Baking Cakes in Kigali

6

EVERYONE AT La Coiffure Formidable!, just a short walk from the compound where the Tungarazas lived, was deeply impressed by the invitation card. It had been passed around from hairdressers to clients and back again, and was now in the hands of No?lla, who took care of Angel’s hair for a discount in gratitude for the good price that Angel had given her on her wedding cake. No?lla ran the tips of her long, delicate fingers over the Tanzanian coat of arms, exploring its ridges and dents.
“In English that’s called embossed,” said Angel, rather more loudly than was necessary over the hum of the hairdryer under which she sat with her hair in green plastic rollers. “That picture is the emblem of my country. Do you see there, in the middle of the shield, there’s a small picture of our flag? And do you see that the shield is standing on top of our famous mountain, Mount Kilimanjaro? There’s a man and a woman holding that shield there on top of the mountain. That’s because in my country women are supposed to be equal with men. And do you see there it is written Uhuru na Umoja, freedom and unity? That’s my country’s motto. It means that we’re all one people, united and free and equal.”
“Eh!” declared No?lla. “You have a very fine country.” Giving the invitation back to Angel, she switched off the dryer and lifted it away from her client’s head.
“We’re trying to be like that here,” said the young woman seated next to Angel who was having long braids woven into her hair by Agathe. “We’re striving to be united and equal. We are all Rwandans now.”
“Exactly,” agreed No?lla, unwinding the rollers from Angel’s hair. “It doesn’t matter if in the past some of us thought we were this and some of us thought we were that. There is no more this or that now. Now we are all Banyarwanda. Rwandans.”
“That is a very fine thing to be,” said Angel, who was always heartened by such talk of unity. But she had noticed that this was usually the talk of groups; it was possible for the talk of an individual away from a group to be quite different. She was grateful when the woman seated on the other side of her, whose hair Claudine was relaxing, changed the subject.
“So tell us, Madame, because we are all anxious to hear. What is it that you will wear to this important party at your embassy this evening?”
“Yes, and who has made it for you?” added No?lla.
Angel laughed. “I’m sure you’re expecting me to complain that Youssou has made a dress that’s too tight for me!” Angel had once re-enacted for the three hairdressers an argument that she had had with Youssou about his tape measure being dishonest. No?lla and Claudine had laughed until tears had rolled down their cheeks, and Agathe—who spoke no Swahili—had joined in when Claudine had translated for her.
“Eh!” said the woman being relaxed. “I’ve heard about this Youssou, although I’ve never been to him. But don’t think that he’s the only tailor in Kigali who makes clothes that are too tight; they all do it. It’s because they want to accuse you of gaining weight between when they measure you and when your dress is ready. Then they can charge you extra for the alterations. You know, my neighbour has taught me a very good trick which you must try. You must take a friend with you when you go to your tailor because you cannot do this trick when you’re alone. When the time comes for the measuring, you must position yourself so that your friend can stand behind you while the tailor is standing in front of you and you are holding your arms up away from your body like the tailor tells you to do. Without the tailor seeing, your friend must slip two of her fingers between the back of your body and the tape measure wherever he measures. So the tailor will write down a number which is bigger, and then when he makes a dress that is smaller than that number, it is the right size for your body.”
A collective eh! echoed around the small salon as the women looked from one to another with wonder on their faces.
“That is a very fine trick,” said Angel. “I wish I had known about it before. But let me tell you another trick that I have discovered. I have found a group of women at a centre in Biryogo who are learning how to sew. You can go to them and they’ll measure you correctly and they’ll sew your dress carefully, and all the time their work is being supervised by their teacher, so it’s good. Okay, they’re not yet experts like the tailors; they cannot yet make a dress from a picture. But if you take them a dress that you already have, they can copy it and make it in a different colour or a different fabric, and they can even make some small additions or changes like adding some frills or making the sleeves wider than they are on the original dress.”
“How are their prices?” asked No?lla, who was now styling Angel’s hair delicately with a wide-toothed comb so as not to destroy the shape of the curls.
“Eh, they’re much cheaper than a tailor,” assured Angel. “They’ve made my dress for tonight’s reception and it fits perfectly. I’m going to look very beautiful amongst all those smart ladies.”
