by Gaël Faye
“It’s very simple.” Donatien beamed back at him, his mouth dripping with crocodile fat. “Burundians lack taste, and whites squander their money. Take the French, for example, they have no idea how to eat frogs, they make do with the legs!”
Over by the hi-fi, Armand was teaching Ana a few Soukous dance steps and she was rising to the challenge: she had wrapped a pagne round her bottom, which she wiggled without moving the rest of her body. The drunks were cheering her on. In the middle of the dance floor, under a spotlight besieged by insects, the twins’ parents were dancing slowly, cheek to cheek, as if recalling their courting days, back in the time of the mythical Grand Kallé Orchestra. The twins’ mother was much taller and stronger than their father. She led the dance while he kept his eyes closed and contorted his mouth like a dreaming puppy. The sweat made their shirts cling to their backs and traced circles under their armpits.
Papa exuded cheer and good humor. Unusually for him, he was wearing a tie and a hint of aftershave, and the way he’d combed his hair back brought out his irresistible green eyes. As for Maman, she shone in her flowery chiffon dress, sparking desire in men’s gazes when she walked by. On more than one occasion, I even caught Papa staring at her. He was sitting on the edge of the dance floor, discussing business and politics with Armand’s father, who had just returned from Saudi Arabia and was, by the look of things, making up for a long month without alcohol. Next to them, Armand’s mother, dressed like the most pious woman in the parish, was nodding every now and again and raising her eyebrows at regular intervals. It was impossible to tell whether she was agreeing with her husband’s views about Burundian coffee prices stabilizing on the London stock exchange, or saying her rosary for the umpteenth time that day.
I was stretched out on the hood of our pick-up, flanked by Gino and the twins, when we spotted Francis gate-crashing the party. We couldn’t believe our eyes! No sooner had he set foot on our land than Maman gave him a bottle of Fanta and offered him one of the plastic chairs under the rubber fig tree.
“Gaby, can you see what I see?” thundered Gino. “You’ve got to tell that shithead where to go! He has no business at your birthday party.”
“Nothing I can do about it, bro. My dad said the party was open to everyone from around here.”
“But not Francis! He’s our worst enemy!”
“Maybe it’s time to make peace with him,” said the twins.
“You bunch of total losers,” Gino fired back. “We don’t do deals with scum like that, okay? We’ll smash his ugly face in—that’s what he deserves!”
“He’s not hurting anyone right now,” I said. “Let him drink his Fanta and we’ll keep watch.”
Nobody took their eyes off Francis, even for a second. He pretended not to see us, even though he was surveying everything as he checked out what was going down at the party. He scanned the guests menacingly, jiggling his left leg nervously. When he stood up to fetch another drink, he had a brief chat with Maman, who kept turning and pointing in my direction as if explaining that she was my mother. Then he flitted from group to group, striking up conversations here and there, including with Gino’s dad.
“I don’t believe it, he’s talking to my old man! What the hell have they got to say to each other? I bet he’s trying to get the lowdown on us, Gaby. He wants to pass himself off as one of us!”
We watched his little game at a distance. Innocent invited him to share a beer, and minutes later they were slapping each other on the back like old pals.
It was past midnight now, and the alcohol and darkness were having a combined effect. A group of shirtless French guys, in Buja on Voluntary National Service Overseas, played leapfrog in front of the drunks from the cabaret, who were entertained by the performance. A young man groped inside his girlfriend’s bra as she chatted with her friend about the moral-education classes she taught at Stella Matutina primary school. An elderly Burundian man with a white beard, nicknamed Gorbachev on account of the birthmark on his forehead, stood on one leg reciting the courtly poetry of Pierre de Ronsard in front of the parrot’s cage. A group of children was playing with the tame monkey that belonged to an effeminate Flemish man who lived on our street. He went by the name of Fifi and always wore African wax-print shirts as well as boubous, flowing wide-sleeved robes. There were stacks of empty crates piled up on the kitchen steps. Prothé and Donatien kept making trips to return the bottles to the kiosk.
