Our Lady of the Nile

by Scholastique Mukasonga

  In the end, the Queen insisted on visiting all the classes. In each room, the teachers introduced themselves to the Queen, who gave a few words in reply and then expressed her congratulations and encouragement to the pupils. Her face seemed frozen in a fixed smile, except when she glanced briefly at the man with the watch. In Monsieur de Decker’s class, there was some surprise at the reverence of his wife, who had accompanied her spouse to greet the sovereign. Fabiola lingered a few extra minutes in Sister Lydwine’s class, as planned, allowed the teacher to ask her three questions, then, satisfied with the answers, asked the pupils what they wanted to be: nurses? social workers? midwives? To avoid disappointing her, the girls she had questioned chose, somewhat randomly, one of the three suggested professions. The man with the watch showed signs of impatience. The Queen, the Minister, and her retinue quickly made their way back to the entrance hall, where the seniors, who’d been brought downstairs while Fabiola was with Sister Lydwine, were waiting to hand her their gifts. Gloriosa and Goretti gave her the basketry and the embroidered place mats. She admired them, then handed the gifts to a lady in her retinue, heartily thanked the two pupils, asked their names, and kissed them on both cheeks. Then, flanked by Gloriosa and Goretti, the Queen spoke, declaring that she would retain an unforgettable memory of her visit, far too short for her liking, to the lycée of Our Lady of the Nile, how inspired she felt by all she’d just seen, and that they could always count on her to support the efforts being made by this beautiful country to promote female education and advancement. After saying good-bye to Mother Superior, Father Herménégilde, and the mayor, Queen Fabiola and the Minister returned, under the protection of the umbrellas, to the muddy Range Rover, while the rest of the retinue made a frantic dash for the other vehicles.

  With the two military jeeps in the lead, the motorcade exited the gates, drove down the track, and disappeared behind the curtain of rain.

  Queen Fabiola’s visit nourished the girls’ conversations for a long time to come. They regretted it had been such a brief visit, and that the fabulous program they’d spent so long so carefully preparing hadn’t been able to take place as planned: the choristers and dancers were the most sour. Why was the Queen in such a rush? It seemed quite shocking. Do queens always walk that fast? Or all self-respecting women? It was clear evidence of the bad manners of white people. Veronica gave the example of the bamikazi of olden times, who knew how to move with dignified slowness, as if counting their every step, no one would have dreamed of asking them to hurry up, like that man with the watch seemed to be doing: time was for the bamikazi to decide. Gloriosa immediately replied that those queens were Tutsi, meaning lazybones who’d never lifted a hoe, parasites feeding on the labor of the poor. And that those weren’t good manners for true Rwandan women.

  Modesta remarked that with all the bracelets and anklets they wore, the bamikazi couldn’t walk without being supported.

  The discussion centered mainly on Fabiola’s beauty. Most of them found her extremely beautiful, more beautiful than Madame de Decker, and white, whiter even than all the white women in the capital. Indeed, everything about her was white: she wore a white skirt, a white jacket a bit like a man’s, white shoes that remained pristine – they wondered how she managed that. Some regretted that she hadn’t worn a long dress with a train, a real queen’s dress, like in their history book, like Cinderella’s dress. Immaculée sententiously explained that the Queen was wearing a suit, and that that was how the women dressed over there, in Europe.

  “She’s no more beautiful than Queen Gicanda,” Veronica couldn’t help remarking.

  “Your former queen!” Gloriosa burst out. “Her so-called beauty didn’t do her much good. I don’t foresee a great future for her, locked up in her Butare villa. And you Tutsi, you always think you’re the most beautiful in the world, but beauty’s switched sides now. Your supposed beauty will bring you misfortune.”

  And then there was the hat. The mystery of the hat. An enormous hat, white too, with pink silk bows, feathers, and flowers, a real garden, the Garden of Eden, as Father Herménégilde would have said. How did it manage to stay in place beneath the hood that protected Fabiola from the rain? Did she put it on under the umbrella before she entered the hall? That was the mystery. However she managed it, they were all agreed, it was a real queen’s hat, better than a crown. Never had anything like it been seen in Rwanda. Only a queen could bear such a monument on her head.

