Baking Cakes in Kigali

12

BOSCO SIGHED HEAVILY and banged the palm of his right hand down hard on the steering-wheel of Ken Akimoto’s Pajero. Angel was right: it was good for Alice that her father was trying hard to secure a scholarship for her to study in America. But it was certainly not good for Bosco.
“Now, Auntie, what am I supposed to do while she’s in America for her degree? For four years, Auntie. Four years is a very, very long time!”
“I’m sure she’ll come home for holidays during that time, Bosco. Eh, Bosco! Be careful of these potholes! I don’t want my teapot to break.”
In her lap, Angel cradled a beautiful blue-grey teapot, hand-made by Batwa potters at the workshop outside Kigali that she had just visited with Bosco. She had thought long and hard about what to give Leocadie and Modeste as a wedding present, and at last she had decided that the most appropriate gift would be some of this pottery. The Batwa were a tiny minority in Rwanda, small not just in number but also in stature, and Angel had not heard about them before she came to live in Kigali. Of course she had heard about Hutus and Tutsis—in 1994 the whole world had heard about them—but she had not heard about this third group of tiny people who, long ago, used to live in the forests. They, too, had suffered terrible violence and discrimination, but Angel could not remember hearing about them in any of the news reports. It was only right, she thought, to commemorate the union of two of the three groups with a gift made by the third.
She had gone to the pottery workshop with no clear idea of exactly what she was looking for. It was Bosco who had pointed the teapot out to her. He had said that it was a good gift for Angel to give because she was always giving people tea to drink; it was something that would always remind Leocadie of her wedding-mother. And he was right.
“Sorry, Auntie,” he said now, slowing down the Pajero. “Auntie, it’s not just that Alice will be away for four years. You know that since I got Perfect as my niece, I’ve wanted a baby of my own. Now, how can I wait four years for that?”
“But, Bosco, you knew when you met Alice that she intended to study at university. She was not one of the Girls Who Mean Business.”
“Yes, Auntie. But I thought she would attend classes here, at KIST.”
“And how was she going to attend classes and have a baby?”
“There are classes in the evenings, Auntie. She could look after the baby in the day while I’m at work, and then in the evening I could look after the baby while she attends classes.”
“That’s a good plan, Bosco. But is it a plan that you and Alice made together?”
“No, Auntie,” said Bosco, slowing down further as he navigated his way around two cyclists.
“These days a man cannot make decisions on his own, Bosco. It was different before—when I was your age—but these days a man cannot just tell a girl what to do. There has to be consultation, negotiation. I’m sure Alice knows about these things, because Sophie is her teacher.”
Bosco was quiet for a while before he said, “Then, Auntie, is it okay for me to ask her not to go to America?”
Angel looked at him. “What do you think my answer to that question is going to be?”
He made a tutting sound with his tongue against the roof of his mouth and sighed heavily. “It’s not okay, Auntie.”
“Yes. If she gets the opportunity to go, then of course she must. Alice is still young, Bosco.”
“I know that, Auntie. If she goes, then I think I must love somebody else instead. Somebody who is not so young.”
“Eh, Bosco, the way you say that makes me nervous. It makes me think that you already know this somebody else that you’re going to love.”
“No, Auntie.”
“Are you sure, Bosco?”
“I’m sure, Auntie.”
Angel was not convinced. “Are you very, very sure, Bosco?”
“Eh, Auntie!” Bosco gave an embarrassed smile. “Okay, I thought for a while of loving Odile. But Odile cannot bear children.”
“Eh? She cannot?” This was something that Angel had suspected, because it explained why Odile had never married. The purpose of marrying was to have children, and a woman who could not bear children was of little use to a man.
“Uh-uh. In the genocide they cut her with a machete in her parts, her woman’s parts. I like Odile very, very much. She is very, very nice. But I want to have babies, so I’m not going to love her. No, Auntie, there is nobody else that I’m going to love. Not yet.”
“That’s good. Because Alice has not gone to America yet, and maybe she won’t go at all. It’s not easy to get a scholarship.”
“I know, Auntie. I’m just trying to plan ahead.”
“Eh, Bosco!” Angel spoke so loudly that Bosco almost swerved the Pajero off the road. She clutched her teapot protectively. “Sorry, Bosco. I forgot to tell you! It’s only now that you’re talking about planning ahead that I remember.”
“What, Auntie?”
“Eh! Captain Calixte proposed marriage to Linda!”
“To Linda?” Bosco stared at Angel with his mouth open. “Is Auntie serious?”