Time for us to find a quiet corner, safe from parental eyes, in the unlit area of the garden. We sat down on the grass, under the Chinese lanterns hanging from the rubber fig, to share a few cigarettes and watch the dance floor unobserved.
“Shit, I just trod on something!” said Armand, who had brought along the two bottles of Primus he’d hidden in the pot of tree ferns when no one was looking.
“Yeah, watch out, that’ll be the crocodile carcass,” I explained.
During a lull in the music we heard the unmistakable sounds of chewing and swallowing: Madame Economopoulos’s dachshunds were tucking into the remains of the reptile. They enjoyed their feast in the dark, while my friends raised a toast to my eleventh birthday.
“The dachshunds are gonna be flaunting it when they tell the other mutts they’ve eaten croc!” said Gino.
We all burst out laughing, except for Armand, who had noticed someone heading toward us.
“Who’s there?” I asked, stubbing out my cigarette and waving the smoke away.
“It’s me, Francis.”
“There’s nothing for you here,” answered Gino, leaping to his feet. “Get lost!”
“It’s a neighborhood party, and I live in the ’hood! Gotta problem with that?”
“Look, this is my friend’s birthday, and you’re not invited. Like I said, get lost!”
“Who’s talking? I can’t see. Is it Kojak’s son? The Belgian with the comb-over! What’s your name again?”
“Gino! And watch what you say when you’re talking about my parents.”
“Your parents? I only mentioned your dad. Where’s your mum, by the way? I’ve seen everyone’s parents except for her…”
“Come to spy on us?” said Armand. “Doing a spot of detective work, hey, Columbo?”
“You’re not wanted here,” insisted Gino. “Clear off!”
“No! I’m staying!”
Gino head-butted Francis in the stomach. They stumbled over the disembowelled crocodile in the dark. The dogs started barking. I ran to warn the grown-ups while Armand hid our cigarettes and beers. Jacques and Papa arrived with a torch. When they finally managed to separate Francis and Gino, all smeared with crocodile innards, Francis was accused of deliberately starting a fight. Papa caught him by the collar and threw him off our land, at which point a humiliated Francis lobbed stones at our gate and shouted that we’d all pay for this. Our little gang gave him the finger and then, to loud whooping from the group of French volunteers, we turned round and dropped our trousers. Everybody was falling about laughing, until Jacques shouted: “Shit, where’s my Zippo? Where’s my Zippo?”
All thoughts turned to Francis.
“Catch that bastard!” shouted Gino.
Papa sent Innocent after the interloper, but he came back empty-handed.
Then all at once the incident was over and the party became more raucous than ever. It was in full swing when a power cut struck. A hundred dancing guests came to an abrupt halt, letting out a frustrated “Argh!” Drenched in sweat, they clamored for music by stamping their feet, clapping their hands and shouting my name: “Gaby! Gaby!” Everyone was up for a big night, and a power cut wasn’t going to stop them. Someone suggested carrying on with live music. So Donatien and Innocent rushed off to fetch some neighborhood drums, the twins brought their father’s guitar, and one of the French guys produced a trumpet from the trunk of his Renault 4. There was a pleasant breeze now and a light rain sta
rting to fall. In the distance, on the shores of the lake, we could hear the dull rumble of thunder rolling closer. This worried some people, especially the older folks, who recommended bringing the tables and chairs inside, ahead of the downpour. Donatien cut short the discussion by improvising some brakka music on the guitar. Tentatively, people began to move their bodies once more, against the black sky streaked with flashes of lightning. The crickets fell quiet as the drunks clinked their bottles with forks and teaspoons to accompany the melody. When the trumpet joined the guitar, it was welcomed by catcalls and whoops of joy. The guests were dancing with even more passion now. The dogs were terrified, tails between legs, flattening themselves under the tables just seconds before the sky exploded—sound-effects, lightning, gusts of wind, the patter of rain. The drummers came onstage, picking up the pace. Nobody could resist the furious tempo of the music, which possessed our bodies like a friendly spirit. The trumpet was doing its breathless best to follow the rhythm set by the percussion. Prothé and Innocent were hitting the stretched drum skins in unison, their faces strained, a thick sweat sliding down their gleaming foreheads. The guests’ hands marked the beat as their feet hammered out the counter-rhythm, kicking up the heavy dust in the yard. The music was as quick as our throbbing temples. The banging and beating swelled as one. The wind swayed the garden treetops, making leaves quiver and branches rustle. There was electricity in the atmosphere, as the smell of damp earth filled the air. A warm downpour was about to come crashing down on us, so violently that we would run to collect the tables, chairs and plates before sheltering under the safety of our barza to watch the party dissolving in a cloudburst. Soon my birthday would be over, but I chose to savor that minute before the rain came down in earnest, that taste of suspended happiness as music joined our hearts and filled the space between us, celebrating life, this moment in time, the eternity of my eleven years, here, beneath the cathedral that was the rubber fig tree of my childhood, and deep down I knew that everything would turn out all right.
