“Where’s Mama?” he asked, apprehension returning.
“She went to work. None of us wanted her to go, but what could we do?” Auntie said. “Uwimana, come eat with us. So late, and we are just now sitting down.”
“I would love nothing more, but I have a school full of hotheads to attend to. I told Jean Patrick to stay home and rest.”
With a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, Jean Patrick recalled his missed race. “The burgomaster! What will happen now?”
“He won’t run away. Not when he can hear the jingle of gold coins in his pocket,” Uwimana said.
“NOW YOU SEE I’m right,” Uncle told Jean Patrick after breakfast. “Habyarimana is no change. Buhoro, buhoro, little by little, the Hutu will pick us off until we have all disappeared.”
“Papa taught me to believe in Habyarimana,” Jean Patrick said without conviction. “Those RPF shouldn’t stir up trouble.”
“Listen to you! Like Radio Rwanda. Habyarimana is no different than Kayibanda, the first murderer to lead this country. If you ask me, nothing has changed since the Hutu rose up against the mwami and drove him out. That’s when they started killing us, and they haven’t stopped. The RPF are our people. Their families did not leave by choice; they fled for their lives. They’re not stirring up trouble, Jean Patrick. They just want to come home.”
The familiar discomfort stirred in Jean Patrick’s chest. Who was right, Uncle or Papa? The question tired him more every day. He struggled to his feet and put on Papa’s felt hat. It was only now, after the start of the war, after the insults and name-calling had started, that he began to understand that a felt hat and a herder’s staff branded a man as Tutsi, a keeper of cattle, despised by the Hutu tenders of the fields.
“I’m going to look for Mama.” Jean Patrick took his crutches and closed the door on Uncle’s protests.
JEAN PATRICK FOUND her on the road above the lake, a basin of fruit on her head. He waved, and she hurried toward him.
“Mana yanjye—what happened to you?”
“Hutu Power broke my foot. I’ll be OK.”
“I can see it hurts—let’s rest a minute.” They sat together on a log and shared a mango.
Jean Patrick looked out at the lake, its rippled surface. “Why did you never tell us about your parents?”
Mama’s eyes shone with the same coppery flecks as Mathilde’s. “Your father thought the troubles were over for the Tutsi when Habyarimana seized power. Habyarimana promised the Tutsi equality. He said there would be no more killing, and we believed him. The past was the past, Papa said—why frighten the children?”
“And what do you think?”
“Papa loved you so much. He just wanted to protect you.”
They sat and watched the fishermen, tiny flakes of pepper floating in the soup of the lake. A peaceful silence took over Jean Patrick’s mind. He was worn out from thinking, tipping the balance back and forth, one side winning and then the other. The tumult was too much.
Mama refastened her scarf and placed the ingata on her head. Even this small thing made of twigs to cushion a load was a crown when she wore it. “Are you ready to go, my son?”
“Yes. I think I can walk now.”
She balanced the basin on top of the ingata, and they started up the slope. A breeze chased purple clouds across the sky, a hint of rain swelling their bellies.
“What about Papa’s parents? Did the Hutu kill them, too?”
“The Hutu. You sound like your uncle now. Not every muhutu is a killer. Your grandmother died of cancer. Grief killed your grandfather two months after.”
“Do you agree with Papa? Is the killing in the past?”
Mama let out a long sigh. “I don’t know. When talk heats up Hutu heads and they start burning our houses, I have to question.” She faced Jean Patrick, her gaze even with his. “You are old enough to understand now. A shadow of fear follows me wherever I go. I can’t remember a time since I was a young child when both my eyes slept at the same time.” She stepped across the rutted earth, the basin steady atop the ingata. “We can never forget we’re Tutsi, eh? It’s a curse but also a blessing.” She leaned her weight into the hill as if pushing against an opponent.
Jean Patrick found a rhythm of movement, swinging crutches and then body to keep up with her. The padding on the handles had started to unravel. In the distant fields, women bent and swayed with the rhythm of their hoes, their pagnes splashes of bright color in the gray air. The countryside quivered, everyone waiting for rain.
