. You should know that cow dung, when burned, produces smoke that keeps insects out. So it’s a natural insecticide. That’s what it was used for. Obviously, in the king’s house, this slab wasn’t used for cooking. We didn’t prepare food on it because the king had a kitchen in another house inside his urugo. So for the king, it was just a decorative or ornamental fire to light the rooms and also, as I said, for burning cow dung mixed with charcoal to prevent insects inside.

So it’s a natural insecticide.

Please tell us a bit about how the book was born…

Yes. So, this book, which is called Inzu, was born out of a desire to explain Rwandan architecture, that is, of my native country, but through a cultural and religious lens. Because for me, these constructions were part of a whole. This connection was essential to make sense of it all—to avoid seeing these as isolated objects without a foundation, as objects we come to see in a museum, to admire or to denigrate, but rather to show that all of these forms are part of a greater whole. What interested me first was to understand the paradigm—the way of thinking. The mindset of the people who counted, who lived at that time, who built those houses: what were their thoughts, their ideas, their vision of the world? That’s what intrigued me, and that’s the angle from which I approached this book.

In the book, I begin with history. I talk about Rwanda’s economic system at the time—before colonisation, there was already a religious system centred around ancestor worship, and of course, around the culture of the cow, which was truly the central element. Cows were part of governance; they had monetary value—they were literally the country’s currency.

By understanding these two elements, I was able to analyse the architecture in depth. The most important thing was to create links between ancestor worship, the cow-based cultural system, and the built environment. It was crucial to build that foundation, to anchor these objects in a story, in a territory, and in a worldview.

And that’s where I think it all begins—with KONDO. Isn’t that right? Kondo, gakondo—heritage, tradition. The concept is that everything was created by God, who has a will for humankind… What I found fascinating is that clay, or IBUMBA in Kinyarwanda, and KONDO in Swahili, both come from that same root idea—earth, clay, dust. When we sing or play music, we return to what God created us from: the earth. That’s the recurring idea—that architecture, materials, and creation all come from the soil.

Exactly. It’s the realisation that everything is interconnected. God, the earth, the elements, and human beings form one whole that gives rise to architecture. That’s what I explore in this book: the belief in Imana—God—the nurturing earth that gives us everything, from trees to building materials, and the humans who shape them. The relationship between the two was central, which is why the world of spirits—through ancestor worship—was so important in that society.

Ancestor worship formed the link between the earth and Imana, since people believed we were the children of Imana. Death was not the end—our spirits continued to live.

As you mentioned during the guided tour, there is the body and then there is the spirit that continues to live. That’s why people believed their ancestors had not truly left—they were still there to guide, support, and tell stories.

Yes.

And there were also specific places devoted to that worship.

In traditional Rwandan homes, there was a courtyard, a back courtyard, and the house at the centre. The sacred objects or altars were usually placed in the back courtyard. For those who had no back courtyard, they would place them in front. These were small chapels where people would make vows or seek guidance from their ancestors. If an ancestor had died in painful circumstances, one might pray for their soul to find peace.

People also prayed for guidance—saying, for example, “Grandfather, beloved ancestor, please help me succeed in this project.” These were common forms of prayer. Ancestor worship went further still, involving diviners, because the relationship between Imana (God) and humans was not direct. There had to be intermediaries—diviners, kings, or spiritual figures. One of the best-known cults in Rwanda was that of Ryangombe, a figure to whom people paid homage.

The story goes that Ryangombe, while hunting an antelope, shot an arrow thinking the animal was dead. But as he approached, the antelope suddenly rose and threw him into a tree with its horns. He died there, and that tree became sacred—a tree of good fortune. That is why, even today, trees are planted at the entrances of compounds—to recall that story.

This shows the deep connection between Imana, humans, and the earth—manifested in architecture that was alive, made of trees, living matter. The same trees were used to build, to make fire, to care for the cows.

It all formed one cycle—nothing was created or lost, everything transformed.

As Lavoisier said, “Nothing is lost, nothing is created, everything is transformed.”

That’s exactly the philosophy behind ancestor worship: the belief that when a person dies, their body decomposes, is eaten by worms, which are then eaten by birds, which are eaten by cats, and so on—the cycle continues, but the soul endures.

