A Reckoning with Absence, Memory, and the Unfinished Business of the Past

There is no greater torment than a question that festers unanswered, no deeper exile than being erased by the one who should have held you close. In Dear Little One, Gabriel Ndayishimiye does not merely revisit the past—he interrogates it, forces it into the light, makes it answer for itself.

The book is no gentle reflection: It is an autopsy of silence, an excavation of memory where truth is the only justice left to claim. Ndayishimiye does not simply tell his younger self that he survived—he drags him through the wreckage of loss and forces the world to see him, to bear witness to what was taken, what was broken, and what was rebuilt in its place. He walks the corridors of his past like a man sifting through a battlefield, not seeking solace but demanding a reckoning.

With prose as sharp as it is tender, Dear Little One does not settle for mere survival. It is an unrelenting demand: What does it cost to remake yourself from the ruins? Who pays the price? And how do you reclaim what was stolen without losing yourself in the process?

Dear Little One does not flinch. It does not soften the truth. It tears open the past, drags its ghosts into the light, and demands answers from the silence that shaped a life.