“Watch the road, Bosco! Of course I’m serious! It was less than one week after Linda heard that she was divorced. Eh, news travels very fast here!”
“Very, very fast, Auntie. Please tell me that Linda refused him.”
“Of course she refused him.”
“That is good, Auntie.”
“She’s still sleeping with the CIA.”
“That’s bad, Auntie. Does the CIA’s wife suspect?”
This was a difficult question. As far as Angel knew, Jenna suspected only that her husband worked for the CIA. But Jenna was her customer, so Angel was not at liberty to disclose this to Bosco. Okay, Linda was also Angel’s customer. But Linda had never confided in her about sleeping with Jenna’s husband, so it was fine to talk about that. But Jenna’s suspicions were a different matter.
“I think she might suspect something. But she’s very busy with her literacy class now.”
“Does the CIA suspect?”
“No. He still has no idea of what’s happening in his own apartment every morning.” Angel laughed, and Bosco joined in.
“He’s not a good CIA,” he said, shaking his head.
They drove in silence. Angel ran her hands over the shiny roundness of the teapot in her lap, feeling very happy with her purchase. She was happy, too, that Ken had agreed to let Bosco drive her to the Batwa pottery workshop. And of course she was happy that Bosco was her friend.
“Eh, Auntie!” said Bosco suddenly. “I forgot to tell you! Alice told me that her friend, the one who is the sister of Odile’s brother’s wife, that friend told Alice that Odile has a boyfriend now!”
“A boyfriend? Odile? Are you sure?”
“Very, very sure, Auntie.”
“Eh! Do you know this boyfriend’s name, Bosco?”
“No, Auntie. But Odile’s brother’s wife told her sister, and then her sister told Alice, that he works in a bank.”
A wide smile lit up Angel’s face. She was very happy indeed.
LATER that afternoon, as she finished decorating a cake that had been ordered for a retirement party the following day, Angel received a visit from Jeanne d’Arc. The children had just settled down to do their homework in the living room, so Angel made tea and took her guest down to the compound’s yard, where they sat on kangas spread out in the shade.
Jeanne d’Arc was an extremely beautiful young girl, and it was easy to see why men were attracted to her—even though she dressed much more modestly than many of the other girls in her profession. Today she wore a long maroon skirt over low-heeled black sandals that revealed toenails painted in a dark red colour. The same colour adorned the nails on her long, slim fingers. Draped around her shoulders and secured with a small gold brooch at one shoulder was a thin black shawl that hung in soft folds to her knees. Long, thin extensions fell down her back from neat rows radiating back from her forehead.
“I’m happy that you came to see me, Jeanne d’Arc,” began Angel. “I have something for you.”
“For me, Auntie?” Jeanne d’Arc looked confused.
“Yes.” Angel reached into her brassiere, where she had slipped the money when she had left Jeanne d’Arc in the kitchen to watch that the milk did not boil over. She held the roll of Rwandan francs out to her guest. Jeanne d’Arc looked at the money but did not take it.
With a furrowed brow she said, “What is it that you want me to do, Auntie?”
Angel gave her what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “This is your money, Jeanne d’Arc. I got it for you from the Canadian.”
“Eh?” Jeanne d’Arc still did not take the money.
“Yes. I know that he took back from you the money that he owed you, and also some other money that was already yours. I don’t know how much that was, but this is what I got from him.” Angel took Jeanne d’Arc’s right hand and placed the money in it, closing her fingers around it.
“Oh, Auntie,” said Jeanne d’Arc, “I am so ashamed! I tried to steal from that man. I should not have done that.” She tried to hand the money back to Angel, but Angel raised both her hands with the palms facing forward and would not take it. “Please, Auntie, I cannot have this.”
“Jeanne d’Arc, did you not do sex with the Canadian?”
“Yes, Auntie, I did, but …”
Angel gave her no time to continue. “So did you not earn that money?”
“Yes, Auntie, but …”
“And did he not take from you money that you had already earned?”
“Yes, Auntie, but …”
“But nothing, Jeanne d’Arc! Okay, you tried to steal some money from him. But he took that money back, so that matter is finished. And in fact he stole that money from you. That money is rightfully yours and you must have it. Do you not want the money that you earned? Do you not need it?” “Eh, I need it, Auntie.”
“Then you must have it. I insist. I will not take it back, Jeanne d’Arc.”
Angel sipped at her tea for a while to give the girl time to think, and watched her taking deep breaths and turning the roll of banknotes over and over in her hand. At last she looked up at Angel.
“Thank you, Auntie, I will take it. Thank you for getting it for me.”
“No problem.”
