Just at the edge of Kigali, a city that swells to 3 million people during the workday, is the bustling bus depot. As the diesel fumes from large work trucks burn your nostrils and you navigate through the sea of red helmets of moto-drivers, you finally break through to the countryside.

When Jeremy died, people told me to trust God. At first it was encouraging. And then it just got irritating.

Despite knowing it was going to be difficult, despite feeling insecure about a bald head, despite the significance of this milestone in her journey - she invited her close friends to a head shaving 'party'.

Our 'train left the station'. Or so it sometimes seems. How many times we watched it go by. Hope deflated from our dreams.