Baking Cakes in Kigali

14



ON THE MORNING of the day before the wedding, Angel stood at her work table decorating the wedding cake. There were six pieces: one very large and five smaller, all of them round. Thérèse had come the day before to help her with all the mixing and beating, and that had given her the time that she had needed to finish making the scores of sugar-paste flowers—bright yellow petals with orange centres—that she had been working on all week. Now she concentrated on positioning those flowers perfectly on the white tops of the five smaller cakes. The sides were iced in the same bright orange colour as the flowers’ centres, and pale lemon-yellow piped stars surrounded the rim of each cake where the white tops met the orange sides.
She had already finished decorating the larger cake. The top was the same bright orange as the sides of the smaller cakes, and its sides were decorated in a basket-weave design of white and the same bright yellow as the petals of the flowers. To match the smaller cakes, the rim where the top met the sides was studded with pale lemon-yellow stars. Towards the outer edges of the orange surface circled a pattern that Angel had created by repeating the knot-of-reconciliation design from the fabric of Leocadie’s dress, in lemon yellow outlined with bright yellow. And right in the centre of the cake stood the plastic figures of a bride and groom, the pink of their skin coloured dark brown with one of the children’s watercolour paints.
The next day, Angel would assemble the six pieces on the special metal stand that had been manufactured to her specifications by one of Pius’s colleagues, a professor of Appropriate Technology. From the heavy base rose a central rod about half a metre high, on top of which was a round metal platform with a small spike in the middle. This would hold the board on which the large cake would stand. Fanning out around the central rod, angled down at about 45 degrees, were five more rods of the same length, each ending in a horizontal platform with a small spike in the middle. The five smaller cakes would go on those.
Angel glanced out towards the balcony where the cake-stand stood. As soon as she had finished positioning the flowers on the smaller cakes, she would go out there and check if it was dry yet. Bosco had managed to find some tiny tins of gold paint at an Indian shop on Avenue de la Paix, and he had spent an hour or so the previous afternoon transforming the dull grey aluminium of the stand into glistening gold.
Angel smiled to herself as she worked, sure that this wedding cake was going to look spectacular—and that she was going to look equally spectacular standing next to it—in the photographs that Elvis would take for True Love magazine in South Africa. No?lla had done her hair for her earlier in the week: black extensions braided back from her forehead to the crown of her head, from where black and gold extensions hung loosely to her shoulders. The style was glamorous, without being inappropriate for a grandmother, and was similar to the looser, longer, more youthful style that Agathe had braided for Leocadie. Angel had been reluctant to spend any money on having her hair styled, because she had been planning to wear an elaborate head-dress, but Leocadie had persuaded her to opt for a smaller head-covering beneath which braids could hang that would echo her own.
“I want people to see that we are mother and daughter,” Leocadie had said—and of course it had been impossible for Angel to object to that.
In Angel’s wardrobe hung the dress that Youssou had created for her from the soft Ghanaian fabric with the pattern that said, Help me and let me help you. Titi had gone with her for the taking of the measurements, and had stood behind her, secretly inserting two fingers between Angel’s body and the tape measure at every point where Youssou had measured. The result was a dress that fitted perfectly: a well-tailored, fitted bodice with cap sleeves tapered out over her hips and continued to flare out to create a wide, flowing skirt that fell softly to her feet. A strip of the same fabric tied ornately around her head, plus the gold pumps that she had bought on the street, would complete the ensemble.
It had been a hectic week for Angel: a week of organising caterers and florists and what seemed like a hundred other people, each of whom would be required to perform a particular function to ensure that the wedding and the reception went smoothly. The florist and the people who hired out tables, chairs and canopies had tried to charge her inflated prices—until she had returned to their premises with Fran?oise.
“Does this woman look like a Mzungu to you?” Fran?oise had demanded of them in Kinyarwanda, her left hand firmly on her hip as she gestured with her right. “Of course not! Our sister here is from Bukoba, just the other side of the border, a border that is only there because, long ago, Wazungu drew a line and said here is Rwanda and here is Tanzania. Now, if you want to say that people from that side of the line must pay more, then you are saying that you are happy that those Wazungu drew those lines all over Africa long ago, that they were right to take our land and cut it up however they wanted. Is that what you want to say? Is it? Of course not! No, our sister will pay what Banyarwanda pay.”
