Our Lady of the Nile

by Scholastique Mukasonga

  “Well, I’m sure Sisters have periods just like every woman. I’ve got a cousin who’s with the Benebikira Sisters. She told me they also hand out sanitary pads, just like we get.”

  “All I know is that I don’t want to turn into my mother, and be treated the way she’s treated. Ever since my father became a Hutu again, he’s ashamed of her. He hides her. She can no longer leave the house. It’s no longer she who serves beer to my father’s friends, those who still come visit. He calls for my little sisters. She’s lucky if he lets her go to Sunday Mass: early Mass, not High Mass. He’s even tried to find her a great-great-great Hutu grandfather, a Hutu chief, an umuhinza. Everyone had a good laugh when he came out with that. My older brothers hate their mother, it’s because of her they’re not like everyone else, that people call them mulattos or Hutsi. Jean-Damascène, who’s a solider, says it’s because of her that he’ll always remain a lieutenant, because they’ll never trust him. I’m the only one who still speaks to her, kind of in secret, like with you. As far as I’m concerned, she’s neither Hutu nor Tutsi, she’s my mother.”

  “Maybe one day, there’ll be a Rwanda with neither Hutu nor Tutsi.”

  “Maybe. Hey, watch out, there’s Gloriosa; hope she didn’t see us together.”

  “Quick, go and be with your best friend, Modesta, off you go …”

  The Gorillas

  There were two things that set Monsieur de Decker apart from the other teachers. The first was that he was the only one with a wife. The others were either single – the young Frenchmen, for example – or else they had left their wives behind in Europe, although perhaps their spouses had simply refused to follow them into these remote mountains. In some sense, Madame de Decker was the only true white woman at the lycée of Our Lady of the Nile, since Mother Superior and Sister Bursar were not entirely women, nor entirely white: they were nuns. They couldn’t marry, they would never have children, they no longer had breasts. They’d lived so long in Rwanda that their color had been quite forgotten. They were hybrid creatures – neither men nor women, neither black nor white – that Rwandans had grown used to, just as they had grown used to the landscape of coffee plantations and cassava fields the Belgians had forced them to plant under their rule. As for Miss South, she must’ve been a woman but she wasn’t white, but red, and she was English.

  Monsieur de Decker’s wife didn’t always live with her husband in the bungalow. She spent long spells in Kigali, but one always knew when she was here, because the laundry servant would hang Madame’s clothes under the awning behind the villa. The lycée girls hovered around the bungalow to admire Madame de Decker’s wardrobe. They were astonished at the number of dresses hanging there, counting and comparing them; some even tried to fix in their memory the design they liked most, so they could get the tailor to copy it. Madame de Decker’s arrival at the lycée was always highly anticipated, and the subject of fierce discussion. The girls were relieved to finally see a real white woman at Our Lady of the Nile, and the proof: Madame de Decker was blond.

  Monsieur de Decker’s other particularity was his lessons. He was our natural science teacher, and his class was quite the Noah’s Ark – every animal on the planet paraded through it. He projected slides onto a white sheet pinned to the blackboard, without much in the way of commentary, showing us the Peruvian llama, the Tibetan yak, the Arctic polar bear, the Friesian cow, the Saharan dromedary, the Mexican jaguar, the Ngorongoro rhinoceros, the Camargue bull, the Indian tiger, the Chinese panda, and the Australian kangaroo. Then came that great day, at the end of the first term, when Monsieur de Decker showed us his own photos, those he had taken up in the bamboo forest, beyond the clouds, on the slopes of the volcanoes, almost at risk to his own life: pictures of gorillas. When it came to gorillas, you could never get him to shut up. Monsieur de Decker was the one and only expert. Much to his wife’s despair, he climbed Mount Muhabura every weekend to observe them; this year, he had even sacrificed his trip back to Belgium for the long vacation. It was as if he’d always lived in their midst. He was most at ease with the dominant male who had let him count his females. A mother gorilla whose young he’d tended remained duly grateful. However much the guides might caution prudence, try to hold him back, Monsieur de Decker had no fear of these great apes. He was familiar with the character of each member of the group, could predict their reactions, and was able to communicate with them. Indeed, he no longer even needed a guide. The gorillas, he felt certain, were Rwanda’s future, her treasure, her opportunity. They needed protecting and their habitat needed to be expanded. The whole world had entrusted Rwanda with a sacred mission: to save the gorillas!