Of course, when Mrs Margaret Wanyika complimented Angel’s dress that evening—as a hostess must—Angel was not going to tell her that it had been made by women who not only prostituted themselves, but might or might not be infected. If she were to do so, she was sure that Mrs Wanyika’s hair would turn white immediately, and an emergency appointment would have to be made at the expensive salon in the Mille Collines hotel. She did not share this thought with the women in this salon, though; Mrs Wanyika was, after all, her customer.
When No?lla walked Angel out of the salon and stood with her in the morning sun for a brief chat before her next client arrived, Angel took the opportunity to ask her about Agathe. No?lla confirmed that Agathe had never been to school.
“Do you think she’d like to learn to read?” asked Angel.
“Of course she would! She’s often said that it’s embarrassing for her when her children come home from school and they want to show her what they’ve written that day. But she cannot go to school herself at her age, and anyway she needs to be at work: she has to feed and educate her children.”
“Do you give her time off for a break every day? Maybe to eat her lunch?”
“Of course I do.”
“Now what if I told you that she could go to school to learn to read during that time every day?”
“What?” No?lla looked sceptical. “Where? How would she pay for it?”
“The school is free and the teacher knows French. Agathe would learn to read in French. It would be nearby, in my compound. She would just have to walk two streets along and then two streets down and she would be there.”
“Agathe!” called No?lla loudly, her voice filled with excitement.
A FEW moments later, Angel was on her way back two streets along and two streets down. She was just passing a half-built house that had never been completed because the people who had planned to live there had not survived, when Ken Akimoto’s vehicle slowed beside her.
“Hello, Auntie!” called Bosco. “Eh! What are you doing walking in the street with such a beautiful hairstyle? A lady with such a hairstyle must travel in a car with a driver.”
Angel laughed. “Hello, Bosco! Are you offering me a lift?”
“Yes, Auntie. I’m on my way to your compound but I can take you anywhere.”
“Thank you, Bosco, I’m on my way home.” Angel opened the door and struggled to climb up into the Pajero without splitting the long skirt that was already straining over her expanding hips. Really, these big vehicles with their high seats were not designed with ladies in mind; it was almost impossible for a lady to remain elegant as she got in. How did the big women in government manage? She must remember to ask Catherine if the Minister she worked with had any tips on how to get in and out of a big vehicle with dignity while wearing a skirt. It was an important thing to know how to do, especially if a television camera might be watching you—or a photographer from Muraho! magazine. Angel thought she might also use the opportunity of tonight’s embassy function to observe ladies’ techniques; there were bound to be many big vehicles there. Fortunately the children always thought it a great honour to be the one chosen to sit up in the front of the Tungarazas’ red microbus, and Angel was happy to sit on one of the seats in the back part that could be entered via a more manageable step.
“I’ve been shopping at the market for Mr Akimoto,” explained Bosco, noticing Angel glancing at the big cardboard box of vegetables in the back as they set off towards the compound. “He’s having guests for dinner again this weekend.”
“I know. I’ll be making a cake for him again. But tell me, Bosco, how is Perfect?”
“Eh, Auntie, she’s a very, very nice baby! She’s quiet and still, not like Leocadie’s baby. Eh, that Beckham can cry! And he’s always hungry or else he’s wriggling around and moaning about something. When Perfect cries, you can be sure it’s not for nothing.”
“That’s the difference between boys and girls, Bosco. But remember that Perfect is still very small. Maybe when she’s bigger she’ll become more like Beckham.”
“No, Auntie, don’t tell me that! I used to think I wanted lots of babies, then I met Beckham and I thought uh-uh, babies are not a good idea. But then Perfect came, and she’s very, very good, and I can see how much Florence loves to be her mother, so I thought again that babies were a very, very good idea. You’re confusing me now, Auntie.”
Angel laughed. “I think you’re confusing yourself, Bosco. You haven’t even met the lady yet who will help you to get all these babies.”
Bosco pulled the Pajero to a stop outside the compound and turned to look at Angel with a big happy smile on his face.
“Bosco?”
Bosco continued to beam.
“Eh, Bosco! Have you met the girl who is going to become your wife? Tell me!”
Bosco looked shyly down at his left trouser leg, where a speck of dirt needed attention. “I have met a very, very nice girl, Auntie.”