And every night, at the end of each hectic day, Angel and Pius had talked in the way they always used to talk before the circumstances of their daughter’s death had given them something not to talk about. AIDS had been a difficult word to speak about their son, but the bullet that had taken him had taken away their need to speak it. Now they spoke it about their daughter, together with another word: suicide. During the past week, both of those words had passed between them so often that they had lost their power, in the way that an old coin that has lost its shine seems to have less value. They were just words now, words that they were able to speak with understanding rather than dread.
It had hurt them both that Vinas had not felt able to tell them that she was ill—although, in truth, they did understand her motives. After all, Joseph had waited to tell them until his wife was very ill and he needed their help with the children. He had done that to spare them the worry, just as Vinas had. And both Pius and Angel had to admit that, should either of them—God forbid—find themselves with frightening or devastating news about their own health, love might well persuade them to put it away at the back of the top shelf of the highest cupboard for some time before fetching it down and showing it to each other. Really, it was not too hard to understand.
“But I still wish that Vinas had let me be closer to her after her marriage, Pius.”
“And I still wish that Joseph had chosen to follow an academic career. But each bird must fly on its own wings, Angel.”
Pius was still not fully convinced that Vinas had not condemned herself to an eternity in Hell. It was a complicated muddle of doctrine and ethics, he felt, a muddle that he needed to work through and clarify in his own mind even though he longed to be able to accept the more straightforward conviction at which Jeanne d’Arc had helped Angel to arrive.
“Eh, Angel, if I could re-dream my dream about looking for Joseph amongst the dead on that hilltop at Gikongoro, I want to believe that he would say to me, “Vinas is here, Baba.” And he’d lead me to her, and our son and daughter would both be there together, in the same place.”
Last night, Pius had come home from work looking more at peace than he had in a long while. Instead of eating lunch in the staff canteen, he had joined Dr Binaisa in his fast and told him the full story of what had happened to Vinas.
“One of my brothers did the same thing,” Dr Binaisa had said matter-of-factly. “Soon after he was diagnosed, he drove his car into the back of a truck full of matoke. People said it was a tragic accident, but of course we knew it wasn’t. And another brother simply disappeared when he began to get sick. Eh, we suspect the fish in Lake Victoria have eaten well off him!”
Pius had been shocked by this attitude. “But what does Islam say about suicide?”
“Eh, it’s a terrible sin! If you suicide yourself, you’ll be roasted in the fires of Hell.”
“Then do you not worry yourself about those brothers of yours who are roasting in Hell?”
“Tungaraza, there are more important things on this Earth to worry myself about. My worry will not change what anybody else has already done. I’m alive and I have children to raise, and that is where I need to focus my attention.”
On the afternoon of the day before the wedding, Angel kept the boys and their friends the Mukherjee boys occupied with the video of Gorillas in the Mist that she had borrowed from Ken Akimoto. No longer the quiet one, Benedict was the star of the afternoon: the one who had seen gorillas; the one who recognised Ruhengeri on the screen because he had been there; the one to whom the other boys deferred.
The girls and Titi were dispatched to their bedroom to style one another’s hair for the wedding. They wanted Safiya to come down and help them, but she needed her rest because she was fasting for Ramadan for the first time.
As the video played, Angel sat at her work table and went through her list of things to do, checking and re-checking for anything that might not have been confirmed and reconfirmed. The ceremony itself had been arranged: a short and simple Catholic service in the Sainte Famille church. Angel would walk down the aisle with Leocadie and present her to Modeste, who would be waiting at the altar in his brown suit that had been made for him by a tailor in Remera, and his tie that the women at the centre in Biryogo had sewn for him from the same fabric as Leocadie’s dress. Next to Modeste would be his best friend and fellow security guard, Gaspard. Their guard duties at the compound would be performed tomorrow by two KIST security guards who were happy to make some extra money on their day off. Angel checked that she had re-confirmed with them, and that she had explained to them the situation regarding Captain Calixte, who was on no account to be allowed into the building with his gun.
Ken Akimoto had offered his Pajero as the wedding car; Bosco would take it to the florist tomorrow morning to have it adorned with flowers and ribbons, and in the afternoon he would drive Leocadie and Angel to the church. After the ceremony he would drive them, together with Modeste and Gaspard, to the reception in the compound’s yard.