  Monsieur de Decker’s pronouncements on the gorillas drove Goretti to a fury.

  “What!” she exploded. “Again it’s the whites who discovered gorillas, just as they discovered Rwanda, Africa, and the whole planet! What about us Bakiga, haven’t the gorillas always been our neighbors? And our Batwa, were they afraid of the gorillas when they hunted them with their little bows and arrows? You’d think the gorillas only belong to the Bazungu now. They’re the only ones who can see them, or get close to them. They’re in love with the gorillas. The only interesting thing in Rwanda are the gorillas. All Rwandans must be at the service of the gorillas, tending to their every need, caring only for the gorillas, making them the entire focus of their lives. There’s even a white woman living among them. She hates all humans, especially Rwandans. She lives with the monkeys all year round. She built her home among the gorillas. She opened a health center for them. All the whites admire her. She receives a lot of money for the gorillas. I don’t want to leave the gorillas to the whites. They’re Rwandans too. We can’t leave them to foreigners. It’s my duty to go and see them. And I’ll go. The teachers say the monkeys are our ancestors. That enrages Father Herménégilde. It’s not what my mother says. According to her, the gorillas were once people who fled to the forest, she doesn’t know why, and forgot to be humans. They spent so long in the forest they turned into hairy giants, but when they glimpse a young virgin, they remember how they were once human and try to abduct her, but the females, their legitimate and naturally jealous mates, prevent them by force.”

  “I saw that at the movies,” Veronica interrupted, “a huge monkey holding a woman in his hand …”

  “I’m not talking about something in the movies. I heard it straight from my mother. Anyway, I must go visit the gorillas. We can’t leave them to the whites; even a white woman who lives only for them. Does anyone want to come with me? We’ll go during Christmas break. I’m sure my father will help me. Who wants to come along?”

  They all turned to Gloriosa for her reaction, but she just shrugged her shoulders, burst out laughing, and muttered a few inaudible words, clearly unflattering to the Bakiga. The surprise came from Immaculée:

  “I’ll go with you if I can. If my dad gives me permission, count me in.”

  Gloriosa glowered at Immaculée for having just betrayed her in front of the whole class.

  “I’ve had enough of cruising around with my boyfriend on his bike,” said Immaculée. “I want something more exciting; then at least I’ll have something to tell him: I’ll be a girl who’s scared of nothing, I’ll be an adventurer!”

  At the start of the January term, Goretti and Immaculée’s inevitable account of their adventures on Gorilla Mountain was eagerly awaited. The “explorers,” as Gloriosa mockingly referred to them, played the reluctant celebrities, saying little. “They got no farther than Ruhengeri,” jeered Gloriosa, “drinking Primus and eating grilled chicken while gazing at far-off Mount Muhabura in the clouds.” But one night after dinner, Goretti invited the whole class up to her room to hear the tale.

  “So, did you see the gorillas?”

  “You bet we saw them. We even touched them, or nearly. My father helped us, even though he’s very busy at the moment: there’s a lot of people who come see him at Ruhengeri military base; even Immaculée’s dad, who drove us to Ruhengeri, he
needed to speak to my dad … So my father gave orders for us to be kitted out: a jeep, four soldiers, provisions. We wore camouflage gear, and the soldiers laughed so much when they saw Immaculée in high heels that they gave us these huge combat boots same as they’ve got: you’ll see in the photos.

  “Anyway, we left at dawn, driving up the volcano in the jeep until we reached the forest. That’s where we were supposed to meet the guides, but they weren’t there. We spent ages waiting for them. The soldiers put two tents up: one for them, one for us. Finally, the head guide turned up, looking rather embarrassed. He said: ‘Madame, the white woman doesn’t want her gorillas disturbed. She says they don’t like Rwandans, that they’re frightened of them. They know it’s the Rwandans who kill them. It’s only whites who know how to handle them. That’s what my boss says. So I can’t take you there, or she’d fire me, and I don’t want to lose my pay: I can already imagine my wife yelling. I can’t stop you going any farther, but I won’t be your guide.’ He scampered off as fast as he could.

