With this mystery in mind I ate two small green bananas and fed Monty the scraps from dinner, then went outside to try and ride my yellow tricycle in the yard.
My ankle felt strong in its bandage, so I rode the trike in my blue-and-white pyjamas over the bumpy, compacted dirt. I mapped the shadowy outlines of the scraggly cypress trees that dwarfed the back of the yard and cruised past the gate leading to the flower fields and the forest beyond. With an injection of pace, I cycled past the opposite gate, which opened to Mother's side garden, then swerved in and out of the two brick outhouses – one for storing wood, another for doing the washing – my trike riding smoothly on their concrete floors. I parked beside Joseph's mud-and-banana-leaf lookout and went in. The sour smell of his body hung in the air, and his sleeping bag was still warm.
In the opposite corner of the yard, Celeste was heating water for my bath on the charcoal stoves under the corrugated roof. She was blind in her left eye, so she couldn't see me. I spied on her. She leant heavily against her fimbo and adjusted her red headscarf. Celeste was always fidgeting with her clothes – pulling at her T-shirt or adjusting her wrap. Nothing seemed to fit her heavy, lopsided body.
When my watch read seven o'clock, I got off my trike and followed Celeste into the house. We both hobbled – her flip-flops slapped on the ground. In the back lobby I moved Monty's food away from him to see if he'd get up, but his injury was worse than mine and he stayed on his blankets, still licking his wound.
I went to the kitchen, crouched down and picked up a toy car. I rode it steadily over the linoleum towards the living room, which was also our dining room. There I rose to my knees, trying to avoid burns from the rugs, and bumped the car against the textured paint on the walls. At the entrance to the bedroom corridor I ran the car at speed down the red concrete floor. I loved the whirr of the wheels and the crash and thud as it hit the end wall.
Entering our black-and-white bathroom, I found Celeste rescuing a cockroach from the tub with her bare hands – she put it out the window. I never understood how cockroaches managed to squeeze their big hard bodies through the tiny slots in the plughole. Having spared the cockroach, she sloshed the pails of hot water into the tub and helped me undress.
“T-shirt off,” she said, as she did every morning, and flashed me her gummy grin. Celeste knew to touch only my clothes, not me. I didn't like to be touched. With me undressed, she popped my clothes in the laundry basket and left me to bathe.
I got in and washed, paying attention to the dirt from the forest underneath my finger and toenails. When my wash was complete, I played a makeshift guiro on my ribs – my favourite thing to do in the bath – then waited for Celeste to return and wrap a towel around me. Celeste always wrapped me up, but I rubbed myself down.
“Off you go,” she said when I was done, pointing towards my bedroom.
There were very few toys in my room – some Lego bricks, marbles and a couple of storybooks about wicked queens and poisoned maidens – and it wasn't at all comfortable, with its concrete floor, cast-iron bed and scratchy woollen blankets. A brick fireplace sat opposite my bed, and a small window, framed with ivy and purple hydrangeas, overlooked the front garden, which was full of Mother's favourite yellow roses and buddleia bushes.
Every morning when I was bathing, Celeste laid out my clothes in my bedroom. That day was “blue shorts and red T-shirt” day, the same clothes I wore every Monday. But on my return from the bathroom I didn't find my blue shorts and red T-shirt: instead I found a set of khaki shorts and T-shirt with matching socks on the bed. I could smell polish from the new brown leather shoes that Celeste had lined up precisely on the floor. Something was wrong.
I walked down the corridor, past Father's room, to Mother's, went to her bed and folded back the bedclothes.
“What is it, Arthur?” she said, still half-asleep. She rubbed her eyes, the colour of green marbles, and sat up, attempting to flatten her long hair. I took her hand and led her to my room. Mother didn't grumble: she knew something was wrong too.
In the bedroom I pointed at the clothes, suggesting that Celeste had made a mistake, and please could Mother fix it. But instead of resolving the problem, Mother crouched down in front of me and clutched my upper arms. It hurt.
“Arthur, it's time,” she said.