  They waited impatiently for news of Godelive. Had the King and Queen taken the President’s daughter with them? Had they really adopted her as their own daughter? And had Godelive, the lady-in-waiting, accompanied them on the plane? They asked Sister Gertrude, who listened to the radio, whether she’d heard anything. Nothing was said on the radio. They sent letters to everyone they knew in the capital, particularly their girlfriends. They pieced together all the fragments of the story. What did turn out to be true was that the President really had intended to offer the Belgian royal couple one of his daughters. He’d taken pity on the childless King, and had willingly offered up one of his daughters to preserve the lineage. He hoped that this way, the Belgians would always be on the side of the majority people, as they had been at Rwanda’s independence. He was joining the family: for the honor of their shared child, they wouldn’t let him down. But the King and Queen hadn’t grasped the matter. There are some things that whites will never understand. The Belgians had replied that of course the President’s daughter could study in Belgium. That went without saying. But when it came to the gift of a child, they feigned not to hear, or to understand. The President’s daughter stayed put, and so did Godelive.

  “I was right,” said Goretti. “Nothing but tall tales. Godelive is so stupid she ended up believing her own lies.”

  “We’ll see what she has to say for herself when she gets back,” the others ventured.

  Godelive never returned to the lycée. She felt too humiliated to face the mocking of her schoolmates. But she did go to Belgium. Her father found her a chic boarding school. It was rumored that Mother Superior had something to do with that.

  The Virgin’s Nose

  “Modesta,” said Gloriosa, “have you ever taken a good look at the Virgin’s face?”

  “Which one?”

  “Our Lady of the Nile, the statue.”

  “Yes, and? Sure, it’s not like the other Marys. It’s black. The whites put black makeup on her. Probably to please us Rwandans, but her son in the chapel, well, he remained white.”

  “But did you notice her nose? It’s a straight little nose, a Tutsi nose.”

  “They took a white Virgin, painted her black, and kept that white nose.”

  “Yes, but now she’s black, it’s a Tutsi nose.”

  “You know, back then, whites and missionaries were on the Tutsi side. So a black Virgin with a Tutsi nose was a good thing for them.”

  “Yes, but I don’t want a Holy Virgin with a Tutsi nose. I no longer want to pray before a statue with a Tutsi nose.”

  “What can you do! You think Mother Superior or Monsignor would really change the statue if you asked them to? Unless you talk to your dad …”

  “Of course I’ll talk to my dad … In fact, he said they plan to de-Tutsify schools and government. It’s already started in Kigali and at Butare University. You and me, we’ll begin by de-Tutsifying the Holy Virgin. I’m going to correct her nose, and there’ll be some girls who’ll understand the warning.”

  “You want to break the statue’s nose! When they find out it’s you who did it, you’ll probably get expelled.”

  “Don’t be so sure, I’ll explain to everyone why I had to do it: it’s a political gesture, so they’ll more likely congratulate me, and then there’s my dad …”

  “So, how are you going to do it?”

  “It’s not difficult: we smash the statue’s nose and stick a new nose on. We’ll go to the Batwa one Sunday, there are some in Kanazi. We’ll get some clay, nicely prepared and mixed, the kind th
ey make pots with, and we’ll mold Mary a new nose.”

  “And when will you stick this new nose on?”

  “We’ll go at night, the day before the pilgrimage, so the next morning everyone will see Our Lady of the Nile with a new nose. A true Rwandan’s nose, the nose of the majority people. Everyone will appreciate it. Even Mother Superior. No need to explain it to her. Or rather yes, I’ll explain it to them. I know a few who’ll lower their heads, trying to hide their small noses. You’ll be first, Modesta, with your mother’s nose. But you’ll help me because you’re my friend.”

  “I’m scared, Gloriosa. You’ll still get into trouble, and I certainly will too if I help you.”

  “No, you won’t, we’re militants, I’m telling you. What we’re going to do is a militant act, and what with my dad, nobody will dare say a thing. They’ll be obliged to change the statue and replace it with another one, a real Rwandan lady with a majority nose. You’ll see, the Party will congratulate us. We’ll be women politicians. One day we’ll become ministers.”