  “We were heartbroken at the white woman’s forbidding us to visit our gorillas. Then one of the soldiers spoke to the sergeant. And the sergeant came and told us that maybe there was a way we could still go see our gorillas. The solider knew the Batwa, and where their camp was. If we gave them something, they would certainly agree to guide us to the gorillas. We got back in the jeep and drove deep into the forest, following the soldier. The Batwa fled when they saw us coming. But the soldiers caught an old fellow who couldn’t run as fast as the others. He was shaking, the poor old man. Immaculée and I tried to reassure him. I told him who I was and what we wanted. Luckily, I speak Kinyarwanda like they speak in Bukiga – you shouldn’t tease me about it so much. When at last the old guy understood we just wanted to see the gorillas, he called the others back and we started to negotiate. It took forever. But I am, after all, the daughter of the colonel who runs the military base. And there were the four soldiers clutching their rifles. We eventually made a deal. Two goats. One goat before we set off, which we entrusted to the women, and a second goat once they had taken us to the gorillas. We returned to our tents. The sergeant left in the jeep to go buy two goats at the nearest market.

  “We slept in the tent, like real soldiers. The next morning, the Batwa were back. They asked:

  “ ‘Where are the goats?’

  “ ‘Look,’ said the sergeant.

  “They examined them, and held a long discussion among themselves. The man who seemed to be the chief said he wanted to eat one straightaway, before taking us to the gorillas. The sergeant said it wasn’t possible, that he was expected back at camp the following morning, they must head off to see the gorillas right away. The Batwa were having none of it, they wanted to eat one of the goats before setting off, plus they’d told their women and children to go collect firewood. The sergeant said it was the colonel who had given orders to take his daughter up to the gorillas because she wanted to see them. The Mutwa turned to me and began laughing. ‘Now it’s black women too who want to see the gorillas!’ So I suggested that if they took us to see the gorillas immediately, I’d give them a third goat.

  “ ‘Fine, we’ll go,’ the chief said finally. ‘I believe you really are the colonel’s daughter, but don’t forget, you’re the one who’s promised us a third goat. May lightning strike you down if we don’t get it!’

  “We walked deeper into the forest. There was no trail. The Batwa hacked a way through for us with their machetes. ‘Paths,’ they said, ‘are for the Bazungu. Us, we’re sons of the forest. Can a mother lose her children?’ We walked for two hours, maybe three, I don’t recall. The Batwa forged ahead, without looking back to see if we were following. We stumbled at every step, branches and lianas whipping at our faces. Even the soldiers were anxious, scared that the Batwa were leading them into some kind of ambush.

  “Suddenly, the Batwa chief crouched down and motioned that we should do the same. He made a strange sound with his lips, then picked up a little stem of bamboo that he waved as if in greeting. And there, through the trees, we spotted them: roughly a dozen gorillas, I didn’t count properly, with the biggest one, the head of the family, looking in our direction.

  “ ‘Heads down,’ a Mutwa mumbled. ‘Don’t look at him, show him he’s boss, that you submit to him, I don’t think he likes your smell.’

  “I buried my nose in the soil the way the Swahili of Nyamirambo do when they pray. The great gorilla stood and uttered a growl. He was absolutely huge. ‘It’s okay,’ said the Mutwa. ‘He recognized me, he’s satisfied, but don’t move.’

  “Still, I raised my head, and had time to get a good look at them: the big boss still on his guard, the females, and the little ones. Immaculée, am I lying? Didn’t we see them really close up? Close enough to touch them.”

  “Sure we saw them. The mommy gorillas sat in a circle while the head of the family kept an eye on us. The little ones played and frolicked in the middle, spinning round and round, went to suckle at their mother’s breast, got the fleas picked off them. The mommies chewed bamboo shoots for their young to eat, like our grandmothers did with sorghum. Then I thought about what Goretti’s mother said: that gorillas were once humans. Well, let me suggest a different story: gorillas refused to become humans; they were almost humans but they preferred to remain monkeys in their forest atop the volcanoes. When they saw that other monkeys like them had become humans, but had also become mean and cruel and spent their time killing each other, they refused to become humans. Maybe that’s the original sin Father Herménégilde is always talking about: when monkeys turned into men!”