Time for what, I puzzled, as Mother took off my towel and dried my hair roughly. That hurt even more. “It's time for you to start school, Arthur, with all the other boys and girls.”
As she tugged the T-shirt over my head and manhandled me into the shorts – which made me want to burst – all I could think about was: Which boys and girls?
I didn't know any boys and girls. I only knew Mother and Father. And Sebazungu and Joseph, Celeste and Fabrice the cook. And what would I do at school? Chop heads off chickens? Eat cabbage?
I sat on the corner of my bed and thought about this while Mother got dressed.
At twenty past eight Mother led me away from my bed. She took me by the hand and walked me down the five steps of our bungalow, my stiff khaki shorts rubbing against my thighs. We went down the grass path to the hydrangea bushes at the bottom of the garden, where giant purple and pink blooms separated Mother's formal English garden from the orange road and the bright-red anthuriums that grew wild in Rwanda. We turned out of the garden gate and headed towards the three mud shops clustered at the side of the road.
Mother said “Muraho” to the ladies, who chuckled and stopped stacking their yellow bread and brown avocados.
“Bonjour,” they replied.
Those women loved to laugh when Mother and I passed by. The whites of their eyes were yellow, matching the fabric they wore and the bread that they sold. I looked back at the footprints my new shoes had made in the orange dirt. Even the make of the shoe, embossed in the sole, was visible. A fine set of tracks, I thought.
“What have I told you about going into the forest?” Mother said once we were past the laughing ladies. Mother always asked me questions, even though she knew I wouldn't talk. I hadn't spoken since I was three, when I used to speak to Monty and my bug collection – but even that felt uncomfortable. One day, when I thought I was alone and was whispering to Monty, I discovered Mother listening at the door. It felt as if someone had sneaked up on me and shouted very loudly, making my heart race. Since that day I never spoke again – not once. The mere idea made me feel my throat would close up and I'd stop breathing.
“It's not for playing in, Arthur. It's not safe for little boys.” I knew it wasn't safe – the snares were deadly. Sometimes Mother had to shoot trapped animals that were too badly injured to survive.
“Hopefully last night taught you that.” She looked at me as if she was both cross and sad. “If it wasn't for Sebazungu finding you, who knows what might have happened.” She paused to clear a tickle in her throat.
I thought about the elephants, and the red-haired witch, and Sebazungu, who should have been at home with his wife and young son. What was he doing in the forest? I wanted to ask, but couldn't.
“It could have been you in that snare, Arthur, not Monty. People get caught in wires or are strangled to death in antelope nooses – or even fall into pit traps. It could have been much worse than just a sprained ankle. Do you understand?” I nodded. Mother was right, but I thought she'd be thankful I'd rescued Monty. She wasn't.
Past the shops and a little way round the bend was a low building made of brown bricks. There were lots of noisy, barefoot children running outside. It was the school. I hid behind Mother's skirt. I'd have preferred to be in the forest with elephants than in school among all those children.
“Be good, Arthur,” said Mother, after she'd weaved me through the compound and into a dingy room that smelt like our hen coop. As Mother spoke to the teacher, I sat on a low wooden bench with a higher one in front of it that served as a desk. I swung my legs and looked at my new shoes and wriggled about to avoid wooden splinters prickling my thighs. I watched a fluttering butterfly at the window
as it tried to escape and thought about how I might do the same. Then I looked at the picture of President Habyarimana hanging at an angle on the peeling wall, and at the dirt floor and the huge blackboard with no chalk. A map of Rwanda was taped to the wall, and looked as if it could fall at any moment.
“I'll pick you up at lunchtime,” said Mother, kissing my forehead and leaving me alone with the teacher. His skin was as rough as the potholed road to town, and his eyes sagged so badly you could see the pink tissue beneath them.
He rang a handbell. The children rushed in and pushed past, which made me want to scream. They sat bunched together like the swallows on the clothesline in our yard. I pretended not to notice their curious looks or muffled giggles. The teacher, in his black shirt, made them recite être and avoir, and the “three times” table. I did it all in my head, it was easy.