Early tomorrow morning, people would come and protect the yard from any possible rain showers by securing an enormous tarpaulin to the railings of the first-floor balconies at one side, and to the top of the boundary wall at the other. Patrice and Kalisa had already removed the last of the builders’ rubble from the corner of the yard by taking a small wheelbarrow-load each night to a building-site a few streets away where they had come to an arrangement with the night security guard. The Tungarazas’ trailer had been taken away and left for safe-keeping in Dr Binaisa’s yard. Tomorrow, people would deliver round plastic tables and chairs for the guests, as well as a long high table to go under the washing lines for the bride and groom; the lines themselves would be draped with loose folds of white muslin, and the posts supporting them would be adorned with flowers and ribbons. Angel had re-confirmed all of those arrangements.
She had also re-confirmed with the students from KIST who would be helping out: Idi-Amini, an earnest young returnee from Uganda who owned a PA system, would be in charge of sound and music; Pacifique, who was using his camera to pay for his studies, would be the official photographer at the service and the reception; and the institution’s troupe of traditional dancers would perform for the guests’ entertainment.
Goats had already been slaughtered, and their meat would be cooked over open fires by the women from the restaurant at the centre in Biryogo; they would also cook huge pots of rice and vegetables. Beer and sodas would be supplied by Fran?oise, who would keep them cool in large aluminium tubs filled with iced water that would be kept out of the way in the section under the building that was still waiting to house a generator. Several of the Girls Who Mean Business would be on hand to serve the drinks and food, and Thérèse, Miremba, Eugenia, Titi and Jeanne d’Arc would wash guests’ hands and help with serving. The food would not be served until the sun had set, so that Muslims and non-Muslims could eat together.
Assured that there was nothing more that she could do at this stage, Angel looked up from her list and watched the boys watching the video. Moses had drifted off to sleep, and Kamal, the younger of the Mukherjees, was struggling not to do the same. Rajesh was watching with interest, while Daniel kept glancing at Benedict to get a sense of how he should react. As he watched Dian Fossey discover the dead body of one of her beloved gorillas, tears filled Benedict’s eyes. That boy has found something to love in place of his late father, thought Angel: surely he is going to work with animals when he grows up.
In the evening of the day before the wedding, Pius came home from work exhausted. Over dinner he explained that he and a small team of colleagues had just finished putting together an important application for a prestigious—and generous—new award for innovations in renewable energy technologies. Their entry was a bread oven that the university had developed and manufactured, capable of baking 320 bread-rolls every twenty minutes using only a quarter of the wood that a conventional oven used.
“So it will save the forests here, Baba?” Benedict asked.
“It will help, certainly.”
“Then I’m sure it will win the prize.” Benedict was confident.
Pius laughed. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because the oven will make bread to feed people so that they don’t die, and it will also save the forest so that the gorillas don’t die. That is a very important oven, Baba.”
“Eh! You are too clever, Benedict,” said Angel, proud of the boy.
“I hope you’re right,” said Pius. “You know that my job here is to help the university to generate income, to make its own money so that it can keep itself running. Publicity from the award would help a great deal. But the winner will only be announced next year. What’s more important is that we’ll know soon if they want me to stay here for another year.”
“How soon will we know?” asked Angel.
“They’ve promised to let us know by the end of next week. You know that expatriates are here only until Rwandans have qualified to fill the positions that we’re filling now. Apparently, every year at this time the expatriate staff become very nervous and start to whisper about who will have their contracts renewed and who will go home.”
“Are you nervous, Baba?” Grace wanted to know.
Pius laughed. “No, Grace, I’m not nervous. But I’d like to know soon so that I can start to make arrangements. If we’re going back to Dar es Salaam, then we must contact your school there; and if we are going somewhere else, then I need to start researching that somewhere else on the internet.”
“We can go somewhere else, Uncle?”
“Possibly, Titi. The University of Dar es Salaam gave me extended leave, so I can still be away for another couple of years after this one. If they don’t renew my contract here, I’m not obliged to go back there immediately. I’m sure there’ll be other options.”
“What about us, Baba?” asked Daniel. “Where will we go?”
“You’ll come with me wherever I go,” assured Pius. “We’re a family. And, Titi, that includes you.”
Titi beamed. Grace and Faith had styled the section of her hair from her forehead to the crown of her head in neat corn-rows, leaving her hair behind that to stand tall and natural in a halo-effect around her head. Grace’s long hair had been corn-rowed all over, and Faith’s shorter hair had been parted into neat, small squares and tied into little bunches with elastic bands.