IT DIDN’T TAKE long for government forces to beat back the RPF or for Jean Patrick’s bruises to fade and then disappear. But the incidents of January 23 had changed Gihundwe for good. The peace at school, like peace in the country, remained an uneasy one. Jean Patrick’s bones were healing. After four weeks of rest, two weeks of slow running, and three weeks of hard training, Coach finally said, “I think you’re ready for the burgomaster now.” Practice had ended, and he was rubbing a minty-smelling oil into Jean Patrick’s legs. “Your rebel friends are making everyone’s life hard.” As if it had been the RPF that had burst into class, turned the afternoon upside down, and stamped on his foot.
A fierce breeze drove trash across the track. Itumba, the long rainy season that spanned Easter, knocked at the door, and rain weighed heavily in the air. Jean Patrick looked over at the scratched-out oval of dirt where he felt most at home in his life. “Me, I don’t care about the RPF,” he said. “I care about racing. About winning.” He waited for Coach to dismiss him, hoping the subject of politics was finished.
A thin smile cracked Coach’s face. “I like you, Jean Patrick. You’re a true warrior. I believe you will show the burgomaster what you’re made of.”
“Eh? You think I’ll win?”
“I would guess that you have only just begun to win.” Coach helped Jean Patrick to his feet. “OK. For now, we’re done.”
Released, Jean Patrick jogged toward the truck. Daniel was there, waiting for him. His baby fat had disappeared; he was trim and solid now, a real footballer. At least their friendship had endured. Jean Patrick knew he could always count on that.
ON THE WAY to the dorm, Daniel grabbed his arm. “Walk a minute, eh?”
“What’s up?” Jean Patrick fell into step beside him.
Daniel walked toward the chapel. “It’s probably nothing,” he said, “but I wanted to tell you what I heard. There’s been talk of expelling all Tutsi from school.”
Jean Patrick swallowed. “Who told you?”
“No one. I overheard the priests talking.”
The path seemed suddenly close and dark. “Headmaster won’t allow it. Neither will Coach. He knows it’s me the burgomaster’s coming to see.”
“I heard Coach’s voice,” Daniel said. “He was there with them.”
“You heard wrong.” Rage bubbled in Jean Patrick. Mama had been right when she said being Tutsi was a curse. About the blessing, he was not sure. But he knew one thing: in Rwanda, it was the Hutu who drank the cream from the igicuba—the milk jug. If Imana were to come down this minute and ask him to choose his ethnicity, he couldn’t say for sure how he would answer.
“You didn’t let me finish,” Daniel said. “Coach also said it was because of you—only you—that he couldn’t agree.”
EIGHT
JEAN PATRICK CLOSED HIS NOTEBOOK and packed up his books. Father had kept the class late, so he needed to hurry or Coach would be mad. Charging toward the door, he nearly collided with Coach.
“I thought I’d find you here,” Coach said. PLAY TO WIN, his football jersey proclaimed. He handed Jean Patrick a pair of green Nikes.
“What are these for?” They felt as light as air in Jean Patrick’s hands.
“Try them.”
Jean Patrick slid a foot into the sneaker. His body tingled. When his toes hit something hard, he tried to force them in. Coach laughed. “I forgot. There are socks inside.”
The socks were thin and soft, and with them on,
Jean Patrick’s feet slipped into the shoes as if gliding through butter. He took a few prancing steps. The soles were springy; he almost lifted from the ground with his toe-off. The sides held his heels like a firm hand.
“Ko Mana. Like this I could run forever.” He fingered the strange fabric, waiting for Coach to explain.
Coach explored a space between two teeth with his toothpick. “They’re yours, so get used to them. I’m taking the team to a meet in Butare next month—a real track. I want you to qualify for Nationals next June in Kigali. This year you’ll have some true competition. It’s going to be staged as a two-country meet: Rwanda and Burundi.”
Nationals—the first solid step on Jean Patrick’s Olympic journey! He tasted the word like the first bite of a pastry, savoring the anticipation of the sweet in the center, made all the more tempting by the thought of extra competition.
Coach squeezed Jean Patrick’s toes. “A little big, but at the rate you grow, they’ll be fine by next week.” He relaced the shoes. “If your Inyenzi friends would stop making trouble, it wouldn’t be such a struggle to get you recognized.”