  “Immaculée, the philosopher!” sneered Gloriosa. “Miss Rwanda gets all theological! That’s hilarious. Now we’ve heard it all. You should put that in your next essay, Father Herménégilde will be fascinated!”

  “And then,” Goretti continued, ignoring Gloriosa’s sarcasm, “the Batwa motioned that we should leave without a sound. They said that the large male was getting annoyed. I think they were also eager to go and eat their goats. We returned to the camp. The third goat was fetched, the Batwa composed a song in honor of the three goats, and we made our way back to the military base. The officers congratulated us for being so daring: it’s not just white women who are able to go visit the gorillas.”

  The whole audience clapped as the two “explorers” finished their tale.

  “But, you say there were a lot of people at the military base, do you know why?” asked Gloriosa. “And you, Immaculée, what was your father doing in Ruhengeri, with the Bakiga?”

  “He went to buy potatoes,” replied Immaculée. “He’s only interested in those fat Ruhengeri potatoes, the intofanyi type. He’s had enough of those little ones from Gitarama or Banyanduga, they disgust him.”

  Up the Virgin’s Sleeve

  “Father Herménégilde is charity personified,” said Mother Superior when she introduced the chaplain and teacher of religion to visitors. “If only you knew how much time he devotes to ensuring the poor of the district are decently clothed, and that’s in addition to all his spiritual and material responsibilities and duties!” Indeed, Father Herménégilde was the Catholic Relief Services’ man in Nyaminombe. Every month, a truck from the humanitarian organization delivered fat bundles of old clothes, which the lycée hands stacked in a shed grudgingly provided by Brother Auxile for the chaplain’s charitable works. No one understood why the CRS stamped on the tarpaulin covering the trucks made the French teachers laugh so much. Some of the garments went to Father Angelo, who redistributed them around the parish and farther afield; others were sold on to secondhand clothes dealers at the market, the proceeds then used to purchase blue and khaki material to make uniforms for children attending Nyaminombe’s primary schools. Father Herménégilde kept a few garments, dresses mainly, for his own personal good works.

  Father Herménégilde solicited the help of the lycée girls to sort the clothes, aiming his request at the new tenth graders, who, at the start of the school
year, were still agog at the brave new world of the lycée they were only just discovering. “Show us how kind you are,” he preached. “You who are the country’s female elite, it is your duty to labor in support of the development of the peasant masses. Help me clothe those who are naked.” The pupils felt obliged to show up at the shed door on Saturday afternoons, and few dared shirk their duty. After thanking them at length for such goodwill, Father Herménégilde chose from among the volunteers, with a predilection for Tutsi girls, and others with particularly pleasing physiques. Then there were a few old hands from previous years, who assessed the new recruits with a mixture of irony and disdain. The work entailed sorting the crumpled clothes into piles: one for kids, one for women, one for men. Nobody knew what to do with the down-lined jackets, padded coats, and caps with earflaps. “The old folk will take those,” said Father Herménégilde. “They’re always cold.” From the pile of women’s wear he picked out the most beautiful dresses, the finest blouses, and even the odd item of lacy underwear, all for his “own good works, and to reward you with,” he promised, as encouragement to his troop of helpers.

  Father Herménégilde gave out these rewards in his study, which doubled as his bedroom. Veronica was one of the first to receive such a reward, when she was in tenth grade. Father Herménégilde kept her back at the end of religion class. Once all the pupils had left, he told her: “I noticed you worked particularly hard last Saturday. That deserves a reward. Come see me tonight in my study after refectory. I’ve put something aside for you.” Veronica sensed that there was nothing good about this “reward.” The older girls would sometimes talk about it under their breath, mocking or expressing their outrage at those who’d received rewards, particularly those who went to collect one too often. There was nobody Veronica could turn to for advice, and anyway, she knew very well that being Tutsi, it would have been too reckless of her not to go and receive the “reward” Father Herménégilde had promised her.