Then Jeanne d’Arc peeled off one of the notes and handed it to Angel. “Auntie, I would like to contribute to the bride-price for Modeste and Leocadie. I was going to contribute only a small amount, but now I can give more.”
Angel accepted the note and tucked it into her brassiere, watching as the girl placed the rest of the notes inside a small black handbag.
“Thank you, Jeanne d’Arc. The herd of cows is becoming big now.”
“I’m glad, Auntie. Eh, I’m happy to have my money; thank you again.” Her beautiful face broke into a smile. “It has saved me from having to pay for our room with sex.”
“Good. You said our room, Jeanne d’Arc. Do you share a room with another girl?”
“No, Auntie, I have my two young sisters and a small boy. I’ve been their mother since ’94.”
“But you look like you still need a mother yourself! How old are you now?”
“I think I’m seventeen, Auntie.”
“Seventeen?”
“Yes, Auntie.”
“So you were eleven when you became their mother?”
“Yes, Auntie.” She shrugged. “I was the oldest one left. Our parents were late, and also our brothers.” She shrugged again.
“And the small boy?”
“After we fled into the forest, we found him there by himself. We couldn’t just leave him, he was very small then.” Another shrug.
“And how have you been taking care of these children, Jeanne d’Arc?”
“At first—afterwards—we went back to our family’s farm. We grew potatoes and cassava there, and some bananas. But it was very difficult for us because the men that we had seen kill our family, they were still there, they were our neighbours on the other hills. Some people came from an organisation, some Wazungu, and they tried to help us, but they could not find anybody from the boy’s family who was still alive. Really, we could not stay there. Then we all came to Kigali.”
“And have you been prostituting yourself since then?”
“Yes, Auntie. Those men had already violated me. I was already spoiled, so it didn’t matter. But my sisters were not spoiled, so I wouldn’t let them work. My work pays for their schooling and our clothes and food, and also our rent.” She flashed a beautiful, shy smile at Angel.
“Eh, I’m proud of you, Jeanne d’Arc.”
“Thank you, Auntie. Now my first sister, Solange, she’s going for her confirmation in the church, and I want her to have a party with her friends to celebrate. I’ve come to ask Auntie to make a cake for her party.”
“Eh! I will be honoured to make that cake!”
“Thank you, Auntie. Just something small and simple, please.”
“It will be a beautiful confirmation cake, Jeanne d’Arc. I’ll give you a very good price. Tell me, how old is Solange?”
“At her school they say she’s eleven. I think she’s twelve or thirteen, but she’s very small. I think the reason she’s small isn’t because she’s young; I think it’s because she didn’t get enough food for a long time.”
“Is she about the same size as Grace, or as Faith?”
Jeanne d’Arc thought for a while. “Maybe she’s like Faith, but I’m not sure. Maybe she’s smaller.” She shrugged.
“Okay. Both of my girls have already been confirmed. Grace had her own confirmation dress, and then it was altered for Faith. Why don’t you bring Solange to visit us, then we can see if the dress fits her. If it needs altering in any way, you can take it to a place in Biryogo where there are some ladies who are learning to sew. They do good work and they’re very cheap. I’ll tell you where the place is. Solange will have a nice dress for her confirmation. She’ll feel very proud.”
Tears began to well in Jeanne d’Arc’s eyes. “Auntie, you are very kind. It hasn’t been easy for me to be a mother to children who are not my children, and now you are being a mother to me when I’m not your child. You are Leocadie’s mother for the wedding, too. And I know that your children here are not your children but your grandchildren. I’m sorry that your own children are late. They were very lucky to have you as their mother.”
“Eh, Jeanne d’Arc. Eh!” Tears welled in Angel’s eyes, too, now.
“Auntie?”
Angel delved into her brassiere for a tissue. “Eh, I’m sorry, Jeanne d’Arc.” She took off her glasses, put them in her lap and dabbed at her eyes. “It’s only that I wasn’t a good mother to my own daughter.”
Jeanne d’Arc took Angel’s hand that was not busy with the tissue and held it tight. “No, Auntie, I don’t believe that. You were a good mother to her.”
Angel’s sigh was deep as she shook her head. “No, Jeanne d’Arc. A good mother does not let her daughter marry a man who is going to disappoint her, to hurt her.”
Still holding Angel’s hand, Jeanne d’Arc sipped at her tea. “Was she in love with him, Auntie?”
“Eh! Very much!”
“Girls have told me that to be in love is a very nice thing, a happy thing. Did you not want her to be happy, Auntie?” “Well, yes, of course I did.”