15
Summer holidays are worse than being unemployed. We stayed put for two months, kicking our heels and trying to fill our dreary days. Even if we messed around and had a laugh from time to time, there was no getting away from it: we were as bored as Komodo dragons. It was dry season, so the river was down to a trickle and it was impossible to cool off. The mangoes, which had shriveled in the heat, were unsellable, and it was too far for us to head over to the sailing club every afternoon.
It was a relief when school started again. Papa dropped me off in front of the senior entrance. Now that I was eleven, I attended the collège, where I was in the same class as all my friends: a new life was opening up. Some days we had lessons in the afternoon as well, and I was discovering new subjects like science, English, chemistry, and art. Those students who spent their holidays in Europe or America had come back with the latest clothes and shoes. At first, I didn’t pay any attention. Gino and Armand couldn’t stop talking about it, though, with shining eyes. Their envy was becoming an obsession, and eventually it infected me, too. It wasn’t about marbles and marble-runs anymore, but clothes and brands. The trouble was, in order to keep up you needed money. Lots of money. Even if we’d sold all the mangoes in the neighborhood, we still couldn’t have afforded those trainers with the mini-swoosh on them.
The students who had returned from over there—from Europe and America—described shops that were several kilometers long and overflowing with trainers, T-shirts, sports shirts, and jeans. There was nothing in Buja, apart from the empty Bata shop window in the town center, and the stalls at Jabe market offering Reebok Pumps with holes in them and designer brands with spelling mistakes. We felt deprived of all the things we’d done without up until then. And this feeling changed something inside us. We harbored a silent hatred toward those who did own such things.
Donatien, who had noticed my new attraction to brands, as well as my readiness to bad-mouth certain rich kids at school, informed me that envy was a deadly sin. But his attempts at moral education went over my head and for once I preferred talking to Innocent, who had ways of getting hold of the accessories I was dreaming of, and on the cheap, too. At school, groups were formed according to new criteria: those with desirable possessions kept to themselves.
Armand was the exception to the rule. He didn’t have any designer clothes or aftershaves, but he made everyone laugh. This meant he could cross the invisible barriers separating one student from another, and be accepted by the in-crowd. Gino grew bitter when he saw Armand in the playground, close to the refreshment stall, chatting with his new friends.
We talked about it one evening as we lay on the night watchman’s mat, under the frangipani tree, dipping slices of green mango into coarse salt.
“Armand is a traitor. He barely talks to us at school, but as soon as he’s back home we’re best friends again.”
“He’s making the most of it—you’d do exactly the same. He’s been invited to all the parties since the beginning of term. The twins even told me he kissed a girl on the mouth!”
“For real?! With his tongue?”
“Dunno, but at least he’s having a laugh, while we’re stuck here. If I could do the same, I’d be there like a shot.”
“What, so you’re ashamed of our band of brothers, too?”
“No, it’s not like that, Gino. You’re all my best friends for life! But nobody takes any notice of us at school, and the girls won’t even look at us, so—”
“One day they’ll see us for who we are, Gaby, and then everybody’ll be afraid of us.”