“Rajesh and Kamal are going to live in India next year with Mama-Rajesh,” said Daniel, “even if Baba-Rajesh lives here.”
“That’s not going to happen to this family, Daniel,” said Angel. “We’re all going to be together, wherever we are.”
ANGEL cried at the wedding. The entire service was in Kinyarwanda, so she did not understand all of it—although she did understand a lot more of it than she would have at the beginning of the year. But her tears had nothing to do with her frustration at not following the language; they were caused in part by memories of the wedding of her own daughter, Vinas, with its unprofessional cake, and in part by the obligations of her role at this wedding. The mother of the bride was fully expected to shed tears of joy, especially when her daughter looked as beautiful as Leocadie did. Youssou had stitched the pale lemon-yellow fabric with its gold and orange pattern into a separate blouse and skirt. The skirt fitted snugly over Leocadie’s hips then flared out and flowed softly around her gold sandals, and the sleeveless blouse had been tailored to her shape with a scoop neck and with small gold buttons running down the front. The white net veil that had been made by the women at the centre in Biryogo flowed down from a gold alice-band around her shoulders and as far as her waist.
Throughout the ceremony, Beckham sat on Titi’s lap in the front pew, kicking his legs and sucking at a corner of the shirt that the Biryogo women had stitched for him from the remnants of Leocadie’s pale lemon-yellow fabric.
Afterwards, after Pacifique had made them pose at the entrance of the church for photographs, an alarming number of the guests crowded into the red microbus with Pius, Titi and the children, and the wedding party got into Ken Akimoto’s Pajero with Bosco at the wheel and Angel sitting next to him in the front. Angel noticed again—as she had on the way to the church—that it was very easy to climb up into a big vehicle in a skirt that was voluminous rather than straight and tight. Perhaps this was the answer that she had been searching for. She also noticed that Bosco was rather quiet.
“Is everything okay, Bosco?”
“Eh, Auntie!”
Angel could not tell from the side view of his face, as he concentrated on driving, exactly what emotion he was feeling. “What is it, Bosco?”
“Eh, Auntie, Alice’s father has found a scholarship for her in America.”
“Eh!”
“He spent a very, very long time on the internet looking at American universities. He owns an internet café in town, so he was able to search every day at work. Now he’s found a university that will accept Alice and pay her fees and books and everything. That university is very excited about Alice, because they’ve never had a student from Rwanda before.”
“Eh, that is exciting news for Alice, Bosco!”
“Yes, Auntie, for Alice. But now I must find somebody else to love.”
“I’m sorry, Bosco. That is very sad.”
“Very, very sad, Auntie,” said Bosco as he pressed his hand down on the Pajero’s horn to tell the neighbourhood the happy news that he was driving a new bride and groom.
The wedding reception in the yard of the compound was a joyous occasion. Prosper fulfilled the role of Master of Ceremonies with the zeal of a man proclaiming from the pulpit, peppering his speech with quotations from the Bible and even managing—every now and then—to say something light-hearted enough to raise a laugh and a smattering of applause. There was thunderous applause for Angel, though, when Prosper announced how much money was in the bride-price envelope. Of course, in the absence of Leocadie’s parents, that money belonged to the bride and groom—and it would be enough to buy them a small two-roomed house. The house would have no electricity or water, but it would be their own. There were not many young couples who could start their married life so blessed, and throughout the party people continued to approach Angel to congratulate her.
“That is a very fine herd of cows, Mama-Leocadie!”
“Eh, Angel! Those cows have very big horns.”
“Mrs Tungaraza, when our daughters are ready to marry, you are the one who will negotiate bride-price for us!”
“So many cows, Auntie!”
It was only much later, after all the speeches had been made and the tables and chairs had been pushed back so that the dancing could begin, that Prosper succumbed to an overindulgence in Primus and slid quietly from his chair on to the ground beneath the high table. Angel considered simply leaving him there, but in the end she fetched Gaspard, who fetched Kalisa, and together they carried Prosper to the seclusion of his office, where it would be safe for him to remain until morning.
Long before that, just after the sun had set and the guests who were fasting had arrived and the food could be served, Angel’s heart was warmed by the sight of Odile entering the yard with Dieudonné, who was carrying a small boy on his shoulders. She rushed to greet them.
“Hello, Angel,” said Odile. “Don’t worry, we’re not bringing extra hungry mouths to your party! We’ve just come to speak to Jeanne d’Arc.”