“Then you must come in and drink tea with me and tell me all about her!”
“I can’t come now, Auntie. I still have to unpack Mr Akimoto’s vegetables in his apartment and take his crate of empties to Leocadie for sodas for his party, and then I must fetch him from his meeting.”
“Then tell me quickly now, Bosco. Who is this girl that you’ve met?”
“Do you remember that when I came to fetch the cake for Perfect’s christening, I gave a lift to Odile?”
“Eh! Odile! You’re in love with Odile! I was just telling the ladies in the salon about the place where she works.”
Bosco laughed. “No, Auntie, it’s not Odile that I love. When I took her to her house I met her brother Emmanuel and his very, very beautiful wife.”
Angel felt her heart sinking. “Bosco, please tell me that you have not fallen in love with Emmanuel’s wife.”
“No, Auntie!” Bosco tried to look annoyed but he was too busy smiling. “Emmanuel’s very, very beautiful wife has a young sister who is also very, very beautiful. That sister has a friend called Alice. Alice is the one that I love.”
Angel shook Bosco’s hand. “Eh, Bosco, I am too happy! You must bring Alice to meet me soon.”
“Yes, Auntie. But I think Modeste is waiting for you. He is with a man. Perhaps he is a customer.”
The young man with Modeste was indeed a customer. Arriving at the compound, he had asked Modeste in which apartment he might find the Madame of the cakes, and Modeste had reported that Angel was out but would probably be back soon. She had not waited for a pikipiki-taxi at this corner, and she had not gone along the unsurfaced road to where she could catch a minibus-taxi; she had gone up the hill on foot, so she had not gone far. The man had decided to wait. Now he sat opposite Angel in her apartment, dressed in a suit and tie and looking extremely handsome and smart. There was something familiar about him, but Angel could not place him.
“Madame, allow me to present myself to you,” he said in English. “I am Kayibanda Dieudonné.”
The local formality of stating a name backwards with the first name last had initially confused Angel, but she was accustomed to it now. She still found it too uncomfortable, though, to introduce herself to anyone as Tungaraza Angel.
“And I am Angel Tungaraza, but you must please call me Angel. May I call you Dieudonné?”
“Of course, Madame.”
“Not Madame. Angel.”
“Forgive me.” The young man flashed a smile that made him look even more handsome. “Angel.”
“Do I know you, Dieudonné? There is something about your face that makes me think that we have spoken before.”
“We have never spoken, Mad … Angel. Not you and I. But I have spoken to Dr Tungaraza when you have been with him. I’m a teller at BCDR.”
“Eh! Of course!” declared Angel, suddenly able to place her guest. Her husband’s salary was supposed to be paid into his account at the Banque Commerciale du Rwanda at each month-end, but for one or another reason payment of expatriate salaries—in U.S. dollars—was invariably delayed. It was only Dieudonné who could explain the situation clearly in English to Pius’s colleagues from India. Many of the Indians would not deal with any other teller.
“Your English is very good, Dieudonné. I know that your president wants everyone to speak French and English equally now, but that is new; most Rwandans are still learning English, but you’ve already progressed very far in the language. That tells me that you’ve spent much time outside your country.” “You are right, Angel.”
“Then I’ll make tea for us and you can tell me your story while we drink it. Here is my photo album of cakes for you to look at.”
Angel made two mugs of sweet, spicy tea and brought them into the living room on a tray along with two small plates, each holding a slice of pale green cake with chocolate icing. She handed tea and cake to her guest and then settled down opposite him. Dieudonné cut a mouthful from his slice of cake with the side of his teaspoon and tasted it with obvious enjoyment.
“Mm, delicious!” he declared. “But this is not my first time to taste your delicious cake. In fact, I’ve found a picture of the very cake that I’ve tasted before.” He indicated a photograph on the page at which Angel’s album lay open on the coffee table.
“Oh, that one I made for Fran?oise, for one of the parties that was held at her restaurant.”
“I was at that very party, and in fact I was the one who arranged it. My house is in the same street as Fran?oise’s, so I know her place. When I asked if some few of us from the bank could celebrate a colleague’s promotion there, she told me that she could get a cake for us. Never before had I heard of eating cake after chicken and tilapia, but Fran?oise told me it is modern. She said that a cake can say anything that a person wants. This is the very cake that I asked for.” Dieudonné tapped the picture with a slim finger. “In fact, the colleague who was promoted was too, too happy when Fran?oise brought the cake to the table. Eh!”
