A Living Account of Identity, Exile, and Renewal
At the height of the Twilight craze, a rumor made the rounds that Stephenie Meyer was rewriting the saga from the vampire's point of view.
This is kind of like that. Except with zero vampires, less brooding, and only trace amounts of existential dread.
Think of it as one man's take on the larger saga of a life, told from my perspective—complete with all the biases, blind spots, and questionable attempts at humor.
Jump into the prologue or keep scrolling to see how this is different from a vanilla memoir, the method behind the madness, so to speak.
So, What Is This, Anyway?
At its heart, this is a coming-of-age story told decades late. It’s a glance back over my shoulder at the river of the past, the account of a life shaped by fracture but also by grace, absurdity, and love in all her shimmering shades.
For years, I feared I’d never tell it. I kept hiding behind outlines and rewrites, the quiet forms of procrastination that masquerade as productivity. To tell it, I had to embody my inner Khaleesi—not as the breaker of chains, but of rules and molds. I chose self-contained chapters that can be read in any order. To silence the demon whispering, "Wait! It's not perfect yet," I needed to embody one of this story's core truths. I had to learn to live with the fractures, not strive to polish them away. My concrete solution was to create a living memoir, to publish each chapter as it was ready, not perfect.
This is neither fiction nor an autobiography, or even a memoir, if we're being technical. Also, unlike most of my creative work, this story is written under Gaston Ndanyuzwe, not a pen name. This is no claim to some grand objective truth, mind you. Memory is far too slippery for that. The reason for the name is the same as the reason I failed to put it inside a neat category. For all its flaws, gaps, and distortions, Ash Flake in a Blizzard is undeniably, irrevocably me.
How This Story Is Told
That procrastination demon I mentioned? It’s so effective because, annoyingly, it’s sometimes right. Its best ambush came when I asked myself, How do you write a memoir in real time without painting yourself into a chronological corner? What if I forgot a key detail, only to realize while writing Chapter 19 that the whole thing hinged on something from Chapter 3? Boom. Instant paralysis.
But that problem only exists if you’re writing chronologically.
I can already see the vein on your temple twitching. “But sir,” you want to scream, “a memoir is told in order. That’s the rule.”
Easy there. Breathe. Remember when I said this isn’t your run-of-the-mill memoir? This is reason number one.
Each chapter is anchored in time and space, yes, but not in a sequence. No neat arc from birth to now. Instead, the glue is story. Don't worry, I haven't lost it yet.
One of my favorite films, Memento, follows a man with no short-term memory, chasing clues tattooed on his own body. The movie unfolds in reverse chronological order. It's not a gimmick; it's the point. The order of revelation becomes part of the story itself. And that changes everything.
That film inspired my next realization. Telling my life the “standard” way would be a lie. It would be like taking a constellation of fireworks and condensing it down to a flat sound recording, discarding the myriad colors and arching sparks.
My solution has two parts.
First, the stages. Instead of a timeline, I’ve organized everything into emotional epochs, modeled after the life cycle of a legendary sword.
Second, the method. Each chapter begins as a story featuring Gabriel, a dashing young man of infinite courage who, by complete coincidence, has lived a life suspiciously similar to mine. After his story, I step out from behind the curtain to reflect, confess, or just talk to you, the reader, like we’re sitting across from each other at 2 a.m.
The Five Stages
- Ore (1984–1995): The raw material of childhood in Rwanda. A world of innocence, family, and storytelling, overshadowed by the visceral terror of genocide.
- Forge (1996–2002): The heat and hammer of adolescence in a new country. Displacement, military training, first love, and the betrayals that forge a young man’s armor.
- Blade (2003–2013): The sharpened edge of adulthood. A military career, the illusion of control, and the deep cuts of impossible choices.
- Shards (2014–2023): The breaking point. When accumulated trauma, loss, and heartbreak finally shatter the blade.
- Shield (2024–Present): The reforging. Gathering the pieces to rebuild more than a weapon, to craft something that carries strength, vulnerability, and the quiet resolve to improve and lift, one self and others, by small increments.
What, No Q&A?
Don’t be silly. Of course there’s a Q&A.
Is this some kind of feel-good story?
Depends on what you mean by feel good. It’s a story written from as good a place as I could manage—that is, hopefully, with enough maturity to embrace the childish and enough humility to display the cracked porcelain beside the polished silverware.
What does the title mean?
As a rule, I don’t over-explain things. And no, I don’t count a question I invented and put in your mouth as “asking.” Still—you didn’t look away. So, here's a compromise: an ash flake is what remains in the wake of an inferno. Fragile and scorched, but still here. I invite you to find your own meaning. But if you want mine in full, drop me a line on the contact page.
Why all the “gimmicks”? Why not write a normal memoir like Eat, Pray, Love?
To me, they’re not gimmicks—they’re necessities. Stories have their quirks. Like capricious children or lovers, they won’t budge unless you coax them just right. I admired Eat, Pray, Love, but only Elizabeth Gilbert could tell that story. And if it were mine? I suspect I’d begin here.
What should I take from it?
If you’ve been paying attention, you already know the answer. Short version? Whatever lands. Maybe comfort. Maybe recognition. A flicker of memory behind a place, a feeling, a pause. Or maybe that dark chuckle only fellow survivors get while everyone else furrows their brow in empathetic sorrow. Or maybe nothing at all. And that’s fine too. My job isn’t to tell you what to feel or even to aim for a feeling. Mine is to tell my story how I damn well please and let you read it just the same.
Any salacious bits or spilled tea?
Great question. Thanks for asking. Your mileage may vary, but I’ve thought hard about this at every stage—while outlining, drafting, and revising, right up to the second before I hit publish. This isn’t a tell-all. There are no bombshells designed to break the internet. But it is a deeply personal and intimate story told to a mature audience. The only way I could remain true to myself, avoiding both self-indulgence and unnecessary censorship, was to write as if no one I know would ever read a line of this. Obviously, that's wishful thinking, but it’s worked out well enough so far.
Where should I start?
I wasn’t joking when I said you can start anywhere. Each chapter stands alone, and if I’ve done my job, you’ll lose nothing by reading out of order. That said… don’t be weird. Just follow the publication order, will you? But if you insist, here’s one recommendation:
- Shattered · It’s the prologue, for heaven’s sake. If you don’t start here, when will you ever read it?
- Love at First Tale · The furthest anchor point of a thread that runs through this whole story; it’s also one of my favorite childhood memories.
- Silent Screams · Not all stories are light. This one lands on the heavier side. I include it here so you’re never blindsided by the darker currents. Consider this fair warning.
Ready to Begin?
- Browse the Table of Contents and choose your starting point or pick up where you last left off.
- Subscribe to get new chapters as they drop.
- Support the work so I can keep telling stories and, eventually, tell them full time.