Midway through the morning I became aware of someone looking at me from behind. I didn't like that. I stared into the distance and began to groan quietly. Time slowed, sounds faded, soon I was in a world of my own, far away from the schoolroom, teacher and children. I was lost in one of my “absences” – something that happened a lot when I was little – and remained so until Mother came back at lunch.
She said to the teacher, “If he comes often enough, he'll get used to it. He may even begin to talk.”
But the teacher disagreed: he scrunched up his brow and shook his head, saying, “He can't come back. He's disturbing the other children.”
Mother sighed, took my hand and led me away.
“Typical,” she muttered, marching me out of the compound, round the bend and past the shops, her blond hair flaring out behind her. She didn't say “Muraho” to the ladies, but they laughed all the same, their yellow eyes following us up the road. Mother pressed onwards, retracing our steps towards home.
As Mother grumbled about the teacher, I felt my new shoes cut into the backs of my heels. I could feel blood seeping into the leather, but I knew better than to groan any more. Too much groaning frustrated Mother and caused her to go to her room, close the door and only come out when Father came home. I didn't like it when Mother did that, so I kept quiet, despite the pain.
“Your Father will be back this evening,” said Mother, closing the gate. I felt safe again in the quiet of the garden, and knowing Father would be home in time for dinner cheered me up. Being with Father would make me forget the pain of school and my new shoes.
* * *
“We'll have to devise a plan,” said Mother over supper.
I picked at the goat stew Fabrice had made. He'd served it with pasta, which made Mother angry.
“When will he learn?” she asked. “Rice or potatoes are fine, but pasta?” She let out an enormous sigh. I thought it was terrible of Mother to complain about Fabrice's food: Mother couldn't even cook beans. She placed her elbow on the plastic tablecloth and leant her cheek on her fist. “Well?” she said, raising her eyebrows at Father.
“Well what?” he asked, looking up with his big brown eyes with lashes as long as a giraffe's. My toes skimmed the antelope skin under the table as I looked out at the dusk creeping over Mother's side garden. She didn't answer. “I'll have a word with him.”
“Not about the pasta,” she said. “About school!”
The mention of school made me drop my fork in the stew. I fished it out.
“Arthur, for goodness’ sake!” sighed Mother.
“Don't worry, Arthur,” said Father, handing me a clean fork. “We'll sort things out.”
He placed his hand gently on my shoulder. We ate our goat stew and pasta in silence.
* * *
Later that evening Mother and Father quarrelled in the lounge. I pressed my ear to the living-room door and heard Mother say: “He should go to boarding school in England.”
“I was sent to England when I was five years old,” said Father, “and no son of mine will be subjected to the same thing.”
“But he'll be ostracized here. He's not like other children.”
I didn't know what “ostracized” meant, but I knew I wasn't like the other children: I was a different colour.
“You should teach him yourself,” said Father.
“As if I've nothing else to do.” Mother's voice sounded closer. The door opened and I lost my balance, toppling onto her shoes. “Arthur, go to bed!”
I went to my room and thumbed the worn pages of the family photograph album, while Mother and Father continued to squabble in the lounge.
“Maybe if you spoke to Dr Sadler again, things would be easier for you,” said Father. Dr Sadler was the doctor who gave monthly pills to Mother and pink medicine to me when I was sick. Mother saw Dr Sadler a lot.
“There's nothing wrong with me, Albert. It's him.”
Mother must have thought I was asleep. I wasn't. I sat on my window seat, wide awake, my cheek pushed against the glass. Moonlight stole in and fell over the faded pictures, illuminating silent, dead family members.
“And Dr Sadler doesn't know what's wrong with him anyway,” continued Mother. “He doesn't know what causes his absences. And he has no clue why Arthur's so afraid to talk: all he can come up with is something to do with anxiety, some sort of phobia.” I thought about the elephants. “There's nothing wrong with him physically, Albert. Maybe in England someone could help. A psychiatrist.”
“Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Martha. He's still young.”
“But he's not safe here. What was he doing in the forest, for Christ's sake? Anything could have happened. If it wasn't for…” Mother didn't finish. I heard the chink of the decanter on her glass.