And this makes sense—it is, in a way, scientific. That was the ancient belief.

Now, let us present the book.

Here’s the book—it’s richly illustrated, with historical images and many of my own reconstructions. For example, here are plans of traditional Rwandan compounds, showing the passageways for cattle, the stages of construction, different building methods, and views of the interior.

Anna, thank you very much for this interview. See you very soon.

Thank you for the opportunity to talk about it. It’s been wonderful.

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SOME EXTRAS:

• My poem, entitled URUGO

  Watch the video:

• Read it in Kinyarwanda:

  

• Previous interview with SANKARA MUTONI about his life and artistry:

  CLICK THE LINK:

  Rediscovering Roots Through Art: A Conversation with SANKARA MUTONI

What parts of your personal story most influence your work today?

My childhood, without a doubt. I spent my entire childhood closed off in myself, and then my little brother came into the world not long after me, so I didn’t even have time to enjoy maternal love like other children at that age. Then, when I discovered art, it was like a real refuge for me — and a good friend to spend time with.

Yes, I grew up too fast — forced to, by the reality of my society. That premature growth is the source of my art. I always found refuge in art, a way to escape from reality.

Was there ever a moment when you almost gave up on art — or has art never let you go?

Yes, there was a moment when I almost gave up. But art — art never let go of me.

Your work often carries intensity. What do you hope people feel when they look at one of your pieces?

My work is emotionally intense, yes, but not necessarily spiritual. I want people to feel a kind of inner consciousness — to recognise themselves as part of a larger human experience. I want them to remember that we are social beings, layered with a subconscious life we rarely acknowledge.

I see that this refuge is ambiguous, as Kingman Brewster Jr. said: “If I take refuge in ambiguity, I assure you that it’s quite conscious.”

Without doubt.

Is there a recurring question or idea in your art — even if you don’t notice it at first?

Absolutely. The question of humanity within society. Our lies, our ideals, the façades we constantly wear in front of others… that’s something that returns again and again in my work.

Would you describe your art as a form of resistance, healing, testimony — or something else?

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In this inspiring conversation, we sit down with a visionary visual artist and the founder of Inkingi Arts Space . This creative hub has become a pillar of artistic expression in Rwanda.

Can you tell us about your journey as an artist? What first drew you to creative expression?

As a visual artist and the founder of Inkingi Arts Space, my journey has been one of exploration, growth, and deep connection to my roots. From an early age, I found solace and joy in creative expression. My passion for art ignited in primary school, where I would draw with pencils and pens, captivated by the ability to communicate emotions and stories through visuals.

A pivotal moment in my artistic journey occurred in Senior One when I drew on the blackboard using chalk. The positive feedback from my peers and teachers fueled my desire to pursue art more seriously. I began to see art not just as a hobby but as a powerful medium for reflection and storytelling, particularly about my experiences as a Rwandan.

My passion for art led to the founding of Inkingi Arts Space, a hub for artistic collaboration and expression. I envisioned a space where artists could come together, share ideas, and support one another, fostering a vibrant community.

Through Inkingi, I aim to celebrate our cultural heritage while promoting diverse art forms, including poetry, storytelling, and live music. Engaging with the community through these initiatives has enriched my journey, allowing me to connect with audiences and fellow artists in meaningful ways. As I continue to evolve as an artist, I remain committed to nurturing the creative spirit within myself and others, celebrating the beauty of our shared experiences and the power of art to inspire change and foster unity.

How would you describe your artistic style and what themes do you find yourself returning to in your work?

My artistic style blends mixed expressionism and impressionism, characterised by vibrant colour palettes and unique textures. I often explore themes of Rwandan history, daily life, wildlife, and the African experience. Wildlife and social commentary art pieces have become my favourite subjects, as they tell stories and reflect both the individuality of the subjects and my own personality.

Who or what are your biggest artistic influences — locally or globally?

I draw inspiration from various sources, including local Rwandan culture and global artistic movements. The rich history and vibrant landscapes of Rwanda influence my work, while international artists who explore social commentary through their art also inspire me.

What inspired you to create Inkingi Arts Space, and what does “Inkingi” mean to you?

Inkingi Arts Space was born out of my desire to nurture and promote visual arts in Rwanda. The name “Inkingi,” meaning “pillar” or “column,” symbolises support for artists and the importance of creativity in our community. It represents my commitment to providing a platform for artists to grow and showcase their work.