“The RPF are not my friends. I don’t want to make trouble. I just want to run.”
“Let’s go,” Coach said. “You ride with me. We have a few things to discuss.”
ON THE WAY to practice, Jean Patrick flexed and pointed his foot inside the Nikes—his Nikes. First the shoes and now this place of privilege in the cab. Each time Jean Patrick stole a glance, Coach’s eyes were on him, Coach’s mouth frozen in his familiar, inscrutable grin. He knew Coach was toying with him, knotting the silence into a noose of anticipation. Coach sped up and passed a slow-moving car, barely avoiding a head-on collision with a bus. Jean Patrick’s stomach rose to his throat, and instinctively he gripped the door handle. The bus horn’s wail followed them.
Coach laughed. “I want you to concentrate on middle distance—specifically the eight hundred. Those stocky Hutu guys have more muscle in one calf than you have in your body, and they’ll pound you into the ground for shorter sprints. You won’t slow down no matter what I tell you, so you’ll fade for anything longer, but with your determination, twice around the track you can hang on and win.”
A cloud of dust swirled toward them, and Jean Patrick rolled up the window. It was Umuhindo, the small rainy season, and in the hills, women planted beans, peas, and maize. Through the haze he picked out the treetops along the far wall of the stadium, then the rusty galvanized panels over the seats, the walls, and finally the white line of a goalpost. The afternoon sun stained the brick walls pink. Even after four years, this first glance caused an extra little skip of his heart.
“I like the eight hundred, but I can win any distance,” Jean Patrick said, touching a fingertip to his Nike swoosh for luck.
Coach parked the truck in a scrap of grass. “Let me do the thinking, eh? You just run.” He took his stopwatch and whistle from the glove box, committed to forward motion before his foot hit the ground. The rest of the runners headed toward the track, feet swishing through the dirt. “I’ll make a star out of you yet, but you have to listen to me,” Coach said. “Have patience.” He aimed a finger at Jean Patrick’s chest. “Buhoro buhoro ni rwo urugendo.” Little by little a bird builds its nest. Jean Patrick recognized the proverb with a chill. It was the same one Uncle had quoted to describe how the Hutu would wipe the Tutsi off the face of the earth.
THE TRACK AT National University in Butare was an oval of swept red dirt encircling the football field. Unlike the track at Kamarampaka Stadium, the ground was leveled, wide enough for eight runners. Spectators filled the seats and sprawled across the grass. When Jean Patrick saw the crowd, adrenaline rushed through him. Runners jogged around the track, practiced drills and sprints down the straights. Jean Patrick watched a group of girls doing lunges and high-step drills in the grass.
“You look like you’re trying to figure out their genus and species,” Daniel said.
“Eh! I think some of them could beat you.”
“Watch it! Come on—let’s warm up together.” A dot of pink tongue showed between Daniel’s front teeth.
Isaka caught them. “Hey-yey-yey! Can you believe this? I wonder how many runners in the fifteen hundred.”
They took an easy jog around the track. In the final turn, a group of runners closed in behind them. Two came up on either side, and two stayed back, on their heels. Jean Patrick nodded a greeting, but in response they only tightened the space between them. The hairs on the back of Jean Patrick’s neck stood up.
“Something smells,” one of them said. He made a show of sniffing the air, and they all laughed. “You’re Nkuba Jean Patrick, right? That Inyenzi from Cyangugu who thinks he’s a star?”
Jean Patrick quickened his pace. “Maybe I am a star.”
“You tea pickers think you’re good, but you haven’t been to Kigali.”
“Don’t talk stupid,” Daniel said. “I come from Kigali.”
The boy sprinted in front and spun around. “Take a good look, Inyenzi,” he said. His nose veered crookedly to one side, giving his face an off-balance look. “It’s all you’ll see of our faces. After this, it will be our backsides you look at.” The four hooted and peeled off down the straight.
Isaka chased them down and ran on their heels. Jean Patrick started after him.
“Stay focused,” Daniel said. He pulled Jean Patrick back. “They want to wear you out. They’re scared.”
“They should be. If I am Inyenzi—cockroach—I have six legs to run on.” Jean Patrick turned his attention to the girls on the track. “Who goes first, them or us?”