“Why d’you want them to be afraid of us?”
“To be respected. Get it? That’s what my mother’s always saying. What matters is being respected.”
I was astonished to hear Gino mention his mother. He never spoke about her. He kept a pile of envelopes with red, white, and blue edges on his bedside table, and sent them to her every week. But he never went to Rwanda, even though it was only a few hours’ drive away, and she didn’t come to Bujumbura, either. He said the political situation made things impossible for the time being, but that one day, when peace returned, he would go and live in a big house in Kigali with both his father and mother. It made me sad to think that Gino was ready to leave me, the band of brothers, and everyone on our street. Like Maman, Mamie, Pacifique, and Rosalie, Gino dreamed of the big Rwandan homecoming, and I pretended to share in that dream so as not to disappoint them. But secretly, I prayed for nothing to change, for Maman to come back home to us, for life to return to the way it used to be and stay like that forever.
As I was reflecting on all this, I heard a rumbling noise. Gino’s father came running out of the house like a frightened sheep, shouting at us to stay away from the walls and follow him to the middle of the garden. We stood up thinking it was a joke—he looked like he’d just seen a ghost—and trotted after him, without realizing what had just happened. It was only when, a few minutes later, we saw the wide crack zigzagging down the length of the garage wall that we understood. The earth had moved imperceptibly beneath our feet. It did so every day in this country, in this corner of the world. We were living on the axis of the Great Rift, at the precise spot where Africa fractures.
The people of this region mirrored the land. Beneath the calm appearance, behind the facade of smiles and optimistic speeches, dark underground forces were continuously at work, fomenting violence and destruction that returned for successive periods, like bad winds: 1965, 1972, 1988. A glowering, uninvited ghost showing up at regular intervals to remind us that peace is merely a brief interlude between two wars. This poisonous lava, the thick flow of blood, was ready to rise to the surface once more. We didn’t know it yet, but the hour of the inferno had come, and the night was about to unleash its cackle of hyenas and wild dogs.
16
I was sleeping lightly when I felt something touching my head. At first, I thought that rats were c
hewing my curly hair, the way they used to before Papa laid traps all over the house. Then I heard a whisper: “Gaby, are you asleep?” Ana’s voice woke me. I opened my eyes to find our bedroom plunged in darkness. I tugged the curtain with my left hand and a beam of moonlight shone through the mosquito net at the window, lighting up my little sister’s petrified face.
“What can we hear, Gaby?”
I didn’t understand. It was a peaceful night. There was just an owl hooting in the false ceiling above our bedroom. I sat up and waited, until I heard several dull cracking noises ring out in increasingly rapid succession.
“It sounds like gunfire…”
Ana slid into my bed and huddled against me. An agonizing silence followed the noise of explosions and machine-gun fire. Ana and I were alone in the house. Papa often spent the night away from home, and had done so for a while now: Innocent claimed that our father was seeing a young woman who lived in the street behind his house, in the modest district of Bwiza. It made me sad because, since they’d started talking again, I still had hopes of Maman and Papa getting back together.
I pressed the button that lit up my watch: the dial said two o’clock in the morning. With each explosion, Ana clung to me even more tightly.
“What’s happening, Gaby?”
“I don’t know…”
The shots petered out toward six in the morning. Papa still wasn’t back. We got ourselves up and dressed before making sure our schoolbags were ready. Prothé wasn’t at home, either. We laid the breakfast table out on the terrace. I made the tea. The parrot was doing somersaults in his cage. I went to see if there was anyone about on our land. Not a soul. Even the zamu had disappeared. We ate and cleared the table. I helped Ana do her hair. Still nobody. I kept an eye on the gates, since Papa’s workers were due. Nothing stirred. We sat on the front steps waiting for Innocent and Papa to turn up. Ana took out her maths book from her schoolbag and started reciting her times tables. Not a single pedestrian or car on the road in front of the house. What was going on? Where was everybody? We could hear snatches of classical music nearby. It was Thursday, but the neighborhood was more dead than on a Sunday morning.