“Let's just be thankful he got home safely,” said Father, and he went out to the front veranda for a cigarette.
I heard the shuffle of Mother's slippers on the red concrete floor coming towards my room. The door opened a little, creating a shaft of light.
“It's time for you to go to bed,” she said, shutting the album. She scooped me up, laid me down and told me the story of my birth. When she was finished and the thought of elephants rampaging through the house was well and truly embedded in my mind, she kissed me on the forehead and left, closing the door tightly shut. Then I heard her close her door too. Father was still on the veranda.
The arguments about my schooling went on for weeks. Mostly they ended with Mother going to her room, Father smoking a cigarette and me sitting alone in the dark.
In the end it was Father who won.
3
1986
Some time after my sixth birthday, Mother began to teach me at home. She refused to “act as schoolmarm” and told me, “You're not going to spend the next twelve years with your nose in a textbook.” A timetable was devised, more by trial and error than by design.
On Mondays I'd help the gardeners in the fields. Depending on what time of year it was, I'd learn to plant seeds, thin saplings, weed, deadhead and harvest. I got to know how to treat insect infestations and how crops differed from dry season to wet. Mother always used to tell me that being taught about life on the plantation was “far more useful than anything you'll find in a book”.
Tuesday was the day we went to town. Mother called this “life skills”, which mostly meant shopping – something she was particularly good at and something I particularly loathed.
On Wednesday mornings, Mother made me study art, which I liked about as much as shopping, but Wednesday afternoons were great. That was when Father stopped wearing his tie and serious expression and replaced them with a short-sleeve shirt and smile. He'd come home from the city at lunchtime, put his briefcase in his study and close the door saying, “Where's my boy?” What I loved best about those afternoons was the time we spent together in the garden and the stories Father told about Rwanda.
Thursdays I spent with Sebazungu learning Kinyarwanda and French and, from time to time, some maths. Sebazungu was the foreman. He was a solid man with dark, pock-marked skin and a scar on his jaw that looked like a new moon. He spoke English, Fre
nch, Kinyarwanda and Kswahili, he knew how to drive, and Father said his brain was quicker than a calculator. The gardeners were afraid of him, but Mother adored him. Without Sebazungu the plantation wouldn't have been running at all. He knew it better than anyone, even Mother. When Mother came to Rwanda, it was Sebazungu who showed her how the plantation worked – and when I was six he did the same for me.
“You'll learn more from him than from me,” Mother would tell me whenever I was dragging my feet. “Before you know it, you'll be doing long divisions in your sleep, speaking four languages and managing the plantation yourself.” I didn't see how. Sebazungu spoke so quickly and switched between languages so often that I was lucky to understand my own name, let alone anything else.
Fridays were for English, and one Saturday a month everyone had to do voluntary work, because of a government directive. I was made to do the chores Fabrice and Celeste would usually do, such as washing floors and peeling potatoes. Saturdays were the worst – and Sundays weren't much better.
Sunday mornings were spent in church, since religious education was not Mother's forte. “I'll leave it to the priest,” she used to say, even though the priest preached in Kinyarwanda and I barely understood him. And then in the afternoon the gardeners and their families would come for music and dance in the side garden, so that I might learn “a little bit of culture”.
That was how my weekly routine went and, on the whole, it suited me just fine.
* * *
“Life is an education!” Mother told me for what felt like the hundredth time that year, as we thundered down the potholed track on our way to Gisenyi.
The flowers bounced around in buckets in the back of our pickup – pink and red blooms blazing through the orange-and-green countryside. Sebazungu squatted in the back, guarding every stem. Monty sat on my lap, his paws resting on the open window. Since the incident in the forest he'd lost one of his hind legs, making him much less fun – but I loved him all the same. At that time he was my only friend. Mother told me he'd come with her from England. She said when Father was working in the city she'd talk to Monty, because “no one else for miles around understood English”. It never occurred to me when I was six that Monty couldn't understand it either.
The Flower Plantation Page 2