“Then I think you were a good mother, because you let her be happy, even if you were not. Now, say you didn’t let her marry him, then you would be happy but she would be unhappy. Does a good mother not put her daughter’s happiness before her own?”
Angel managed a smile despite her tears. “That is true, Jeanne d’Arc. But somehow things were never the same between us after her wedding. She was far from us in Arusha, meanwhile we were in Dar es Salaam. But there was another kind of distance between us, too. We spoke often on the phone, and always she told me that everything was okay, but later I found out that it wasn’t. She had another baby some time after Faith and Daniel, but he was weak, Jeanne d’Arc. Late within some few months.”
“I’m sorry, Auntie.”
“Eh! That was a bad year for all of us, because my son was shot by robbers at his house.”
“Eh! I’m sorry, Auntie.”
“And then my daughter’s husband left her, and she didn’t tell me. It was only by mistake that I heard it from her helper.” Angel clicked the tip of her tongue against the back of her teeth.
“You’re confusing me now, Auntie. First you told me that you were a bad mother. Now I think you’re telling me that she was a bad daughter. Now I’m not sure who it is that Auntie feels she needs to forgive.”
“Now you’re confusing me, Jeanne d’Arc!”
The girl placed her mug of tea on the ground so that the hand that was not holding Angel’s could help her to make her point. “What you have told me is this, Auntie. You think you made a mistake because you let her marry a man who was not good. But that man made her happy for some time. And, Auntie, what we know here, in this country, is that our lives can be short. If we have the chance to be happy, we must take it. Even if it is a short happiness, we are glad to have it. Now your daughter, when she was no longer happy, she kept it secret. Why, Auntie? Because she loved you. She didn’t want you to be more unhappy, you were already unhappy because of your son.”
“Eh, Jeanne d’Arc!” Angel squeezed the girl’s hand, remembering Thérèse’s words about a lie holding truth in its heart. “Part of my head is telling me that you’re right, meanwhile the other part is still confused. That is something that I will think about later. But there’s also another secret that she didn’t tell me, a secret that I haven’t yet told myself …” The same hundred frogs that had leapt, startled, into a still pond at the centre in Biryogo were now in a panic in her stomach, thrashing about desperately. Perhaps the sweetness of her tea would calm them. She put down her wet tissue, picked up her mug and drained it.
“Auntie, in Kinyarwanda we say that a hoe cannot be damaged by a stone that is exposed. I think it means that the truth will hurt us only if it remains hidden.”
“That is a good saying, Jeanne d’Arc, and I’m going to tell you the truth now, because I feel it is time for me to tell it. I will be hearing it for the first time myself as I tell it to you. It is what I’ve come to suspect, and now, right now at this minute, I’m accepting that it’s true.” Feeling one of the frogs trying to scramble up from her stomach into her mouth where it would prevent her from speaking, she swallowed hard. Then she took a deep breath, and spoke rapidly as she exhaled, anxious to say it, to hear it. “My daughter was sick, Jeanne d’Arc. She found out that she was positive when her baby was sick. That’s why their marriage broke up—because AIDS came to their house.” She had no more breath to exhale.
Jeanne d’Arc finished her tea, waiting quietly as Angel gulped in air and swallowed hard.
“But that is just a small secret. It’s not something that I’ll be ashamed to tell others, now that I’ve told myself, even though many of us are still not comfortable to talk about that disease. To catch such a disease does not make a person a sinner. A foolish somebody, yes. A careless somebody, yes. An unfortunate somebody, yes. But a sinner? No.”
Jeanne d’Arc nodded her head to every yes, and shook it to the no.
“That disease is just a small pebble, Jeanne d’Arc, it is not the stone that will break the hoe. You know, I’m going to stop being angry at Vinas for lying to me, because I’ve been lying to myself. I’ve told myself stories about stress, about blood pressure, about headaches. But the hoe has sliced straight through those stories now. I have another story, I have it ready to tell, but I know now that the hoe will not even notice it. That story is that it was an accident that Vinas took so many pain-killers, that she was confused by her headache, that she failed to count.” The frogs stopped moving, stunned. Nothing could stop Angel now. “Jeanne d’Arc, the stone that I need to dig up, the truth that I need to expose is this. My daughter wanted to die. She took those pills to suicide herself.”
When Angel stopped speaking, she was surprised to notice that she was no longer crying; she realised that she had in fact stopped crying as soon as she had decided to tell the truth. She felt empty of emotion, the way that Fran?oise had seemed when she had told her own story. Telling it had shifted something in her. Putting her glasses back on, she looked at Jeanne d’Arc and saw that there were tears in her eyes.