  “You definitely, but me, I doubt it.”

  Gloriosa’s plan bothered Modesta. She hoped her friend would stop thinking about it, that she’d give up on it soon. The pilgrimage was a month away, by then Gloriosa would have probably forgotten about the whole thing. What she’d said was just a joke, idle chatter to pass the time, because life is so monotonous at the lycée of Our Lady of the Nile that you get some strange ideas sometimes. There are girls who imagine that a white teacher has fallen in love with them, that he’ll whisk them off, steal them away, just because he looks at no one else in class, so they’ll leave with him in a Sabena plane; others say the Virgin talks to them at night and they write down everything she says in a notebook; some girls believe themselves to be queens from olden times, nobody can touch them, so precious, so fragile, always on the verge of fainting; others say they’re going to die because they’ve been poisoned, poisoned for being too beautiful, more beautiful than all the rest, the jealous girls are after them with all kinds of evil spells, and they can’t eat a thing because there’s poison everywhere. These are bad ideas that whirl and clatter inside girls’ heads, sometimes they remain there, sometimes they vanish. Modesta hoped Gloriosa’s bad idea had disappeared like so many others.

  The following Sunday, after Mass, Gloriosa told Modesta:

  “Hurry up, we’re going to the spring. I want to check out the place and see how we can race up to the Virgin of the Nile’s hut. We need to know exactly how we can climb up there.”

  “You still want to do what you told me?”

  “Of course, more than ever, and I’m counting on you if you still want to be my friend.”

  “It scares me,” sighed Modesta. “I don’t have a father like yours … but I’ll help you since you say I’m your friend.”

  It was raining. As they walked along the track, Gloriosa and Modesta passed a few women on the way back from Mass, carrying their little benches on their heads.

  “We really live in the clouds,” said Modesta.

  “I like this rain,” said Gloriosa. “I wanted this rain and I didn’t need Nyamirongi to make her come. There’ll be no one going to pray to Our Lady of the Nile, even those who wanted to ask her for good grades, they won’t venture up there.”

  They scrambled down the steep path to the spring, twisting their ankles in the gullies and grabbing on to shrubs to avoid slipping. They stopped at the edge of the basin where the Nile pooled before flowing on toward its river destiny. The statue of Mary seemed to tower out of reach beneath its sheet-metal shelter, which had been jammed – goodness knows how – between two huge rocks. Despite this protection, the rainy seasons had taken their toll on the statue. Her black face was marbled with white streaks, and her clasped hands and bare feet were speckled with patches of the same color.

  “It’s Our Lady of the Zebras,” hooted Gloriosa. “See, she needs repainting, or rather changing, and that’s really such a Tutsi nose, even if it’s an albino Tutsi nose.”

  “Shut up. Don’t say stuff like that, it’ll bring us bad luck.”

  They climbed the scree slope, maneuvering round the huge rocks, all smooth and gleaming. In the crevice between them, four poles supported a platform made of planks, covered in moss and lichen, on which the Virgin’s nook had been erected.

  “You see,” said Modesta, “it’s too high. We’d need a ladder.”

  “You’ll be the ladder. Take me on your shoulders and I’ll hoist myself up by grabbing on to the planks while you hold me steady and push. We’ll get there.”

  “Gloriosa, you’re crazy!”

  “Do what I say, and don’t argue, if you still want to be my friend.”

  Modesta crouched at the foot of the platform. Gloriosa swung a leg over and settled on her shoulders.

  “Go on, stand up.”

  “I can’t, you’re too heavy. And with your big butt in the way, I can’t see.”

  “Grab on to the post.”

  Modesta gripped hold of the post, slowly lifting Gloriosa, who encouraged her: “Come on, keep going, we’re almost there!”

  “That’s it,” said Gloriosa. “I’ve got my elbows on the planks. Watch out, I’m pulling myself up, hold steady, I’m there.”

  Gloriosa managed to slip into the narrow passage between the rock and the sheet metal. She stood up and Modesta saw her disappear into the shelter.

  “That’s it, I’m touching her. I’m taller than her. See how easy it’ll be, a good knock on the nose, and done!”

  Gloriosa ran back between the side of the shelter and the rock.