As Dieudonné spoke he made large gestures with his hands and arms. This was not the usual Rwandan manner, which was calmer and more controlled; perhaps there was no space for big gestures in a very tiny country that had to accommodate eight million people. No, Dieudonné moved his body more like Vincenzo, Amina’s husband who was half Italian. Angel watched him as he took a sip of his tea.
“Eh!” he declared, and took another sip. “I haven’t drunk tea like this since I was in Tanzania!”
“You were in my country?”
“I looked for my family there for almost four years.”
“They were lost?” asked Angel. “Did you find them?”
“They were not there.” Dieudonné took another mouthful of cake.
“You know, Dieudonné, I think you should tell me your story right from where it begins. I’m sure it’s interesting and I don’t want to become confused by starting to hear the story in the middle.”
Dieudonné smiled. “In fact, I could have told you my story last week, and I would still be in the middle of my story and I would not yet know the end. Eh, last week I didn’t even know that the end of my story was going to come this week. But this week I’m able to tell you my story right up to the end.” As he spoke, his bold gestures emphasised his words.
“Okay, Dieudonné, let us leave the end until the end. Start at the beginning, please.”
“Then I must start in Butare, because that is where I was born. My father was a professor there at the National University of Rwanda. I was still a small boy when Tutsis were chased from the university.” He paused, interrupting his story. “Forgive me, Angel, we do not talk of Tutsis and Hutus anymore; we are all Banyarwanda now. But I must use those words to talk about the past because in the past we were not yet Banyarwanda.”
“I understand,” assured Angel. “You can speak freely with me, Dieudonné, because you are my customer and I am a professional somebody. We are confidential here.”
“Thank you, Angel.” Dieudonné cleared his throat and swallowed some more tea. “My father was killed and we fled with our mother into Burundi, but only for a short time because then we fled again, this time to Congo, more specifically the town of Uvira. Eh! There were many refugees there, and there was a lot of confusion. I became separated from my family and I found myself being transported south to Lubumbashi with some other small boys. We were schooled there by nuns. I was a good student, so the Sisters arranged for me to go for secondary schooling with some Fathers at a mission school across the border, in the north of Zambia. One of the Fathers there became like a father to me.”
“Let me guess, Dieudonné. Was that Father from Italy?”
Dieudonné looked startled. “Eh! How did you know that?”
Angel laughed. “The way you make gestures with your arms reminds me of someone I know who has Italian blood from his father.”
Dieudonné thought for a while as he chewed and swallowed another mouthful of cake. “There are ways to father a child even when that child does not have your blood. Father Benedict loved me like the son he—”
“Father Benedict?” interrupted Angel.
“What’s wrong, Angel? Do you know him?”
“No, no, I don’t know him. It’s only that you’re telling me about a man called Benedict who fathered you and he was not your father; meanwhile, I’m mothering a son called Benedict and I am not his mother.”
“Eh?”
“Eh!”
“Perhaps God has moved in a mysterious way to bring me to meet you and order a cake.”
Angel contemplated this idea. “Perhaps. But what can His purpose be?”
Dieudonné laughed. “God will reveal His purpose only when He is ready!”
“You’re right. Please continue with your story, because so far it sounds like a very big international adventure.”
“Okay. So Father Benedict was helping me by making enquiries to try to find my family, although it was difficult. By then many years had already passed since I’d been with them in Uvira. And at the time we became separated I was still small and I didn’t know my mother’s name. You know we Rwandans don’t have a family name; there can be mother, father and six children, and no two of those eight will share a common name. In fact, by the time Father Benedict began to help me, I could no longer remember the name my parents had given me because the nuns in Lubumbashi had given me a new name: Dieudonné. It means God-given.”
He paused in his story to sip more tea and finish the last of his cake. Angel took his plate into the kitchen and cut another thick slice for him.