“Eh, Jeanne d’Arc! I didn’t mean to upset you. How can you weep for my story when your own is so much worse than mine?”
Jeanne d’Arc let go of Angel’s hand, removed a length of pink toilet paper from her handbag and blew her nose delicately. Then she breathed in deeply before saying, “Auntie, I’m weeping for you, not for your story, because the pain of loss is heavy in your heart.”
“There is a heavier weight than loss in my heart, Jeanne d’Arc. Everybody knows that suicide is a sin, that it sends a soul to Hell. Eh, it’s very hard for me to know that Vinas is there.”
“Yes.” Jeanne d’Arc was silent for a few moments before she continued. “But I think that Vinas chose to do what she did in order to save others, Auntie. When she suicided herself, did she not save her parents from the pain of watching her suffer? Did she not save her children from the pain of watching her die? I think that when a person dies to save others, Hell is not the place for her soul. I think the Bible tells us that such a soul belongs in Heaven.”
Angel looked at Jeanne d’Arc. How could someone so young be so wise? “That is true, Jeanne d’Arc. After all, Jesus died to save others. Do you think that God—”
Angel’s question was interrupted by a thumping sound and a loud eh! echoing in the stairwell, and then Prosper came tumbling out into the yard, landing spread-eagled in the dust.
“Merde!” he shouted, standing up and dusting himself down.
“Prosper?” said Angel. “Are you okay?”
Prosper observed Angel and Jeanne d’Arc through eyes that were very red. “I’m fine, Madame. I just fell over something on the stairs on my way down. Modeste and Gaspard must take better care with the cleaning.” He swayed slightly on his feet. “Madame, I could not help overhearing before I fell that you were talking to this girl about God and Jesus. That is very good. The Bible tells us much about the sin of prostitution.”
“Yes,” said Angel. “It tells us that Jesus forgave prostitutes and allowed them to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”
“Eh, Madame! I hope that you have not been forgiving this sinner!”
“Actually, Prosper,” said Angel, smiling now, “she is the one who has been forgiving a sinner.”
“Eh!” Prosper shook his head and moved unsteadily towards the door of his office. “You ladies are very confused. I myself will find some verses in the Bible for you to read.”
They watched him struggle with the key and then enter his office, and they waited for him to emerge with his Bible. But he did not come. Then, softly at first but growing louder, came the sound of snoring.
Angel and Jeanne d’Arc looked at each other and began to giggle.
THAT evening, as Titi and Angel were busy preparing the family’s supper in the kitchen, Pius settled down in the living room to read the copy of New Vision that Dr Binaisa had passed on to him. The Ebola scare was well over now, and the boys were with the Mukherjee boys down the road, playing under the watchful eye of Miremba. In their bedroom, the girls and Safiya were styling one another’s hair.
Pius was half-way through reading about new allegations concerning the smuggling of diamonds and metallic ore out of DRC, when his concentration was broken by a knock at the door.
“Karibu!” he called, but nobody came in. Putting his newspaper down on the coffee table and grumbling to himself, he got up and went to open the door. Standing there were two young men who were clearly not from this part of Africa.
“Good evening, sir,” said the one who was wearing smart, grey suit-trousers, a white shirt and a tie. “I hope we’re not disturbing you. We’re looking for a Mrs Angel.”
“Oh, Angel is my wife,” said Pius, assuming that these must be customers for Angel’s cakes. “Please come in. Angel!” he called. “You have visitors.”
Angel came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a cloth. “Hello,” she said with a smile.
“Hello, Angel,” answered the young man in the tie. “Omar upstairs sent us to talk to you. I hope this isn’t an inconvenient time?”
“Not at all,” Angel lied. Emotionally drained after her talk with Jeanne d’Arc, she was in no mood at all for business, but as a businesswoman she was obliged to remain professional at all times.
“I’m Welcome Mabizela, and this is my friend Elvis Khumalo.”
Angel shook hands with them and introduced them to Pius, who shook hands with them, too.
“Please come and sit,” said Angel, and the four of them sat down around the coffee table. “I think that Mabizela and Khumalo are South African names?”
“Ja,” said Welcome with a smile, “we’re from Johannesburg. I’ve come up here to facilitate workshops on reconciliation, based on my experience working with the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa.”
“Eh!” said Pius, sitting forward with interest. “I’m sure you have many interesting stories to tell.”
“Don’t say that to him, Pius, he’ll never shut up. Eish, he’ll be telling his stories all night!” Elvis shook his head and laughed.
