Ibarabara Ryacu
Our Streets

I grew up on these streets. I know their rhythm. The way people move, how they speak, how they rest. It’s home. Every time I return, something in me exhales. Like my body remembers before I do.

But it’s never simple. Leaving changes you. So does coming back. I feel everything all at once. Joy. Guilt. Longing. Distance. Closeness. I belong here. But I don’t always fit. I know this place deeply. But I also feel like a guest in my own memory.

These images became a kind of love letter. One that’s unfinished. A little messy. Like the feelings I carry with me.

I walked. I watched. Faces pulled me in. The stillness in their gestures. The way time pauses for a second. Those are the moments I tried to hold.

Ibarabara Ryacu means our streets in Kirundi. That name feels right. Even when I’m far. Even when I forget. Even when I’m unsure. I know I come from here.