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His art transcends borders, inviting a universal dialogue in which each person can find a piece of themselves. With a passion for sharing African artistic diversity, he aspires to showcase his work on international platforms and highlight the power of visual expression as a tool for connection and transformation.

Can you tell us about your journey as a self-taught artist? What first drew you to visual art?

My journey as a self-taught artist began in 2017 in Goma. I’ve always been drawn to drawing and visual expression, though I never received formal academic training. I started learning on my own when I joined an art house in Goma — observing, experimenting, and, most importantly, practising a lot.

Since I was a child, I’ve been fascinated by stories. I loved Marvel comics — especially Spider-Man — and superhero movies. These imaginary worlds gave me an escape and sparked a deep desire to create. Visual art gave me the power to build a world out of nothing, just like the ones I admired as a child. It’s become a bridge between my inner world and reality, allowing me to keep building that imaginary world, but now with the tools and awareness of an adult.

Over the years, I’ve participated in workshops, exhibitions, and artist gatherings that've significantly shaped me. Being self-taught pushed me to develop my own artistic sensitivity and to stay curious and free in my creative process. Although I’m now based in Bujumbura, I continue to learn, create, and exhibit. It’s a personal journey — driven by emotion, research, and the desire to share what I feel with others.

Growing up in Goma, how did your environment influence your creativity and the themes you explore?

Growing up in Goma had a profound impact on my perspective of the world. The city is full of contrasts — beautiful and fragile — shaped by history, conflict, and resilience. I was surrounded by both harsh realities and rich emotional and cultural landscapes that continue to inspire me.

Goma taught me to observe deeply and question what I see. The themes I explore today — memory, protection, fragility, inner strength — are rooted in that environment. It taught me to look beyond appearances, to search for what lies in people’s eyes, silences, and scars. That emotional depth is something I try to convey through my work.

Was there a specific moment when you knew art would be your path?

Not one specific moment, but rather a series of small affirmations that I still experience. Since childhood, I’ve always felt a bit different — shy, observant. Art gave me a way to stand out, to exist fully. Each time someone calls me an “artist” or connects with my work, I feel a quiet recognition. Those moments are why I continue to create. As long as they continue, I’ll remain on this path.

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He began painting in 2016, focusing on the experiences of Black people, capturing individuality and shared humanity, using oil and acrylics.

Habyarimana believes art is a vital force that brings joy, freedom, and constant learning.

Can you tell us a bit about your journey — where you come from and what shaped your early years?

I was born in 1998 in Rusizi, a beautiful district in Rwanda’s Western Province. As a child, I dreamed of becoming an architect. But by the age of 15, I found myself increasingly drawn to art. My teachers and classmates noticed my talent for sketching images from books, and their encouragement inspired me to enrol at École d’Art de Nyundo — the place where my journey as an artist truly began.

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We know you are a twin. Please, allow us to know more.

Yes, I am, but I lost my twin brother at the age of seven. We shared everything: our games, our dreams, and our budding passion for drawing. His absence left an enormous void, but also an inexhaustible source of inspiration. My art is a way of extending our bond beyond life, but also my refuge, my tribute, and my search for meaning.

Do you remember a drawing or a specific moment from your childhood that made you realise that art was much more than just a hobby for you and your brother?

Yes, I remember an afternoon when we drew our family as superheroes. It was naive, but full of emotion. That day, I realised that drawing could transcend reality — it could express love, joy, but also fear and hope. It wasn’t just playtime; it was our secret language, our safe place.

You experimented with painting and comics before taking up drawing. What were your initial struggles, and what brought you back to graphite and charcoal?

Painting and comics allowed me to explore different worlds, but I felt limited in expressing raw emotions. Graphite and charcoal offer immediacy and intensity I couldn’t find elsewhere. My first challenges were technical — mastering shadows, textures — but those difficulties pushed me to persist, to sharpen both my vision and my hand.

How did joining YAAC in 2017 impact your approach to art, and what did it mean to you to be part of a community of artists for the first time?

Joining YAAC was a revelation. For the first time, I felt surrounded and understood. Sharing experiences, doubts, and victories with other artists enriched me, both as a person and as an artist. It opened me up to new influences, forced me to question myself, and helped me grow.