Angel looked at Elvis, who was dressed far less conservatively than his friend in a smart red T-shirt and tight black denim jeans. Short extensions hung loosely around his head.
“And what is it that you do, Elvis?” she asked.
“I’m a journalist, mostly freelance, always looking for a story I can sell.” The smile that he flashed was brilliant white. “In fact that’s why Omar suggested we come and see you. He said you’re organising a wedding, and I want to find out more about it. Maybe it’s worth a story.”
“Angel,” said Pius, “I want Welcome to tell me his stories about South Africa, and Elvis wants to talk to you about the wedding. Why don’t we invite our visitors to join us for supper?”
“Of course,” said Angel, clapping her hands together. “Please say you’ll eat with us.”
“Oh, we can’t impose on you like that …” began Welcome.
“Nonsense!” declared Angel. “There’s plenty of food for everyone. Really, we insist that you stay.”
Elvis glanced at Welcome before saying, “In that case, we can’t refuse. Thank you, Angel, we’d love to.”
Angel went into the kitchen to redirect the dinner preparations to satisfy two more mouths. Both of their guests were thin—but healthy young men usually had big appetites whatever size they were. The chicken pieces that were roasting in the oven would have to be removed from the bone when they were cooked, and chopped into smaller pieces. She would make a stew of peas and carrots in peanut sauce, and add the chicken to that. The rice that was already cooking was not going to be enough, and it was too late to add to it—but it could finish cooking and the family would eat it tomorrow.
Instead, she would make a big pot of ugali to have with the chicken stew.
As she and Titi busied themselves in the kitchen, Angel listened to snatches of conversation from the living room. Pius was questioning Welcome on the significance of the distinction between what South Africa called “truth and reconciliation” and what Rwanda called “unity and reconciliation.” Could truth not make reconciliation impossible? he was asking. Was unity a possibility in the absence of truth? Angel was glad that there was someone else in their house tonight who could field her husband’s questions; it was not a debate in which she herself felt confident of any answers.
When the ugali was just a few minutes from being ready, Angel and Titi emerged from the kitchen, and Titi was introduced to the guests before being sent to fetch the boys from the Mukherjees’.
“Take the flashlight, Titi,” said Pius. “There’s no moon tonight and the street is dark.”
Angel accompanied Safiya upstairs so that she could have a quick word with the girl’s mother.
“Amina, we have unexpected guests for supper, and you know that we have very little space. Can I send the girls up here with their plates of food?”
“Of course, Angel,” said Amina, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “We’ll be ready to eat our own meal as soon as Vincenzo has finished washing.”
“Thank you, Amina. They’ll come in a few minutes.”
Back downstairs, Angel had Grace and Faith wash their hands, then sent them upstairs with a plate each of ugali with the sauce of chicken stew. The boys arrived home with Titi, washed their hands, and were dispatched to their bedroom with their plates of food, where Titi would join them soon.
Then Titi brought a big plastic bowl into the living room, and as each of the guests and Pius in turn held their hands over it, Angel poured warm water from a jug over their hands while they washed them. Titi dished up for herself in the kitchen and retired to the bedroom with her plate.
Angel, Pius and their guests sat around the coffee table, forming balls of ugali in their fingers and dipping them into the large bowl of chicken stew. As they ate, Pius and Welcome discussed the theoretical and philosophical aspects of reconciliation, while Angel and Elvis concentrated on one practical example: the wedding of Leocadie and Modeste.
“I think this is a story for a magazine rather than a newspaper,” suggested Angel. “There must be photographs of the wedding so that readers can see that these are real people, and that reconciliation is not just an idea.”
“I agree one hundred percent,” said Elvis. “It’ll need to be much longer than the average newspaper story anyway. Both parties will need to tell their story.”
“That’s true,” said Angel, reaching for the bowl of ugali and beginning to shape another ball with a dip in it to hold the sauce. “But, Elvis, I must tell you that this is a story that will interest many journalists. Very many. From all over Africa, and even from Europe and America. Magazines like Hello! and Oprah’s new O magazine will be interested. You know that a magazine in South Africa will not want to buy the story from you if every other magazine in the world is already telling the same story.”
“Absolutely,” agreed Elvis. “Of course I would want exclusive rights to the story, and exclusive access to everyone involved.”
“Yes, and I am the one who will decide who gets exclusive access, because I am the wedding-mother and I am the one who can advise the two parties whether to talk to a journalist or not.”
“I understand,” said Elvis, smiling. “So let’s cut to the chase, Angel. What is it that will persuade you to grant a particular journalist exclusive rights to the story?”
