The document discusses the short story 'Damien's Shoes' by Ret'sepile Makamane, exploring themes of grief, loss, and the bond between a narrator and his son, Damien. The narrator reflects on his son, who appears to have a surreal existence by lighting fires and ferrying passengers on Lake Muhazi, while the narrator himself feels trapped in grief and longing. The text emphasizes the emotional turmoil of the narrator and the significance of Damien's lost shoe as a symbol of their fractured connection.

1. Initial Post (250 words)
Read and interpret the short story "Damien's Shoes" by
Ret'sepile Makamane. What logical inferences can you make
based on its details? What can you infer about the narrator in
this story, the narrator's son, and the setting of this story? What
details suggest this? What other logical inferences can you
make about this story? (Length: 250 words)
Two Replies
Respond to the posts of two of your peers by acknowledging
their ideas and adding on to them with additional commentary,
supporting detail or fact (such as a quote, detail referenced, or
scenario from the story), and/or an new or different perspective
or logical inference.
Damien’s Shoes
by Ret’sepile Makamane
My son (Links to an external site.)
, Damien, makes fires that flicker throughout rainy June nights.
He moves about the shores of Lake Muhazi, lighting a new fire
on a new spot every night. People who travel to Kayonza come
back to Kigali with stories of having seen him during the rainy
season as the smokes of his fires constantly go up to the skies,
like a man cast away and looking for rescue. Those who have
travelled and visited relatives with houses on the hills around
Lake Muhazi in recent years to observe his activities say that
my son sails up and down the lake during the day, busy ferrying
passengers with completely covered faces to the other side.
Others even claim that they have seen him up close, and that

2. unlike other undead dead people he does not run away or
conceal his face when you approach him. He has remained ten
years old throughout the years, only bits of his hair are
beginning to grey now.
When his boat work is done in the evenings, he plays his flute
into the night, calming Lake Muhazi into even more stillness.
He plays the flute so dedicatedly, earnestly, its melody so
piercing, with sorrow so intense – a child blowing all his young
soul into a musical instrument just so our land can heal. His
flute wakes God from his deep sleep, – since Damien has
already given God a few warnings, I hear – saying to God,
“Thou Shalt Not Sleep, never. Not here in Rwanda, not
anymore! Find yourself another bedroom.” Because God used to
sleep here in Rwanda, you know. Lately, God stays awake at
night looking intently at the world map, planning to migrate.
I carry with me Damien’s one shoe. He is barefoot, Damien, my
boy, that is why he has to make these random fires when it rains
in June – to warm his feet. I rescued this shoe from the mouth
of a stray dog which made me run and chase it until I was
panting like a hound myself. That was back in ninety-four. I
was still a young man in those days. Oh, but that dog was not
the end of my troubles. I have aged double while walking these
hills and valleys with acacia and guava and mango trees,
without even seeing their beauty anymore. Walking with a
tormented soul, looking for Damien to put on his shoe on the
other foot. Blaming myself, sixteen years moiling and roiling
through these mangroves and swamps, looking on every street
corner, every pathway. Asking strangers and returning exiles
over the years, “Have you seen a boy so beautiful, dark, like
rich black oak his skin, have you seen my Damien in your
travels, a boy wearing one Adidas shoe, have you seen my son?
Tell me, please!” And strangers and familiar faces alike walk
on, not hearing me, not looking my way, not noticing me
because you know I am dead too. But unlike Damien, I cannot

3. seem to move. I cannot make it past death nor back to life and
cannot make myself seen – even when I do need help. And I
cannot even walk to that damn lake to give my son his shoe. I
am stuck. Because I asked for my own death, and when they
refused, I went ahead and died from grief.
I would not mind this limbo if it was not for June and her
tormenting rains that thrust my memories and emotions into
such turmoil, cutting and tearing me up inside, and leaving me
longing so badly, so badly to say, “Damien, here is your other
shoe – wear them both, son. It is raining outside.”
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