Your portraits are incredibly striking. What emotions or stories are you trying to capture in a face?

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Please, tell us about yourself.

I was born in Bukavu, in the eastern part of the Democratic Republic of Congo, into a modest family facing many financial hardships. Growing up in that environment wasn’t easy, but over time, I learned to see that reality as a source of strength. It’s what pushed me to dedicate myself to art — not only out of passion, but also with the hope of one day being able to support my family.

Since childhood, I’ve always been very reserved, and I live with a stutter, which makes verbal communication difficult for me. It’s a pain I carry, but it also gave me something precious: the need to express myself differently. And it’s through art that I found that voice. Drawing became my language, my way of opening my heart to the world — sincerely and without fear.

I never had the opportunity to study art formally, but my passion and determination have allowed me to grow. Over time, I developed a style I call “my handwriting” — a combination of hyperrealistic charcoal drawings and handwritten collage. It’s my personal language, a deep way of conveying what I feel.

I wouldn’t have come this far without Phinefor Dry and John Mombo, my two soul brothers with whom I co-founded PIJ’art Création. We supported, inspired, and carried each other. I’ll also never forget Kefa Migani and Mardochée Migani, who have been constant sources of encouragement throughout my journey.

Even though I studied something else at school, I left several jobs to stay true to my path as an artist. I’m not yet reaping the rewards of everything I’ve sown, but I have faith that one morning, everything will change. Until then, I continue to create — with love, patience, and hope.

Your work often carries a deep symbolic message. Can you share a metaphor that reflects how you see life?

For me, origami is more than just the art of folding paper — it’s a powerful metaphor. I see our daily life as an origami sheet, constantly being folded by unexpected events, whether joyful or painful. Birth, death, marriage, illness, war, natural disasters — these are just some of the creases that shape us.

We only get one life, but it can be folded a thousand ways. Still, most people feel secure in routine, and when change — good or bad — interrupts that rhythm, it unsettles them. They lose their bearings.

We need to accept reality instead of letting negative thoughts overwhelm us.

Imagine the future instead of dwelling on the past — because driving while staring in the rear-view mirror leads nowhere. Focus on the positive, do good around you, cultivate a mindset of resilience and adaptability, and choose your friends wisely.

If we get stuck in the past or worry too much about the future, we can lose sight of what we want to do now.

Your style is very personal. Can you tell us about a particular complex piece or healing to create?

It was a piece called SULUISHO YA MATESO. It was emotionally intense and technically complex, as I combined many symbolic elements into a single composition. It deeply affected me, both artistically and personally. What moved me most was the challenge of conveying a message linked to the Bible as a religious book and a source of identity, memory, and hope. This work required time, reflection, and courage, as I felt a great responsibility in how I had to represent it.

What role does memory play in your creative process?

Memory is the common thread running through my work. Each drawing, each collage, is an attempt to capture fragments of memories, whether personal or collective. By exploring these reminiscences, I seek to understand how the past shapes our identity and our perception of the world.

What does a typical day in your studio look like? Do you have any rituals before you start working?

My day begins with a moment of silence, a cup of tea in hand, to centre myself. Before touching my tools, I listen to soft music, instrumental music: jazz, or traditional African sounds. These melodies help me focus and enter a meditative state conducive to creation. These rituals allow me to connect with intuition and let my imagination run wild.

You’ve mentioned honesty and hope. Are there moments when you doubt your path? What helps you stay grounded?

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Patrick Kwizera is a Rwandan visual artist whose work draws from his experiences, cultural identity, and the vibrant aesthetics of African life. A École d’Art de Nyundo graduate, known for capturing raw emotion and storytelling through colour, form, and symbolism, inspired by real-life moments and motivated by the creative energy of their peers, Patrick Kwizera explores the complexities of identity and the power of everyday life.

Can you tell us about the moment you first considered yourself an artist?

I believe everyone is born an artist, but I began practising early. When I was about six, my childhood friend lived next door, and I used to draw on the walls of buildings with charcoal. Our parents weren’t thrilled, and we were punished, but that didn’t stop us. A few years later, when I was around ten, that same friend came over, and we started drawing with pencils and coloured pencils on paper. That was when I first felt a deep, almost sacred love for art.