SIX RUNNERS REMAINED for the eight-hundred-meter final, including three of the four Kigali boys. Crooked Nose mouthed something to Jean Patrick that he didn’t catch. Jean Patrick looked him in the eye and laughed. Coach had instructed him to let Crooked Nose win the semifinal. It took every ounce of willpower, but he did it. Now came revenge.
The starter banged the blocks. Jean Patrick drove off the line, rising quickly from his crouch. He expected to leave the boys behind, but after breaking for the inside, the four of them ran together. Crooked Nose crowded him toward the pole. Jean Patrick stepped it up. Two boys faded from the pack. Jean Patrick surged again, but Crooked Nose hung on.
By the second turn, Crooked Nose had fallen back, and Jean Patrick ran alone. His chest compressed; his lungs burned. When he passed the start for his second lap, Coach was on the sidelines, stopwatch strangled in his hand, signaling, Slow down! Dig, Jean Patrick told himself, but his legs would not respond. His new Nikes felt more like lead than air, and his rhythm began to desert him.
By the time he reached the back turn, all three Kigali boys had caught him. They hemmed him in, sprinting when he sprinted, blocking him when he tried a move. They approached the final turn. Jean Patrick looked for an opening and prayed he had the strength to take it. Shoulders jostled. Elbows bumped.
A hundred meters to go. Let’s go, Jean Patrick chanted in his head, as if there were two of him, the runner of his spirit, who could fly, and the runner of his body, who teetered on the edge of surrender. Crooked Nose forced him to the edge of the track. Shouts and cheers came from the crowd in waves, like echoes down a long hallway. Beads of sweat from the boy’s face splashed Jean Patrick’s arm.
With the finish line in sight, Crooked Nose drifted to the outside. It was little more than a suggestion, but Jean Patrick saw it as a ray of sun piercing the forest canopy. He pounced and started his kick. A second wind filled his lungs. He leaned across the line a half step in front and then collapsed to heave in the dirt. Coach ran toward him.
“Nkuba Jean Patrick. One forty-eight eleven,” the announcer bellowed. “A new school record by almost two seconds. All top three runners break the old record.” The stadium erupted.
“Victory lap!” Coach shouted. “You’re going to Championships in June!”
Jean Patrick wobbled to his feet and jogged around the track. He was giddy and trembl
y, utterly spent. Half of him basked in the wild cheers, everyone standing and clapping—this was the unity Papa believed in—but the other half could not shake the heat of the Kigali boys’ breath, still stinging his neck.
JEAN PATRICK TOOK the steps two at a time. The electricity of his win, his record-breaking time, still buzzed in his head. Daniel and Isaka stood on the top stair. They were shouting something, but it was lost in the ruckus. “I’m just coming,” Jean Patrick shouted back. He heard footsteps close behind, and he moved aside to let the person pass. The Kigali boys surrounded him.
“You think you can just win like that?” Crooked Nose said.
“I think I did,” Jean Patrick said. He searched for an opening. Momentum carried the crowd upward. He shifted his gym bag on his shoulder to use as a weapon if he had to. Daniel and Isaka struggled to reach him, fighting the opposing tide. Jean Patrick knew it would be better to keep quiet. A Tutsi boy could not stand and fight in a crowd. He had learned that lesson well at Gihundwe, but he could not let it go.
“Hey—we don’t want trouble,” Daniel said from the step above.
Crooked Nose grabbed him by the jersey. “You look Hutu to me. Are you Hutu?”
“I’m Rwandan,” Daniel said.
“You’re icyitso—a traitor.” Crooked Nose shoved Daniel full force into Jean Patrick.
The force sent Jean Patrick spinning. Daniel grabbed his wrist but could not hold on. The concrete step rose to meet Jean Patrick’s face. The last sensations he had before darkness engulfed him were of warm blood and gritty bits of tooth against his tongue, the dizzy relief as Coach lifted him like a baby into his arms. Coach was saying something about Championships, but the words drifted by without sticking. Jean Patrick let himself sink into the waters of Lake Kivu, Uncle’s face like a drowned, dark moon above him.
Running the Rift Page 6