When the plane carrying the President of Rwanda was shot down on 6 April 1994, I had been watching a football match at a bar. That day would be the last time I would see many of my friends, colleagues and family members, including my seven-year-old younger brother Irankunda Jean Paul.

The assassination, which the Hutu government blamed on Tutsi rebels, marked the culmination of decades of tension between the two ethnic groups, sparking the 100-day genocide in which over a million people were killed. I was woken in the early hours of April 7th to the din of a city embroiled in fighting. Radio broadcasts demanded people stay in their homes while soldiers crashed down our front doors to find those they deemed ‘responsible’.

My home was soon swamped by five armed men searching for weapons supposedly hidden on the premises. Refusing to believe my explanation that I was a player for Rayon Sports, they threatened to take my life unless I could prove it. I pulled out an old photo album, saving myself and those I was with.

Deciding I was no longer safe at home, I fled to my Hutu teammate’s house. While friends and acquaintances throughout Rwanda were killing each other, Rayon Sports teammates remained united throughout the genocide. After hiding there for a week or so, I had to move on after being told by my teammate that the killers were coming for me. I needed a new destination to hide and, after discussions with my colleagues, it was decided we would try one of the board members of the club.

The move was risky and audacious, for the board member was Jean-Marie Vianney Mudahinyuka, otherwise known as Zuzu, a notorious leader of the Interahamwe militia – a man subsequently imprisoned for his role in the genocide. Zuzu, a person who tortured, raped and murdered many Tutsis, became my saviour not once, but twice. Why? Zuzu’s passion was Rayon Sports.

Zuzu took me in but there were others in his neighbourhood who were uncomfortable with the presence of a Tutsi, seeing me as causing an unnecessary risk. I was forced to return to my old teammates’ house after just a few days. I was unable to rest long. A trio of militia tracked me down, demanding I come with them. My refusal was met by violence, with one of the militia hitting me around the head with a grenade. After stealing all my money, the men were ready to take me with them before the intervention of my teammate’s cousin, who was a government soldier. He convinced them to leave me behind.

Feeling my luck was about to expire and with a dwindling number of people ready to put me up, I knew I had to find somewhere more secure. I returned to Zuzu who promised to take me to the city’s International Red Cross HQ across town, which was providing sanctuary to refugees. Escorted in Zuzu’s vehicle, with two armed guards brandishing their rifles out of the open windows, I was safely taken through the road blocks and to the International Red Cross HQ in a largely deserted area of Kigali. I was left outside the gates of the compound to fend for myself.

The facility’s director claimed that he could not admit me for the sake of the safety and security of those already inside. Out of ideas and accepting my fate just a stone’s throw from safety, I spent the next few nights sleeping outdoors. The arrival of a young couple and their baby at the gates of the Red Cross HQ increased the pressure on the facility’s director and, while he would not grant our admission, he helped organise transportation for the family, as well as myself and another colleague.

I was suspicious of this altruism amid the 100 days of violence. I boarded apprehensively; worried I might be being transported to my death. However, I found myself taken within the confines of the Hôtel des Mille Collines where more than 1,200 took refuge during the genocide – a story famously retold in the 2004 film Hotel Rwanda.

I remained there for about a month, reunited with close friends and a board member from Rayon Sports, before being evacuated to an internally displaced person camp outside the city in area which was an RPF controlled zone. I discovered that, although I lost more than 35 relatives from my extended family, most of my immediate family had survived.

After carrying out two months of humanitarian work in the south of Rwanda, I returned to Kigali. Yet, my safety was far from assured. Lurking in the countryside and in neighbouring states were bands of Hutu militia unwavering in their desire to complete their mission to wipe out the Tutsi population. I discovered my name was on a list of targets of one of these groups.

I knew I was not safe in Rwanda while rebel Hutu groups remained. An opportunity presented itself to escape when the Rwanda national football team played in Tunisia. Instead of returning on the flight home, I stayed behind. Later I immigrated to Belgium and then finally to the UK in 1997. The move meant I had to sacrifice my greatest love – my footballing career. Yet, my passion and gratitude for the sport has remained steadfast.

Football saved my life. It transcended ethnic differences and ultimately gave me hope for the future. It is this faith in the game that led me to establishing the organisation Football for Hope, Peace and Unity. It uses football as a tool to promote tolerance, unity and reconciliation among Rwandan youth in order to prevent tragedies like the 1994 genocide from occurring again in the future.