In primary and junior high school, I became the kid teachers relied on to draw on the chalkboard. That trust gave me confidence. But the moment I truly considered myself an artist was during my first year at the École d’Art de Nyundo. Being surrounded by other passionate creatives made it real.

Growing up with a friend who shared my creative spark greatly influenced me. We constantly exchanged ideas and encouraged each other. Being chosen to draw in front of the whole class gave me a sense of responsibility and visibility. Those experiences planted the seeds of my creativity and helped me take myself seriously as an artist, even from a young age.

Were there any turning points or challenges that significantly influenced your journey as an artist?

Absolutely. One major turning point was during the COVID-19 pandemic in 2020. Like many others, I faced a difficult time. I had to step away from art because I couldn’t find a way to break into the art business, and I needed income. For six months, I worked as a kindergarten art teacher. It was a positive experience in many ways, but deep down, I kept hearing this call to return to my passion.

Eventually, I made the decision to quit and return to art — but this time with a clearer vision, treating it not just as something I loved but as something I could do professionally and seriously.

What is your work trying to capture?

My work is rooted in real-time experiences — either from my own life or from the lives of those around me. I’m drawn to capturing real emotion and truth in my work.

I want each piece to tell a story, to be more than just an image.

It has to carry weight.

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Let’s start from the beginning. Can you share your earliest memory of art?

Oh, absolutely. I remember being a child and constantly drawing. One of my sisters, who worked in a nursery, always asked me to draw for her — Disney characters, including Minnie Mouse. She would stick them to boxes and children’s books, and she was so impressed. That’s when I realised I had a talent. But art was also my escape. Growing up, we didn’t have proper art supplies, so I made do with whatever I could find. I would cut up cardboard boxes that came with drinking glasses and turn them into little canvases. I would use pastels to draw still-life scenes, vases, and anything I could imagine. I hung them all around the house, transforming it into my own gallery. But not everyone appreciated it. My sister used to take them down, saying they were just rubbish! That really broke my heart, but I would put them back up again. I couldn’t stop creating.

You mentioned growing up in an unsupportive environment regarding art. How did that shape your journey?

It undoubtedly made things more challenging. My family regarded education as the sole genuine path — academic achievement was paramount. Art? That was merely a pastime. They never supported me, never bought supplies, and never considered lessons. It was simply something I pursued on my own.

I remember that once when my sister was at university, she brought a friend home. This friend saw my drawings and remarked, “She has a lot of talent — she should join a club or take lessons.” However, nothing ever came of it. It was always just me, scavenging for scraps of material to draw on, creating something from nothing.

At what point did art become more than just a childhood passion?

Life took me in many directions before I could fully dedicate myself to art. My father passed away when I was young, and my mother was left raising six kids alone. We struggled financially, so I had to leave school at around 15 or 16. My sisters had moved to another city, so I followed them, trying to find work.

Eventually, I met my husband, got married, and moved to England. But for a long time, art disappeared from my life. I was focused on survival, settling in a new country, and working. I wanted to return to painting, so I bought supplies when I first arrived — but life got in the way again. I was busy working and paying a mortgage. It wasn’t until years later, around 2017, that I really picked up a brush again.

Would you say that your art career really began in England?

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Can you tell us a little about your childhood? What kind of environment did you grow up in, and how did it influence your artistic journey?

I was born in Rwanda in 1983, not far from the Congo, near Lake Kivu. I’m not sure if you know the region — it’s a border area with Congo, in the part that connects to the south of Rwanda. So, I was born there, but we didn’t stay for long. I think… I can’t even say how many years. Then, my parents moved to Kigali. So, I spent my childhood there until 1994, until the genocide war. I was 11 when we left Rwanda. That’s my childhood.

So, I would say I had a rather simple childhood. Simple in the sense that my parents had the means to provide us with what we needed. We didn’t lack anything. But it’s a childhood I often think back on and really loved. I was a very restless and active child. Yes, yes, you can still see it, I think, because I haven’t changed! Well, I’ve changed, but I’ve kept this need to always be doing something.

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As you may have seen, I began collaborating with some art magazines some time ago. What particularly brought me a lot of joy was speaking to artists from all over…

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