She was ready with her answer: “The magazine that is going to tell this story must sponsor a small piece of the wedding.”
“I see. And what small piece of the wedding are we talking about?”
“The cake.”
“The cake?” Elvis looked at Angel with a mixture of relief and surprise. “Just the cake?”
“Yes. It’s going to be a very beautiful cake that I’m going to make myself. When we’ve finished eating I’ll show you photographs of other cakes that I’ve made.”
“Okay. Let me make a few calls tomorrow and I’ll let you know in the next day or two if that’s going to be possible.”
“Okay, Elvis. I won’t give anybody else exclusive rights until I’ve heard from you.”
The meal progressed with a mix of political debate, story-telling and happy laughter, and afterwards Elvis made appreciative noises as he looked through Angel’s photo album—particularly when he saw the cake of the South African flag.
The guests expressed reluctance at having to go, but felt that they must because there were young children in the house who needed to get to sleep.
“Where are you staying?” asked Pius. “Can I give you a lift?”
“Oh, thank you, no, we’re close by,” replied Welcome. “At the Presbyterian Guesthouse. It’s less than ten minutes’ walk from here.”
“Eh, but you cannot walk tonight,” declared Pius. “There’s no moon, and there are no streetlights along this road. You won’t find your way, I guarantee. No, I’ll take you there in the microbus. I insist.”
As soon as Pius had left with the South Africans, Angel and Titi began cleaning up in the kitchen and Benedict was sent upstairs to fetch the girls. Titi took the chicken bones, carrot peelings and other rubbish out to the Dumpster in the street so that they would not attract cockroaches or make the kitchen smell in the night, leaving Angel to transfer the uneaten rice from the pot in which it had cooked to a plastic bowl to store in the fridge. As she occupied herself with this task, Angel thought about the two young men who had just shared dinner with them. Unless she was very much mistaken—which she was sure she was not—they were more than just friends. South Africa was truly a very modern country indeed.
Suddenly the door of the apartment flew open and Titi came rushing into the room, trembling and whimpering, with tears running down her face.
“Eh, Titi!” said Angel, coming out of the kitchen. “What’s happened?” She went over to Titi, put her arm around her shoulders and led her to the sofa, where she sat down beside her. The children gathered round and looked at Titi with big eyes as she struggled to control her breathing.
“Grace, bring Titi a glass of water,” commanded Angel. “Faith, bring tissues. Eh, Titi, whatever has happened, you are safe now. There’s no need to cry. Nothing bad will happen to you in here.”
Titi wiped away her tears with the tissue that Faith had brought and took a sip from the glass of water that Grace had handed to her.
“Eh, Auntie!” she said, shaking her head. “Eh! I was not thinking when I took the rubbish to the Dumpster. I forgot that it had been emptied.” She took another sip of water. “When I opened the lid to put the rubbish inside, a voice in there spoke to me and hands grabbed the rubbish from me.”
“Eh, the mayibobo are back,” said Angel. A group of street-children sometimes slept in the bin at night when there was enough space inside. It provided warmth and shelter and—perhaps most important—instant access to anything that the neighbourhood was discarding, some of which might pass for food.
“It was very dark, Auntie,” said Titi. “I saw nothing. Then I heard a voice, and hands started grabbing. Eh, it frightened me!”
“Of course it did, Titi. You’ve had a very terrible fright. But you’re fine now. Why don’t you go and wash and prepare yourself for bed, and I’ll make some hot milk and honey for you.”
“Thank you, Auntie.”
While she waited for the kettle to boil, Angel checked that all the children had washed their feet and brushed their teeth, and settled them into their beds with the promise that Baba would come to say goodnight in a few minutes. After taking Titi her warm milk in bed, she went back into the kitchen and filled the rice-pot with water to soak overnight, thinking as she did so that the few grains of rice that clung obstinately to the bottom and sides of the pot would probably seem like a big meal to one of the mayibobo outside in the Dumpster. Then she thought about the small boy who was living with Jeanne d’Arc, and about Jeanne d’Arc’s younger sisters. If Jeanne d’Arc were not willing to do what she was probably doing at that very moment—perhaps even in this very compound—to keep them off the street, those children could well be in that very Dumpster.
When Pius came back from delivering their visitors to their guesthouse, he found Angel frying onions in a big pot.
“Eh, why are you cooking at this time of night?”
“There are mayibobo in the Dumpster. I just want to take them something to eat.”
“I see. And have you forgotten the reason why I uprooted us all and left my comfortable job in Dar to come and work here in Kigali as a Special Consultant?” “No, Pius, I haven’t forgotten.”