“So anyway, Father Benedict got news that two girls who might be my sisters were living in Nairobi. By then he had learned that my father had been called Professor Kayibanda at the university, and that my name had been Tharcisse. So he managed to get papers for me with the name Kayibanda Tharcisse Dieudonné, and through the Church I got a scholarship to go and study accounting in Nairobi. I found those two girls, and they were not in fact my sisters. Eh, that was a very sad day for me! Anyway, I stayed in Nairobi for three years until I qualified. In that time I got to know other Rwandans living there, and one of them was convinced that he had met one of my brothers in Dar es Salaam. He said he had even been to my brother’s house in Dar and found him living there with my mother.”
“So of course you had to go to Dar yourself.”
“Exactly. I went to the place where the man who was supposed to be my brother was supposed to be working, but they told me there that he had left some months before. They thought he had gone somewhere inland, but nobody knew exactly where. I went to the place where he was supposed to have lived with my mother, but the people there didn’t know where they had gone.”
“Eh! That was a very difficult time for you.”
“Very.” Dieudonné shook his head. “Anyway, I took a job in Dar doing the accounts for an Indian gentleman’s businesses, and on weekends and holidays I travelled to almost every town in Tanzania. Babati. Tarime. Mbeya. Tunduru. Iringa.” With each town he named, he gestured in the air as if pointing to its location on a large map suspended from the ceiling between them. “Everywhere! I did that for nearly four years, but my family was not there.”
Angel tutted sympathetically as Dieudonné ate some cake and swallowed the last of his tea. She wanted to ask him if he had been to her home town of Bukoba on the shores of Lake Victoria, but she knew it would be wrong to direct his story towards herself.
“Anyway, by that time it was 1995. The genocide here was over, and many Rwandans in exile were coming home. I hoped that maybe my family would be among them, so I came home, too. I went to the UN High Commission for Refugees and gave them all the information I knew. I never heard anything from them until Monday morning this week …” Tears welled up in Dieudonné’s eyes. He reached for a wad of toilet paper from his inside jacket pocket, tore off a length and dabbed at his eyes.
“Forgive me,” he said.
“There is nothing to forgive you for,” assured Angel. “There’s no shame in a man shedding tears. If a man doesn’t cry when he needs to, those tears that have not been cried out can boil in his body until he explodes like one of the volcanoes in the Virunga Mountains. But I’m going to leave you here to cry the tears that you need to cry while I make some more tea for us.”
When Angel came back from the kitchen she saw that her guest had composed himself enough to finish his second slice of cake. Fortunately the cake from which his two slices had come was on the tray that she now carried in from the kitchen, together with their fresh tea. She cut him another thick slice and he held out his plate to receive it without offers needing to be made or accepted.
“Now,” said Angel, settling herself back in her chair and trying to get comfortable despite the restraints of her tight skirt, “tell me about what happened on Monday morning.”
“A lady from the UNHCR telephoned me at the bank. She told me that they had found my mother and one of my sisters.”
“Eh!”
“In fact, they had crossed back into Rwanda from DRC at Cyangugu and they were looking for me. The lady told me that they were on their way to Kigali that very day, and would be reporting to the UNHCR offices by that evening. Immediately I went to my boss at the bank and requested compassionate leave because my family was alive.”
Again tears welled, and again Dieudonné dabbed. Angel found herself reaching into her brassiere for a tissue and dabbing at her own eyes. Dieudonné calmed himself with a sip of tea before continuing.
“I went home immediately and prepared my house for their homecoming. I went to Fran?oise and told her my news, and she agreed to cook tilapia for my family’s dinner and to send someone with it to my house that night. Then I went to the UNHCR offices and waited for my family to come.”
“That must have been a very difficult wait,” said Angel, now extending the use of her tissue to dabbing at some perspiration that was beginning to form on her brow. “After all those years of looking, finally you were going to find them.”
Dieudonné blew his nose. “Yes, it was not easy. They gave me a chair to sit on but I couldn’t sit for more than a few seconds. But when I stood, my legs didn’t want to hold me, and I had to sit. But I couldn’t sit still and I had to stand up. Eh! I was up and down like the panty of a prostitute.”
Angel laughed, and Dieudonné laughed with her. “You must have been very happy and excited.”