“There’s food here for many hungry mouths,” assured Angel. “You’re very welcome. But tell me, Dieudonné, who is this handsome young boy on your shoulders?”
“This is Muto, the boy Jeanne d’Arc has raised. Muto, greet Auntie.”
Clinging on to Dieudonné’s head with his left hand, Muto leaned down and shook Angel’s hand with his right.
“Good boy,” said Dieudonné. “We took him swimming with us at Cercle Sportif this afternoon. Now we want to check with Jeanne d’Arc if it would be okay for him to sleep over at Odile’s tonight.”
Odile smiled at Angel. “He’s made friends with Emmanuel’s children. They taught him how to swim.”
Angel’s heart was ready to burst. Would the next wedding cake she made be for this couple? Would they adopt Muto? She pointed to the far end of the yard where Jeanne d’Arc was pouring water from a jug on to Omar’s hands as he rinsed them over the plastic bowl held by Titi. “There she is. I’m sure she’ll be very happy for you to have Muto.”
As she watched them weaving their way towards Jeanne d’Arc, stopping to greet guests whom they knew and to introduce Muto to them, Angel was approached by Grace and Benedict, both of them looking agitated.
“Mama, please tell him the meat is goat,” begged Grace. “He’s saying it might be gorilla!”
“Benedict? Where did you get that idea?”
“They told me in the Virunga Mountains, Mama,” Benedict answered. “Our guide said people kill gorillas and sell the meat. They call it bush-meat. Sometimes bush-meat is a deer or another kind of animal, but sometimes it’s a gorilla or a monkey.”
“Eh!” declared Angel. “Do you think that I’m the kind of person to kill a gorilla and serve it to my guests?” “I told you, Benedict,” said Grace.
“But are you sure it’s goat, Mama? Did you see the goats being slaughtered with your own eyes?”
Like his grandfather, this boy was somebody who needed evidence rather than mere assurance. “No, Benedict, I did not see it with my own eyes, but I know somebody who did. Come with me and we’ll ask her.”
Angel led Benedict out through the compound’s driveway, where the gate had been left open for the guests to come and go, to the roadside where the women from the restaurant at Odile’s centre in Biryogo were loading plates with meat from their fires and vegetables from their enormous pots. The Girls Who Mean Business were balancing the platefuls on trays and then carrying them down the driveway to the guests.
“Immaculée,” said Angel to one of the women, “this is my son Benedict.”
“I’m happy to meet you, Benedict,” said Immaculée, not pausing in her work for a second. “I’ve already met your sisters, Grace and Faith.”
“Immaculée, Benedict is anxious to know what the meat is that you’ve cooked. He’s seen gorillas in the forests of the Virunga Mountains, and he’s afraid that it is a gorilla that has been slaughtered for this wedding.”
“Eh, Benedict!” Immaculée stopped what she was doing and squatted down on her haunches to talk to the boy. “You’re right to worry about gorillas being killed, because it is gorillas who bring tourists to our country with their dollars. But you’re wrong to worry that this is gorilla meat that we are serving. I slaughtered these goats with my own hands.”
Benedict smiled at her, relieved, and went back to join the other children at their table.
“Thank you, Immaculée,” said Angel. “That boy has some strange ideas. Eh, you ladies are doing a good job here. Don’t forget to save some food for the mayibobo in the Dumpster.”
Immaculée laughed. “They were the first to eat, Angel! Do you think we can cook food just down the road from them and make them smell it for hours before we give them some to eat?”
After the empty plates had been cleared away, the traditional dancers performed again to get the guests in the mood for dancing, and encouraged Leocadie and Modeste to join them. Beckham remained strapped to Leocadie’s back all the time, safely protected from mosquito-bites by the mosquitocide in the veil that covered him. Amina slipped into Leocadie’s empty seat next to Angel.
“Our girls are growing up,” she said, indicating with a nod of her head for Angel to look at Grace and Safiya. Ignoring the dancers, the two girls were focusing all their attention on the young man who was beating the drum. Tall and bare-chested, he stood apart from the dancers, beating out a rhythm for them on a large drum that hung from a strap around his neck to the level of his groin. Without taking their eyes off him for a second, Grace and Safiya exchanged comments and giggled.
“Eh!” said Angel, shaking her head. “Trouble is going to come knocking on our doors very, very soon!”