  “Watch out,” she cried. “I’m going to jump, catch me!”

  Gloriosa jumped and fell on top of Modesta, dragging them both to the ground.

  “Look at the shape we’re in,” said Modesta, getting up. “My skirt’s all muddy and torn, look right here, and my legs are all scraped up. What on earth will we tell the monitor?”

  “We’ll say we slipped on the way to pray to Our Lady of the Nile. They’ll feel sorry for us and praise our piety. Or instead we’ll say it was bandits who attacked us and tried to rape us, but we escaped. I prefer the second version, we’re courageous girls who were attacked by the Inyenzi, there’s still some of them in these mountains …”

  “You know very well there are no Inyenzi left, the Tutsi are traders in Bujumbura and Kampala now.”

  “My father says we must repeat, again and again, that the Inyenzi are still there, that they’re always ready to return, that some do still get out and are among us, that the Tutsi who stayed behind eagerly await them, and perhaps even half-Tutsi like you. My father says we must never forget to frighten people.”

  Gloriosa figured that to make their tale sound credible when telling the monitor, it was better to wait until dusk before returning to the lycée. They took shelter in the abandoned shepherd’s hut farther down the path at Remera. They stretched out on a bed made of layers of thick grass that seemed to have been recently replenished. “See,” said Gloriosa, “the hut is used, even if the bed’s a bit firm for the things people come here to do. I’ll eventually find out who meets here.” She stretched out on the bed: “Come lie next to me and lift your dress. You know what needs to be done to prepare for marriage, it’s what our mothers always did.”

  “My poor girls, whatever happened to you?” cried Sister Gertrude when she saw Gloriosa’s and Modesta’s torn, muddy clothes.

  “We were attacked,” said Gloriosa, her voice breaking with emotion, “men with dark cloth disguising their faces, I don’t know how many, but they pounced, I’m sure they wanted to rape us, probably even kill us, but we fought back, we picked up stones, we screamed, they heard a Toyota coming and got scared, they fled … But I know who they are, I heard what they were saying, it was the Inyenzi, there’s still some of them around, hiding in the mountains, my father said so, they come from Burundi, they’re always ready to attack us whenever they can, and they’ve got accomplices: the Tutsi here. We must
warn Mother Superior.”

  The two lycéennes were shown into Mother Superior’s office. Again, Gloriosa recounted the tale of the assault, but in this new version, the details were much worse: the number of Inyenzi kept on growing, and now it was the lycée they were preparing to storm, they wanted to rape all the pupils, and torture them horribly and kill them, the nuns wouldn’t be spared either, not even the whites. Modesta kept quiet: she made herself whimper and cry as Gloriosa had instructed. “Hurry,” insisted Gloriosa, “there’s not a moment to lose, we’re all in danger, the Inyenzi are close by, they’re everywhere.”

  Mother Superior made the necessary decisions. She summoned Father Herménégilde, Sister Gertrude, and Sister Bursar for a war council. She sent Brother Auxile to Nyaminombe in his truck, and he returned with the mayor and the two gendarmes. She assembled the girls in the chapel, and Father Herménégilde made them sing hymns, interspersed with dozens of rosaries, without telling them why. Sister Bursar distributed kitchen knives to the lycée hands, carefully jotting down the number in her notebook, then took command of the brigade posted at the school gates. Night had fallen. Sister Bursar decided to hand out all the biscuits she’d been saving for the next pilgrimage. In the chapel, despite Father Herménégilde’s stubborn insistence on litany upon litany of hymns and rosaries, the spreading rumors finally got the better of him. It was whispered that the President had been assassinated, that the Inyenzi had crossed the lake, that the Russians had given them monstrous weapons, that they were going to kill everyone, even the young women, after raping them first … Many were in tears, some asked the chaplain to take their confession, others hoped, though they didn’t know why or how, that they’d escape the massacre, if not the raping.

  The sound of Brother Auxile’s truck was heard. The suspicious guards, fearing that the truck had fallen into an ambush, opened the gates slowly, in spite of the driver’s impatient honking. With some relief, they saw that Brother Auxile had brought not just the mayor and the two gendarmes with their rifles, but also twenty militants armed with machetes.