I was leaving Huye, driving toward Gisagara.
It was meant to be just another stretch of the journey until something caught my eye.
The Butare Catholic Cathedral stood there, quietly commanding attention. I drove past the entrance. Then I slowed down.
A few seconds later, I made a U turn. Something about it did not feel like a place you simply pass by.
I drove in and parked.
Up close, the scale of the structure revealed itself fully, and for a moment, I just stood there, taking it in. It was not just big. It was intentional. The kind of presence that makes you pause without knowing why.
Before stepping inside, I noticed a marking on the wall.
1934.
That is when I realized this was not a mere building. It was a piece of history.
A few steps away, another plaque caught my attention. It was a tribute tied to the colonial era, referencing Queen Astrid of Belgium.
I have to be honest. This is where my reaction shifted.
I love history. But there are two chapters I struggle with: slavery and colonialism. Anything tied to them carries a weight I do not easily overlook. Standing there, I could not ignore the feeling. It was not about individuals. It was about the system and the legacy it left behind.
Moments like this always leave me with mixed emotions. I come to learn and to appreciate, but there is often something that lingers, something that does not sit right.
Butare, present day Huye, was once called Astrida in honor of Queen Astrid of Belgium. That reality gave the plaque an even heavier meaning. I have never been comfortable with African towns and geographical features being named after colonial figures, and standing there, I felt that discomfort all over again. It was another reminder that even in places of beauty and history, the footprints of colonialism are never too far away.
That said, Astrida is now a name confined to history. Today, Huye stands in its own identity, no longer defined by what it was called, but by what it has become. There is a quiet confidence in the town, a sense of forward movement shaped by its people, its institutions, and its evolving story. Walking through it, you feel a place that has reclaimed its narrative, one that is steadily charting a path rooted in growth, knowledge, and possibility.
Beyond the weight of history, the cathedral itself invites a different kind of attention. Its architecture carries a quiet elegance, from the symmetry of its design to the solidity of its structure, standing as a testament to craftsmanship that has endured for decades. There is a timeless quality to it, the kind that draws your eye and holds it, even if you had not planned to stop. In that sense, it becomes more than a landmark. It is a place that naturally earns a moment of pause along the journey.
Eventually, I made my way back to the car and continued toward Gisagara, but the stop stayed with me longer than I expected. It was not just the structure or the history. It was the contrast of it all, how past and present meet in one place and continue to shape each other. As the road stretched ahead, I carried that reflection with me, a quiet appreciation for the layers of meaning behind what I had seen, and the stories that continue to unfold beyond it.