Later, when the guests had begun to dance to the music that Idi-Amini was selecting carefully and playing through his PA system, Angel observed two other girls looking at another young man in exactly the same way. She went over to join them.
“Thank you for performing here today,” she began, speaking to them in Swahili. “Your traditional dancing is very, very beautiful.”
The girls surprised her by answering in English. “Oh, thank you, Mrs Tungaraza. Thank you for the work. It’s just a pity that not much of our fee comes to us after we’ve paid to hire our costumes and drums.”
“Eh? You don’t have your own costumes?” The girls shook their heads. “That is not good,” said Angel, shaking her head with them. “But I have an idea. You must speak to my husband, because he is the one who is helping KIST to raise money. Perhaps you can persuade him that KIST should buy costumes for you, because you are the university’s official dance troupe. Then, when you perform at occasions like this, KIST can keep some of the money and the rest can come to you.”
“That is a very good idea, Mrs Tungaraza. KIST will soon recover the cost of the costumes and start to earn a profit; and without having to pay for costume hire, we’ll be in a win-win situation.”
“Eh, you’re speaking like a Business student!” observed Angel.
The girl laughed. “Yes, I’m doing Management. But I’m sorry, Mrs Tungaraza, we have not introduced ourselves. I am Véronique, and my friend is Marie.”
Angel shook hands with both of them. “Are you also studying Management, Marie?”
“No, I’m doing Civil Engineering. We’ll both graduate next year, then I’m hoping to go to Johannesburg for a Master’s.”
“Well, your English is very good. I’m sure you’ll be able to study there very easily.”
“Thank you, Mrs Tungaraza. At KIST we follow the government’s policy of bilingualism.”
“Don’t underestimate yourselves, girls,” said Angel. “Actually, you’re multilingual, because you know Kinyarwanda and Swahili as well as French and English. Please, girls, let us not think as Africans that it is only European things that are important. When you two become Ministers of what-what-what in your government, you must set an example to others by saying that you are multilingual.”
“Eh, Mrs Tungaraza!” said Véronique, laughing. “We are not going to become Ministers of what-what-what!”
“Somebody is going to become those Ministers,” assured Angel. “Somebody who has studied at KIST or the National University in Butare. Why not you?”
Véronique and Marie exchanged glances.
“Mrs Tungaraza, you have given us a new idea,” said Véronique. “I have only thought as far as graduating and getting a job in Kigali as an accountant. Now I will think about the possibility of bigger things.”
“That is good,” said Angel. “But the reason I came to talk to you was not to turn you into government ministers. I came to talk to you because I saw you looking at that young man.” Angel nodded her head in the direction of Elvis Khumalo, who was deep in conversation with Kwame.
Once again, Véronique and Marie exchanged glances, this time looking embarrassed.
“He looks nice,” said Marie, shyly.
“Oh, he is a very, very nice young man,” assured Angel, “and I will introduce you to him in a moment. But first I must tell you that he is not a man who likes girls.”
“Mrs Tungaraza?”
“He’s from South Africa,” explained Angel. “I have even met his boyfriend.”
“Eh! He has a boyfriend?” asked Véronique. She looked at Angel with big eyes.
“That is a fashion in America,” said Marie, disappointed. “I didn’t know it had come to South Africa, too.”
“South Africa is very modern,” said Angel. “But let me introduce you to him, Marie. He lives in Johannesburg and he can tell you all about studying there.”
Angel took the girls over to Elvis and introduced them, leaving them to talk. Earlier, Elvis had photographed the wedding cake from many different angles, including from a first-floor balcony, where he had lain on the ground and angled the camera through the railings, under the ropes of the massive tarpaulin that covered the yard. From above, the cake had looked like a giant sunflower. Elvis had taken other photographs during the wedding, of course: photos of the bride and groom, the dancers, the women cooking in the street outside the compound, Angel and Leocadie in their beautiful dresses—but he had concentrated particularly on the cake because that was the part of the wedding that True Love had sponsored. Angel could not wait to receive a copy of the magazine with her cake featured in it. She would be sure to show it to Mrs Margaret Wanyika so that the Tanzanian Ambassador to Rwanda would know that a Tanzanian living in Kigali was famous in South Africa—and also, if the truth be told, so that Mrs Wanyika could see how beautiful a wedding cake could be when it was not white. Of course, Angel would not mention to Mrs Wanyika that the man who had taken the photographs and written the article had a boyfriend.
