“So the following Sunday, me and Immaculée went to the far side of the market. Kagabo had already tucked away his witch’s wares in an old bag woven from fig-tree bark. ‘Hey, you two, follow me, and hurry it up. Do you have my money, and more for Nyamirongi?’ We handed him our hundred-franc bills and off we went, along the track that led down to the village. We soon left it and proceeded along the ridgeline. Kagabo walked very fast; it was as if his huge bare feet hardly touched the grass. ‘Hurry up, hurry up,’ he repeated, over and over again. We struggled to keep up, out of breath. Then we reached a kind of plateau. From there we saw the lake, the distant volcanoes, and on the other shore, the mountains of the Congo. But we didn’t stop to admire the view. Kagabo pointed out a little hut to us, behind a rocky mound, like those of the Batwa people; a white smoke drifted out of it, spreading and mixing with the clouds. ‘Wait,’ said Kagabo. ‘I’ll see if she’ll let you in.’ We waited a long time. We could hear whispers, moans, and high-pitched laughter from inside the hut. Kagabo emerged: ‘Come,’ he said. ‘She’s finally put her pipe down. She’ll happily see you.’
“We ducked to enter the hut. It was very dark and filled with smoke. Eventually we spotted glowing red coals, and behind them, a shape wrapped in a blanket. A voice from under the covers spoke: ‘Come closer, come closer.’ Kagabo motioned for us to sit down; then the covers parted slightly and we saw an old woman’s face, wrinkled, crumpled like a shriveled passion fruit, but with eyes that burned as bright as embers. Nyamirongi, for it was she, asked our names. How she laughed when Immaculée told her she was called Mukagatare, ‘You may not yet be “She of Purity,” but that will come one day.’ She asked the names of our parents and grandparents, then pondered for a moment, holding her little head in hands that seemed so big. Then she recited the names of our ancestors, even those our parents couldn’t have known. ‘You’re not from very good families,’ she concluded, chuckling. ‘But nowadays they say it no longer matters.’
“She turned to Immaculée: ‘So, Kagabo tells me it’s you who wants to see me.’
“Immaculée explained to her that she had a sweetheart in the capital, but that she’d heard, or rather some friends had written to tell her, that they’d seen him with other girls on his motorbike. She wanted Nyamirongi to put a stop to that, to make her sweetheart quit going out with them, so he would be hers, and hers alone.
“ ‘Right,’ said Nyamirongi. ‘That can be arranged. But tell me, have you slept with your sweetheart?’
“ ‘No! Never!’
“ ‘He’s fondled your breasts, at least?’
“ ‘Well, a bit, yes,’ Immaculée replied, bowing her head.
“ ‘And elsewhere, too?’
“ ‘A bit, a bit,’ Immaculée murmured.
“ ‘Right, I see … That can be arranged.’
“Nyamirongi rummaged in the various calabashes and pots that were piled up all around her. She took out some seeds, which she examined for a long while, then selected a few and placed them in a little mortar. She crushed the seeds to a powder, and spat on them, all the while mumbling some inaudible words, and made a thick concoction that she wrapped in a piece of banana leaf, like cassava paste.
“ ‘Here, take this. You’re going to write to your sweetheart – you’re a lycée girl, you can write, even women know how to write these days! The paste will be dry in three days, you’ll grind it to a powder and slip some into an envelope, but don’t forget, before you do that, rub some over your breasts, and the rest. When your suitor opens the letter, he’ll breathe in the powder, and I promise, you’ll keep your sweetheart all to yourself, he’ll stop going off with other girls. Now give me five hundred francs, and he’ll have eyes for you alone, he’ll think only of you, you’ll hold him captive; I give you the word of Nyamirongi, daughter of Kitatire, but you must let him caress you all over, and I mean all over, understand?’
“She picked up her pipe and drew three puffs on it. Immaculée handed her a five-hundred-franc note, which she tucked beneath her blanket. Then she turned to face me:
“ ‘And why did you come? What do you want from me?’
“ ‘They said you control the rain. I want to see how you do it.’
