There was once a man in Rwanda called Kayumba Nyamwasa. He was not a simple villager or a forgotten soldier. He had been a commander, a chief of intelligence, and one of the men who walked at the very center of power during Rwanda’s most delicate years. When Rwanda was still struggling to rebuild from decades of bad leadership, he stood among those who claimed to fight for justice and a new future.
But power has a way of revealing a man’s true heart. At first, Kayumba appeared committed to the struggle. Later, he began to change. He wanted more influence, more control, more loyalty, more land, more authority. He began using his office to intimidate people. He threatened those who disagreed with him. He stepped on colleagues to climb higher. He locked up people he considered obstacles. He grabbed land that did not belong to him. He acted as if he were above the very laws he once claimed to fight for.
Slowly, he became exactly what he once said he was fighting against. The man who talked about ending injustice became the man practicing it. And in his thirst for prestige, he even began undermining senior officials who were working for Rwanda’s stability. He disrespected the Commander-in-Chief, President Kagame, a man he once marched beside in the struggle. Who does that? What kind of soldier forgets the discipline of the uniform? What kind of man bites the very hand that lifted him?
Rwanda moved on, building a new governance model rooted in accountability. President Kagame led the shift toward institutions and rules. In this new Rwanda, there was no room for strongmen who wanted to rule by fear or favoritism. As the system tightened, Kayumba realized he could no longer bend it to his will. He could not intimidate officials. He could not manipulate institutions. He could not operate like a king in uniform.
He fled. And once he reached foreign soil, he crowned himself a victim.
He portrayed himself as a misunderstood reformer. He attacked President Kagame endlessly, speaking as if Kagame were his personal enemy rather than a leader defending national order. He claimed persecution, yet he conveniently forgot to mention that he had been found guilty on several charges and stripped of his ranks by lawful processes. He forgot to mention the people he hurt along the way. He forgot to mention that the law caught up with him because of his actions, not because of his opinions.
Yet in the middle of this bitterness, he still admitted that Rwanda enjoys rule of law, low corruption, and institutional discipline. His words contradicted themselves, revealing more about his grievances than about Rwanda.
Then came a familiar tactic. He tried to sway Kagame’s subordinates against their Commander-in-Chief. On X, he praised some officials as intelligent and brilliant, pretending to uplift them while subtly portraying Kagame as the obstacle to their greatness. He implied that they operate under orders that limit their potential, painting them as heroes and Kagame as a monster. But who buys such cunning, primitive Machiavellian tactics? Who falls for a man trying to split a team he once belonged to? Rwanda has seen these tricks before. They do not work anymore.
And while Kayumba was plotting bitterness and division abroad, something else was happening back home. Rwanda’s other generals—the men who served in the same struggle, faced the same battles, carried the same scars—were living a very different life. They retired gracefully. They found peace. They are invited to weddings, ceremonies, and communal gatherings. They sit in national dialogues as elders whose wisdom still guides the journey. They are respected, valued, and embraced by the nation they helped liberate. They enjoy the fruits of the struggle because they remained loyal to its purpose. Kayumba watches all this from afar, and it pains him. The sight of peaceful, honored comrades is a mirror he cannot bear to look into. They are home, at peace. He is a refugee, carrying the weight of his own choices.
To make matters worse, he reached back into the old political toolbox, filled with the dust of a painful history. Tribes, regions, clans—he tried to resurrect the same divisions Rwanda buried long ago. These old tools no longer have a place in a country that learned the price of division in blood.
And then came a shameful moment: Kayumba began attacking Rwanda’s First Lady. Not her leadership, not her policies, but her dignity. He spoke as if she should behave like a forgotten woman from another era, limited to the backyard and silent. But Rwanda’s First Lady is not a background figure. She has championed health, education, early childhood development, culture, family stability, and social cohesion. Her work echoes in hospitals, classrooms, and homes across Rwanda. She carries responsibilities far larger than gossip-driven expectations.
Meanwhile, Rwanda moves forward. It is a nation built on rules, not grudges. On institutions, not old military circles. On unity, not tribal whispers. On progress, not nostalgia for dangerous times. Kayumba Nyamwasa represents a fading chapter of African politics, the chapter of strongmen who mistake personal ambition for national interest. But Rwanda has turned that page.
The greatest irony is this: the young generation of Rwanda does not know him. He is a name in old conversations, not a figure in their world. The youth know Kagame. They see the roads, the order, the progress, the dignity Rwanda has built. They understand the value of unity and stability. Kayumba, aging and irrelevant, tries to plant seeds of hatred and division, but Rwanda’s youth are immune. They are too informed, too connected, and too forward-looking to be swayed by primitive politics.
Kayumba Nyamwasa became a man who forgot the journey and lost himself in bitterness. But Rwanda kept walking. It chose light over shadows, institutions over egos, and a future too bright to be dimmed by the noise of men trapped in yesterday.
The Lost General may shout from afar, but Rwanda has moved on. The country knows where it is going, and no amount of old anger can turn it back.