“Thank you for inviting me, Angel,” said Kwame, whose conversation with Elvis had been interrupted by the introduction of the girls.
“It’s my pleasure, Kwame. I hope this wedding has helped you to believe in reconciliation.”
“Oh, it will take a lot to make me believe in that, Angel.” He smiled broadly. “But I’m pretending to believe in it, just for tonight.”
Angel smiled back at him. “And how does it feel to pretend to believe?”
Kwame considered his answer before he spoke. “It feels good,” he said. “Peaceful. Perhaps that’s how people here get through each day.”
“Eh, Kwame! You just concentrate on feeling good and peaceful. Don’t worry yourself tonight about whether people believe in reconciliation in their hearts or just pretend in their heads to believe in it. Tonight you’re going to be happy! By the way, have you seen what Leocadie and I did with Akosua’s fabric?” Angel gestured at her dress.
“It’s beautiful. Elvis has promised to send me copies of his photos so that I can send them to Akosua. She’ll show them to the ladies who printed the fabric and I’m sure they’ll be very excited.”
“Make sure that Elvis writes down in his notebook the name of that group of ladies. That must be in his article for the magazine. Eh, this is a truly pan-African celebration today! A wedding in Central Africa, organised by somebody from East Africa, cloth from West Africa, a magazine from South Africa. Eh!”
“Ah, pan-Africanism!” said the CIA, who had appeared silently at Angel’s elbow. “That sounds like an interesting conversation.”
Angel introduced Kwame and the CIA, and left them to talk while she steered Véronique away from Elvis and Marie, who were discussing Johannesburg’s nightlife.
“I’d like to introduce you to a very nice young man, Véronique. He is like a son to me.”
“Does he like girls?” asked Véronique.
Angel laughed. “Very much! Now, where is he? I saw him dancing just a moment ago.” Angel scanned the dancers. There was Modeste, dancing with Leocadie, and Catherine’s boyfriend with Sophie. Gaspard was with one of the Girls Who Mean Business, and Ken Akimoto was with another. The drummer from the dancing troupe had attached himself to Linda, who was wearing something very small and very tight. Omar was dancing with Jenna, and Pius was doing his best with Grace. At last Angel spotted the young man she was looking for and, as the song faded, she grabbed him away from Catherine.
“Bosco, I want you to meet Véronique. Véronique, this is my dear friend Bosco.”
The two shook hands, assessing each other shyly with fleeting glances from downcast eyes.
“Véronique will graduate from KIST next year,” said Angel. “She is not one of those girls who want to study overseas. She is going to work in Kigali as an accountant.”
“That is very, very good,” said Bosco.
“Bosco works for the United Nations,” continued Angel. “He has a very good job there as a driver.”
“Eh, the United Nations?” Véronique sounded impressed: it was well known that a driver for the UN earned more than she could hope to earn as an accountant for any Rwandan business.
Angel left the two alone and moved off to where she recognised two men standing at the edge of the party, sipping sodas.
“Mr Mukherjee! Dr Manavendra! Welcome! Are your wives not with you?”
“Hello, Mrs Tungaraza,” replied Mr Mukherjee. “No, my wife is at home with Rajesh and Kamal. There is no one to look after them.”
“Ah, yes,” said Angel. “Miremba is working here tonight. And where is Mrs Manavendra?”
“At home, too,” said Dr Manavendra. “She is fearing germs.”
“Too many germs from shaking hands,” explained Mr Mukherjee. “Very dangerous habit in Rwanda.”
“Very dangerous habit,” agreed Dr Manavendra. “But we came to greet the couple. They look very happy.”
“Very happy,” agreed Mr Mukherjee. “It’s a lovely party, Mrs Tungaraza.”
“Lovely,” agreed Dr Manavendra.
As Angel listened to the two men echoing each other, a voice behind her caught her attention. The words poured a bucket of iced water down her spine.
“I think it’s time you and I had a talk. We’ve been sharing the attentions of the same man, and everybody knows it.”
The voice was Linda’s.
Angel wanted to turn around, but she knew that she could not bear to see the pain on Jenna’s face as she learned about her husband’s infidelity with Linda. Yet she had to turn around, because she had to support her friend. Eh! Why did this have to happen now? It was going to spoil Leocadie’s wedding!
She turned around. Facing Linda was not Jenna, but Sophie.
“Ah, yes,” Sophie said. “But everybody knows that Captain Calixte only came to you because I didn’t want him. I was the one he really wanted.”