“It was because I need to earn more money so that we can give our grandchildren a good life.” “I know that.”
“But now it looks to me like you intend to use my salary to feed the entire world.”
Angel emptied the rice from the plastic bowl into the pot with the onions and gave it a good stir. “No, Pius, I just intend to use a bit of my money from my cake business to put a bit of food into those homeless children’s bellies before they fall asleep on everybody’s stinking rubbish.” She silenced her husband with a look. “Our children are waiting in their warm beds for their Baba to come and say goodnight.”
Angel added a small amount of pilipili to the rice and onions to give the dish some flavour and warmth, and stirred until the rice had heated through. Then she spooned the food back into the plastic bowl.
Pius was coming out of the children’s room as she carried the bowl towards the door of the apartment. She hesitated for a brief moment before speaking.
“Pius, when I come back, I want us to talk.”
“What about?”
“About something that I told myself today.” “Eh?”
“Oh, Pius, is it not time for truth and unity and reconciliation to stop being just theories in our house?” “What do you mean, Angel?”
“I mean …” She lowered her voice to a whisper, conscious that the children were not yet fully asleep. “It wasn’t an accident, was it?”
Pius’s eyes widened, and he stared at his wife for almost a full minute without blinking. It was the way that a small animal on a country road might stare at a car coming towards it at night.
“I mean, Vinas,” she whispered. “The pills …”
He shook his head, exhaling strongly as if he had been holding his breath for a very, very long time. “No. It was no accident.” His eyes were damp as he reached out a hand and squeezed Angel’s shoulder gently. “Come back quickly, Angel. It really is time we faced the truth together.”
Outside, Angel found Kalisa sitting on one of the big rocks that lined the path to the building’s entrance. She asked him to take the food to the mayibobo in the Dumpster.
“When they’ve finished, the bowl must come back to me. I’ll wait here.”
“Yes, Madame.”
Angel took Kalisa’s place on the rock and stared up at the stars in the very black sky. There were people who knew about stars, who could tell you the name of every star in the sky. She knew that one of the stars was called Venus, like the name of her daughter. Okay, it was actually a planet, not a star—she knew that from the children’s atlas—but it shone in the sky just like the stars. But she did not understand how it could be important to learn the name of every single star in the sky; surely it was better to know the name of every person in your street?
She thought of the cake that she was going to make for Solange’s confirmation. She and Jeanne d’Arc had agreed on a vanilla cake in the shape of a Christian cross, white on top to convey purity and with a turquoise and white basket-weave design piped around the sides to match the confirmation dress, which was white with turquoise ribbons threaded through it. Solange’s name would be piped in turquoise across the top.
Suddenly Angel was blinded by lights shining in her eyes as a large vehicle came down the hill and turned off the tarred road into the dirt road. The Pajero drew to a halt next to Angel.
“Everything okay, Angel?” asked Ken Akimoto.
“Everything’s okay,” she answered, feeling that yes, it was going to be. “Thanks, Ken. I’m just enjoying the night air.”
“Okay.” He drove to the other end of the building and parked outside his own apartment. Bosco was his driver only during office hours; after that, Ken was perfectly capable of driving himself. Of course, Bosco was much more than Ken’s driver, and was happy to be sent on any number of errands.
Angel smiled as she thought about what Bosco had told her that morning: Odile had a boyfriend! Dieudonné would be a good partner for a woman who was not able to bear children; having grown up without his parents, in the care of other people, he might easily be persuaded to think of adopting one or two of the thousands of children who filled the country’s orphanages. Which was a lot better for them, she considered, than filling the country’s rubbish dumps.
Then she became aware that something very important had happened. She had been sitting out here next to the same night-blooming plant that grew in Vinas’s garden in Arusha, and she had not been thinking about her daughter. She had not felt overwhelmed by her death. She sniffed the air. Yes, the plant had indeed been exhaling its perfume as she sat there. But the scent had not undone her.
“Eh!” she said to herself, unsure if it was right or wrong to have let go of some of her grief. She took off her glasses to give them a clean, but saw that they did not need it, and put them back on again. She closed her eyes to get a better sense of what she was feeling. Yes, she was still very sad. But somehow, in a small way, part of her despair had changed. It had turned to hope.
When she opened her eyes, Kalisa was emerging from the total darkness and approaching her with a small child dressed in reeking rags. The little girl was running her small fingers around the inside of the bowl before licking them clean. She handed the bowl to Angel with a big smile.
“Murakoze cyane. Thank you very much,” she said.