“ ‘You’re too curious. I don’t control the rain: I talk to her, and she answers. I always know where she is, and if I ask her to come or go, and if she feels like it, she does what I ask. You young girls at the abapadri school, you no longer know anything. Back when I was young, before the Belgians and the chief of the abapadri ousted King Yuhi Musinga, they respected me, even then. They knew of my power because it came from my mother, who received it from her own mother, who had received it from her mother, who herself received it from our ancestor Nyiramvura, “She of the Rain.” I lived in a large enclosure at the foot of the mountain, a large enclosure near a watering hole. When the rains were late, and you know what the rain is like, she never knows when she’s due, the chiefs led their cattle to my watering hole, which never ran dry. They brought their young dancers, the intore. And they’d say: “Nyamirongi, tell us where the rain is, tell her to come and we’ll give you cows, jugs of mead, and cloth so you can dress as if you were at court with the King.” And I replied: “First, you must dance for the rain, after your cattle have slaked their thirst; your intore must dance for the rain.” And the intore danced before me, and when they had danced enough, I told the chiefs: “Return to your enclosures, for the rain is coming, she’ll catch up with you before you get there.” And the rain fell on the cattle, on the beans, on the corn, on the taro; it fell on the sons of Gihanga: on the Tutsi, on the Hutu, on the Batwa. I saved the country often, which is why they called me Umubyeyi, Mother, mother of the country. But when the Bazungu gave the Drum to the new King, they chased me from my enclosure, they wanted to hang me, and I hid in the forest for a long time. Now that I am old, I live alone in this Batwa hut. People go to the abapadri to make them bring the rain. But do these whites know how to talk to the rain? The rain hasn’t been to school; she won’t listen to them: the rain does as she pleases. You need to know how to talk to her. So some people still seek me out, like your friend here. And not just about the rain. If you want to know how I talk to the rain and how the rain, if she is so inclined, obeys me, then dance for the rain, dance here before me for the rain. It’s been so long since anyone danced before me for the rain.’
“ ‘Nyamirongi! You can see very well I can’t dance in this lycée uniform, and your hut is much too small, but please, tell me anyway where the rain is now.’
“ ‘Well, if you don’t wish to dance, give me five hundred francs and I’ll tell you where the rain is.’
“I gave her the five hundred francs.
“ ‘Right, you’re a good girl. I’ll show you what I’m capable of.’
She stretched out her right arm and made a fist, but with her forefinger pointing toward the hut’s rounded roof. A long nail stuck out like an eagle’s talon. She moved her arm so that the forefinger with its long nail covered the four points of the compass. Then she drew her arm back beneath the blanket.
“I know where the rain is. She is over the lake, and she tells me she’s coming. Leave now, quickly, run fast before she catches you. I see her, she’s coming, she’s crossing the lake. Give me another five hundred francs if you don’t want to be struck by lightning. You made the rain angry because you didn’t dance for her. Give me five hundred francs and the lightning will spare you.’
“ ‘Hurry,’ said Kagabo. ‘Do as she says and let’s go.’
“We ran and ran down the mountain and down the track. Clouds were massing, rising toward us. Thunder rumbled. Just as we entered the lycée gates, a torrential rain began to fall, and lightning ripped across the sky.”
The girls remained silent for a long while, listening to the obstinate beating of the rain.
“I think that Nyamirongi and the rain have much to talk about,” said Modesta finally. “This rain will never end.”
“She’ll end like
she does every year, with the dry season,” said Gloriosa, “but tell me, Veronica, did Immaculée get her sweetheart back?”
“He came up to see her immediately. The folks in Nyaminombe saw a bike streak past, a huge one like they’d never seen before. It caused everyone to flee, and a little girl broke her pitcher, but of course her sweetheart didn’t turn up at the lycée. They’d arranged to meet in that abandoned shepherd’s shack, near the spring – you know what people do there. Immaculée followed Nyamirongi’s advice, perhaps a bit too closely, I fear.”
“You’re too curious, Veronica,” said Gloriosa. “It will get you into trouble, visiting witches like that. I bet you danced before that witch. Only a Tutsi would dance for the devil. I could tell on you, but I don’t want to cause any trouble for Immaculée. Her father’s a businessman. My dad says he’s generous to the Party, after all. But if that old woman can bring lovers back together, if she can control the rain, then I’ll go see Nyamirongi too: maybe she can take care of a few things in politics.”