“That’s a lie,” declared Linda. “He only asked you to marry him because I was already married! The minute my divorce came through he was knocking on my door.”
Linda and Sophie collapsed into fits of laughter.
Relieved, Angel excused herself from the two Indians and went to look for Jenna. She found her chatting to Ken, who was rather full of Primus.
“When this party’s finished, you must come to my apartment for karaoke,” he said to Angel, rather more loudly than was necessary.
“Thank you, Ken, but I think I’ll be too tired. It’s been a very long day for me!”
“Everything’s been beautiful, Angel,” Jenna assured her. “Ken, I hope you’re going to invite that young man who’s been doing the music to come for karaoke. He’s been singing along, and his voice is great.”
“Good idea,” declared Ken. “Maybe we can use his mikes so that more people can sing.” He moved off rather unsteadily towards Idi-Amini.
“I’m glad I have a moment alone with you, Angel,” said Jenna. “I want to tell you that I’ve made a very big decision.” She looked around her before leaning closer to Angel. “I’m going to leave my husband.”
Angel was surprised—and she was also confused by her own reaction: the end of a marriage was sad, but this news made her feel happy.
“When we go home for the holidays at the end of the year, I’m not going to come back.”
“Eh, Jenna, I’ll miss you! And what about your students?”
“They can read now—enough to carry on without me, anyway. I’ve kept in touch with Akosua by email, and she’s been encouraging me to go back to college and train in adult literacy. When I’m qualified, I’ll definitely come back to Africa—but I’ll come back alone. Don’t tell a soul, Angel. I’m not going to say anything to Rob until we’re back in the States.”
“Of course I won’t tell.”
“Oh, look,” said Jenna, pointing towards the high table. “It looks like Leocadie and Modeste are preparing to leave.”
Angel made her way towards them.
“Thank you so much, Mama-Grace,” said Leocadie, tears beginning to well in her eyes. “I never believed that somebody like me could have such a beautiful wedding.”
Modeste pumped Angel’s hand vigorously. “Eh, Madame!” he said. “Murakoze cyane! Asante sana! Merci beaucoup!”
Angel fetched Bosco—who was no longer talking to Véronique, but assured Angel that he had got her cell-phone number—and organised the guests into a line for the couple to greet them all on their way to the Pajero, where Bosco waited to drive them to the house in Remera where Modeste rented a room.
Most of the guests left soon after that, and the stragglers took up Ken Akimoto’s invitation to end the party in his apartment with the karaoke machine. Angel did not even think about clearing up the yard; there was the whole of Sunday to do that, and several women had volunteered to come and help. With the gate at the end of the compound’s driveway firmly shut, and with Patrice and Kalisa on duty in the street—and Prosper still asleep in his office—everything would still be there in the morning.
She checked on the children and Titi in their bedroom and then slipped out of her smart wedding clothes, wrapping a kanga around her waist and pulling a T-shirt over her head. She made two mugs of sweet, milky tea in the kitchen. Covering one with a plate, she carried both of them out through the entrance to the building and sat down on one of the large rocks next to the bush that bloomed in the dark, filling the night with its perfume. She placed the mug with the plate on the ground and took a few sips from the other.
A group of women’s voices blared from Ken’s windows. Angel caught some of the words: for sure … that’s what friends are for …
Next week she would go with Pius and a group of students on an outing to the Akagera National Park, a game reserve in the eastern part of Rwanda where it bordered with Tanzania. At the end of the following week the entire family would go in the red microbus to Bukoba, where they would spend Christmas with various members of Angel’s and Pius’s families. From there, Titi would go by ferry across Lake Victoria to Mwanza, to visit a cousin and some friends. After that, in the new year, who knew where they would go? Angel thought that she could feel at home wherever they went.
A few minutes later, the lights of a vehicle shone into Angel’s eyes, and the red microbus pulled up outside the building. Pius was back from giving some of the wedding guests a ride home. As the sound of the engine died, she heard a new song in the air: ah, ah, ah, ah, staying alive, staying alive …
She shifted to the edge of the large rock and patted at the space beside her. “Sit with me here,” she said to her husband. “I made you some tea.”
“Oh, that is exactly what I need,” said Pius, settling down on the rock next to Angel and picking up the mug of tea that had been kept warm by the plate.
Sitting in the cool Rwandan night, the quiet of the city interrupted by song and laughter, they sipped their tea together.