“In fact, no,” said Dieudonné. “What I felt most was fear. I was afraid that they had made a mistake and that the people would not be my mother and my sister. And I was also afraid that I wouldn’t recognise my mother. I had been such a small boy when I had last seen her. But in fact, as soon as my mother stepped into the UNHCR compound I knew it was her, and she told me that she had seen my father’s face in mine the very minute that she saw me. I was so relieved! Of course my sister and I didn’t know each other, but we couldn’t stop smiling at each other and crying.”
“Eh, Dieudonné, you have told me a very happy story!”
“Yes. And it’s only this week that it became a happy story. Last week my story would still have been a sad one.”
They drank tea and ate cake in silence for a few moments, both of them thinking about how suddenly sadness and happiness can change places. It was Angel who broke the silence.
“And what about your other siblings?”
“My one brother is late and the other is still lost; we will continue to look for him. My other sister was violated by some soldiers and she gave birth, but the baby was ill and then my sister became ill and they’re both late now.”
Angel heard the word that he was not saying.
He finished his third slice of cake. “So, Angel, I’ve come to order a cake because on Sunday afternoon my friends will come to my house to meet my family and help me to welcome them home. One of my father’s former colleagues from the university will travel here from Butare to attend the party, and he’ll bring his daughter who played with my sister when they were small. That will be a good surprise for both of them.”
“For sure it will be a very happy party. I can make the cake on Saturday and deliver it on Sunday morning on the way to church. If you’re in the same road as Fran?oise, I’ll find your house easily.”
“You’re very kind, Angel.”
Angel laughed. “You may think that I’m kind; meanwhile, I’m curious! I want to shake the hand of the mother and the sister that you’ve told me about in your story, so it’s not a matter of kindness that I’ll bring the cake to your house.”
“Then I must thank you for your curiosity.” Dieudonné reached into a pocket of his jacket and brought out a piece of paper. “Here, I’ve drawn a picture of the cake that I’d like you to make. Down the left side here it’s red, and down the right side here it’s green, and in the middle it’s yellow.”
“Like the flag of Rwanda.”
“Yes, but our flag has a black R for Rwanda in the middle of the yellow. On the cake that R is still there, but it’s part of the word KARIBUNI, which is written going downwards on the yellow.”
“Eh, you are a clever somebody, Dieudonné! This will be the perfect cake to say ‘Welcome home’ to your family!”
Just then Titi arrived back from one of her frequent trips to the Lebanese supermarket to buy flour, eggs, sugar and margarine for Angel. She seemed a little agitated and Angel suspected that Titi wanted to speak to her alone, so she declared that Dieudonné had already been away from his family for quite long enough, and that they should complete the formalities of the Cake Order Form as quickly as possible.
As soon as Dieudonné had left the apartment, Angel went into her bedroom to release herself from her tight skirt. When she emerged dressed in a comfortable kanga and T-shirt, Titi broke the news that she had just been told by Leocadie: Modeste’s other girlfriend had gone into labour. Modeste would go after work at the end of the day to see if she had delivered yet. Very soon the sex of the baby would be known, and that could determine which of the mothers Modeste would choose.
Angel longed to rush upstairs to share the news with Amina at once, but the children would be home from school very soon, and lunch must be prepared for them. Titi put some water to boil in a big pot on the stove and then began to slice some onions. Angel set a smaller pot of water to boil and started chopping some cassava leaves into very small pieces.
“What do you think will happen?” asked Angel.
“Eh, Auntie, I don’t know,” said Titi. “But of course Leocadie wants the baby to be a girl, then Modeste will choose her.”
“Yes. Then Modeste’s decision will be clear. But if the new baby is also a boy, then he will have two girlfriends, each with a baby boy. He won’t know which one to choose.”
“What if the baby is a boy and Modeste chooses his other girlfriend, not Leocadie? Now how will Leocadie feel to see Modeste here guarding this compound every day? Her shop is near.” Titi scooped the chopped onions into some palm oil that she had heated in a frying pan.
“Eh, that will be very hard for Leocadie! Tell me, Titi, have you ever seen this other girlfriend?” Angel put the cassava leaves into the smaller pot of water.
“Yes, Auntie. She came once on a pikipiki to see Modeste when I was talking to Leocadie outside the shop.” Titi now joined Angel in chopping tomatoes and adding the pieces to the pan where the onions were frying.