Isis
“Listen, Virginia, there’s something I want to tell you. But don’t breathe a word to anyone.”
“You know we Tutsi never reveal our secrets, Veronica. We’re taught to keep our mouths shut. We have to, if we want to stay alive. You know what our parents tell us: ‘Your tongue is your enemy.’ If you think you’ve got a secret to share, you can trust me, I can keep a secret.”
“Well, listen carefully. You know how on Sundays I like to go for a wander up the mountain by myself. You all resent me for it, but I never feel like going to the boutique with the other girls, or to the tailor’s, to find out who’s ordered a new dress. I’d rather be alone, so I no longer have to see all those girls who hate us. When I get up into the mountains, I sit on a rock and close my eyes. There’s no one around, just the twinkling of beautiful stars beneath my eyelids. And sometimes I imagine myself in a happier life, the kind you only get in movies, I guess …”
“Is that all you have to tell me?”
“No, hang on. I’d gone a long way, toward the massive Rutare rocks, so far that I no longer knew where I was. Nobody lives up there. Suddenly, I hear the noise of an engine behind me, clanking like an old jalopy. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, there’s only one vehicle that makes that sound: Monsieur de Fontenaille’s jeep. And sure enough, the jeep overtakes me and screeches to a stop just in front of me. Monsieur de Fontenaille doffs his hat.
“ ‘Greetings, Mademoiselle, you’re so far from the lycée, are you lost? Jump in, we’ll take a little tour in my jeep and I’ll drive you back to the track.’
“I’m scared, my heart’s thumping like it wants to leap out of my chest, so I make a run for it, with the jeep racing after me.
“ ‘Hey, don’t be scared, I wish you no harm. And, anyway, I recognize you, I know who you are. You stood out from the other girls at the pilgrimage. I’ve done portraits of you. Come, I really must show them to you.’
“I’m so out of breath I can’t run any more, and the jeep stops beside me.
“ ‘Yes’, says Monsieur de Fontenaille. ‘Yes, it’s definitely you, the one I spotted, the one I’ve been looking for, the one I need. And it is She who has sent you.’
“He looks at me intently, as if fascinated by my face. I lower my eyes of course, but I sense that my curiosity will get the better of my fear.
“ ‘What do you want with me?’
“ ‘Nothing bad, quite the opposite. My intentions are all good, I swear. I won’t touch you, I promise. Trust me. Hop in, I’ll take you to see my house. Once we get there, you’ll see yourself as you were meant to be. The temple has awaited its goddess for such a long time.’
“ ‘Awaited its goddess?’
“ ‘You’ll see for yourself.’
“My curiosity won over, just as I’d feared.
“ ‘Okay, but you have to take me back to the lycée by six. And no one must see us.’
“ ‘I’ll take you back, discreetly.’
“Slope after slope, the jeep climbed then hurtled down, I don’t know how many times, as it jolted, squealed, and spluttered. A hell of a noise. Fontenaille laughed, watching me all the while. It seemed like the vehicle was driving itself. At last, we reached a dirt path and passed beneath an arch, a bit like on Rwanda Day, but this one was made of iron. I had time to read the sign that said FONTENAILLE ESTATE, and above the inscription, I thought I glimpsed another smaller sign with some sort of Holy Virgin wearing a hat with cattle horns painted on it, like the one Fontenaille showed me later inside his villa. We drove between rows of ill-maintained coffee bushes, then past a series of identical small brick dwellings that appeared to be abandoned. We stopped in front of the large house.
“ ‘Come on,’ Fontenaille says, ‘I’ll give you a tour of the estate and show you what could be yours.’
“I was still a little scared, and I still didn’t understand what he was saying, or what he wanted, but it was too late to back out and I was really eager to know what it all meant. Whatever happens, I thought, I could always find a way to get out of there …
“We crossed the barza and entered the large living room, where a servant rushed up to us with glasses of orange juice. He wore a white uniform with gold epaulettes. Fontenaille didn’t take his eyes off me as I drank my glass of orangeade. Myself, I looked at the antelope horns, the elephant tusks, and the zebra pelt hanging on the wall.
“ ‘Please, ignore all that bric-a-brac, the animal hides, I put them up for people who no longer visit me. These are all beasts I wish I hadn’t killed. Now follow me.’
“We took a long corridor that led to a garden. Behind the bamboo groves, there was a small lake overgrown with papyrus sedge and, farther back, a sort of chapel, but not like one of those missionary churches. It was a rectangular building with columns all around. As I got closer, I saw that the columns were sculpted: they looked like papyrus sedge. Inside, the walls were covered with paintings: on one side there were cows with huge inyambo horns, and warriors like our intore dancers, with an imposing figure in the foreground that must’ve been the King, with a crown of pearls like Mwami Musinga wore. On the other side was a procession of women, young black women who resembled the queens of old. It looked like they were walking behind each other, their faces in profile. They all wore the same tight dresses, bare-breasted; the dresses were transparent, and in the folds you could see the curves of their stomachs, and their legs. On their heads they had these wigs that didn’t look like hair, more like birds. On the back wall was a kind of large Holy Virgin, black as Our Lady of the Nile, dressed like the women on the wall, but painted full face and wearing a hat similar to the one I’d seen at the entrance to the estate: two cow horns and a disc shining bright as sunlight. I felt as if the Lady were looking at me with her big black eyes, like a living person. In front of her, on a dais, was an armchair with a very high back, and gilded like the one the Bishop sits on in the cathedral. On the seat lay the strange hat.
“ ‘Look closely,’ said Monsieur de Fontenaille. ‘Do you recognize her? Do you recognize yourself?’
“I didn’t know how to reply.
“ ‘Look closely,’ he said again. ‘It’s the Lady of the Nile, the real one. Don’t you think you look like her?’
“ ‘So what? She’s black like me. But apart from that? I’m Veronica, I’m not the Virgin Mary.’
“ ‘No, you’re not the Virgin Mary, and neither is She. And if you are worthy, I would like to reveal her true name to you, which is also your own.’
“ ‘My real name, the one my father gave me, is Tumurinde. You know what it means: “Protect Her.” ’
“ ‘You can count on me to fulfill your father’s wishes: you’re so precious to me. But there’s another name I know that is earmarked for you, that awaits you. I’ll explain everything if you come back and see me.’
“I still understood nothing of what he was saying, but I was increasingly curious to know what it all meant, and I answered him b
efore I had time to think:
“ ‘ I’ll return next Sunday, but with a friend. I’m not coming back on my own.’
“ ‘If your friend looks like you, then you can bring her, but only if she looks like you. There’s a place for her, too.’
“ ‘I’ll bring her. But it’s late – you need to take me back to the lycée, and without anyone seeing us!’
“ ‘My old jeep’s not too fond of dirt roads.’
“He dropped me off behind the guest bungalow, just before six, and sped away.”
“What a strange story,” said Virginia. “That white guy is really crazy. Who are you going to take with you?”
“You, of course. You’ll come to the white guy’s place with me next Sunday. We’ll play goddess. You’ll see, it’s like being in a movie.”
“Don’t you think it’s risky? You know what whites do with girls they lure back to their places. Whites think they can get away with anything out here, that they can do everything that’s forbidden back home.”
“Not at all, you’ve nothing to fear. Fontenaille is just a crazy old guy. But he kept his word, didn’t lay a finger on me. I’m telling you, he thinks I’m a goddess. It’ll be the same with you. You know what whites say about the Tutsi. I looked it up in the library. His chapel, in the garden, it reminded me of something. I searched through some books on ancient history, and his chapel isn’t Roman, or Greek: it’s Egyptian, from the time of the Pharaohs, the time of Moses. Those columns and paintings are just like what I saw in the book. He’s crazy, he had an Egyptian temple built for himself in the garden. And the painted woman with cow horns on her head, I saw her in the book too, she’s a goddess: Isis, or Cleopatra, like I saw in a movie.”
Our Lady of the Nile Page 5