“And how did she look? Was she pretty like Leocadie is when she smiles?”
“I didn’t see her very well, Auntie, and she wasn’t there long. She came on the pikipiki and the pikipiki driver waited while she spoke to Modeste, then Modeste gave her something.”
“Did you see what it was? Eh, the water is going to boil now for the ugali; I’ll chop these last tomatoes while you see to that.”
Titi measured maize meal into the boiling water and stirred it vigorously.
“We didn’t see, but Leocadie thought it was money. She was angry. She pinched Beckham’s leg to make him cry, and then he cried and Modeste and his girlfriend had to look at us.”
Angel laughed. She added the last of the tomato to the frying pan and stirred the mixture. Checking on the boiling cassava leaves, she said, “That was a good trick. It reminded Modeste about his baby and it reminded the other girlfriend about Leocadie.”
“Yes.” Titi smiled. “And also it showed that other girlfriend that Leocadie had already given Modeste a baby. That girlfriend’s baby was in her belly then, but she was still not yet big.”
“And what happened next?”
“That girlfriend saw us watching her with Beckham, then she said something quickly to Modeste and got back on the pikipiki and left.”
“And Modeste?” Angel sprinkled ground peanut flour over the tomato and onion mixture and stirred it in.
“Modeste went to sit with Gaspard in the shade. He didn’t look at Leocadie again, even though Beckham was still crying.”
“Eh, that is bad! You know, I’m worried for Leocadie. I’m worried that Modeste will simply not choose. Because why should he? If he can have two girlfriends and two babies, why should he choose to have one?”
“Ooh, Auntie.”
“That’s how it is here, Titi. There are more women than men. Many men are late; many men are in prison. There are not enough men for every woman to have a husband. Some women agree to share a husband, because they’ve told themselves that a woman who is without a man is nothing. There are even men who’ve told themselves that, under these circumstances, taking more than one woman is like a service to the community.”
“Ooh, Auntie.”
“But let us not be sad today, Titi. Today I met somebody who told me a very happy story. Come, it’s time for you to go and wait outside for the children’s bus from school. When the cassava leaves are cooked, I’ll add them to the sauce so that it’s ready to have with the ugali. While we’re eating our lunch I’ll tell everybody the happy story that I’ve heard today.”
LATER that afternoon, it was Amina’s turn to hear Dieudonné’s story from Angel. By that time the story had become even happier, because Angel was able to add to it Benedict’s delight at sharing his name with an important character in the story.
Amina had come to Angel’s apartment to help her to dress for the function at the Tanzanian Embassy. At the Tungarazas’ house in Dar es Salaam there had been a full-length mirror on the bedroom wall and a smaller mirror on the inside of one of the doors of the wardrobe. If Angel had stood in a particular place and angled the wardrobe door carefully, it had been possible to see, in that smaller mirror, a reflection of her back view in the mirror on the wall. But all she had in this apartment was a mirror on the bathroom wall that ended at her waist; she could only judge how she looked full-length and from behind through Amina’s eyes.
The fabric of her new dress was royal blue patterned with small butterflies embroidered in gold. The sleeves puffed up and out from the bodice, tapering to a small cuff at the elbow, and a broad row of frills spread out at her middle above a long, straight skirt to create the illusion of a waist. A simple gold chain adorned her neck; small gold hoops hung from her ears; her smart black sandals had kitten heels. She twirled for Amina, who looked at her friend critically before giving her judgement.
“When your husband comes home from work and sees you looking like this, his eyes will jump out of his head and run around the room like they’ve just scored a goal at soccer.”
Angel laughed. “Thank you, Amina. Eh, it’s nice to wear something smart that isn’t tight.”
Amina reverted to their earlier conversation. “When do you think we’ll hear?”
“I don’t know. It depends how long the girl is in labour. Titi will go to the shop when Leocadie opens tomorrow. She’ll come and tell us the news.”
“We must all support Leocadie tomorrow, because if the girl has not yet delivered it will be a difficult day for her. And of course it will be a difficult day for her if the girl has already delivered a boy.”
“Yes,” agreed Angel. “I’ll speak to Eugenia and some of the others, and we’ll form a group and take turns to go and sit with her in the shop. Leocadie has no mother and no sister here to support her; we will be that for her tomorrow.”