by Gaile Parkin
“Prosper?” said Angel. “Are you okay?”
Prosper observed Angel and Jeanne d’Arc through eyes that were very red. “I’m fine, Madame. I just fell over something on the stairs on my way down. Modeste and Gaspard must take better care with the cleaning.” He swayed slightly on his feet. “Madame, I could not help overhearing before I fell that you were talking to this girl about God and Jesus. That is very good. The Bible tells us much about the sin of prostitution.”
“Yes,” said Angel. “It tells us that Jesus forgave prostitutes and allowed them to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”
“Eh, Madame! I hope that you have not been forgiving this sinner!”
“Actually, Prosper,” said Angel, smiling now, “she is the one who has been forgiving a sinner.”
“Eh!” Prosper shook his head and moved unsteadily towards the door of his office. “You ladies are very confused. I myself will find some verses in the Bible for you to read.”
They watched him struggle with the key and then enter his office, and they waited for him to emerge with his Bible. But he did not come. Then, softly at first but growing louder, came the sound of snoring.
Angel and Jeanne d’Arc looked at each other and began to giggle.
THAT evening, as Titi and Angel were busy preparing the family’s supper in the kitchen, Pius settled down in the living room to read the copy of New Vision that Dr Binaisa had passed on to him. The Ebola scare was well over now, and the boys were with the Mukherjee boys down the road, playing under the watchful eye of Miremba. In their bedroom, the girls and Safiya were styling one another’s hair.
Pius was half-way through reading about new allegations concerning the smuggling of diamonds and metallic ore out of DRC, when his concentration was broken by a knock at the door.
“Karibu!” he called, but nobody came in. Putting his newspaper down on the coffee table and grumbling to himself, he got up and went to open the door. Standing there were two young men who were clearly not from this part of Africa.
“Good evening, sir,” said the one who was wearing smart, grey suit-trousers, a white shirt and a tie. “I hope we’re not disturbing you. We’re looking for a Mrs Angel.”
“Oh, Angel is my wife,” said Pius, assuming that these must be customers for Angel’s cakes. “Please come in. Angel!” he called. “You have visitors.”
Angel came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a cloth. “Hello,” she said with a smile.
“Hello, Angel,” answered the young man in the tie. “Omar upstairs sent us to talk to you. I hope this isn’t an inconvenient time?”
“Not at all,” Angel lied. Emotionally drained after her talk with Jeanne d’Arc, she was in no mood at all for business, but as a businesswoman she was obliged to remain professional at all times.
“I’m Welcome Mabizela, and this is my friend Elvis Khumalo.”
Angel shook hands with them and introduced them to Pius, who shook hands with them, too.
“Please come and sit,” said Angel, and the four of them sat down around the coffee table. “I think that Mabizela and Khumalo are South African names?”
“Ja,” said Welcome with a smile, “we’re from Johannesburg. I’ve come up here to facilitate workshops on reconciliation, based on my experience working with the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa.”
“Eh!” said Pius, sitting forward with interest. “I’m sure you have many interesting stories to tell.”
“Don’t say that to him, Pius, he’ll never shut up. Eish, he’ll be telling his stories all night!” Elvis shook his head and laughed.
Angel looked at Elvis, who was dressed far less conservatively than his friend in a smart red T-shirt and tight black denim jeans. Short extensions hung loosely around his head.
“And what is it that you do, Elvis?” she asked.
“I’m a journalist, mostly freelance, always looking for a story I can sell.” The smile that he flashed was brilliant white. “In fact that’s why Omar suggested we come and see you. He said you’re organising a wedding, and I want to find out more about it. Maybe it’s worth a story.”
“Angel,” said Pius, “I want Welcome to tell me his stories about South Africa, and Elvis wants to talk to you about the wedding. Why don’t we invite our visitors to join us for supper?”
“Of course,” said Angel, clapping her hands together. “Please say you’ll eat with us.”
“Oh, we can’t impose on you like that …” began Welcome.
“Nonsense!” declared Angel. “There’s plenty of food for everyone. Really, we insist that you stay.”
Elvis glanced at Welcome before saying, “In that case, we can’t refuse. Thank you, Angel, we’d love to.”
Angel went into the kitchen to redirect the dinner preparations to satisfy two more mouths. Both of their guests were thin—but healthy young men usually had big appetites whatever size they were. The chicken pieces that were roasting in the oven would have to be removed from the bone when they were cooked, and chopped into smaller pieces. She would make a stew of peas and carrots in peanut sauce, and add the chicken to that. The rice that was already cooking was not going to be enough, and it was too late to add to it—but it could finish cooking and the family would eat it tomorrow.
Instead, she would make a big pot of ugali to have with the chicken stew.
As she and Titi busied themselves in the kitchen, Angel listened to snatches of conversation from the living room. Pius was questioning Welcome on the significance of the distinction between what South Africa called “truth and reconciliation” and what Rwanda called “unity and reconciliation.” Could truth not make reconciliation impossible? he was asking. Was unity a possibility in the absence of truth? Angel was glad that there was someone else in their house tonight who could field her husband’s questions; it was not a debate in which she herself felt confident of any answers.
When the ugali was just a few minutes from being ready, Angel and Titi emerged from the kitchen, and Titi was introduced to the guests before being sent to fetch the boys from the Mukherjees’.
“Take the flashlight, Titi,” said Pius. “There’s no moon tonight and the street is dark.”
Angel accompanied Safiya upstairs so that she could have a quick word with the girl’s mother.
“Amina, we have unexpected guests for supper, and you know that we have very little space. Can I send the girls up here with their plates of food?”
“Of course, Angel,” said Amina, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “We’ll be ready to eat our own meal as soon as Vincenzo has finished washing.”
“Thank you, Amina. They’ll come in a few minutes.”
Back downstairs, Angel had Grace and Faith wash their hands, then sent them upstairs with a plate each of ugali with the sauce of chicken stew. The boys arrived home with Titi, washed their hands, and were dispatched to their bedroom with their plates of food, where Titi would join them soon.
Then Titi brought a big plastic bowl into the living room, and as each of the guests and Pius in turn held their hands over it, Angel poured warm water from a jug over their hands while they washed them. Titi dished up for herself in the kitchen and retired to the bedroom with her plate.
Angel, Pius and their guests sat around the coffee table, forming balls of ugali in their fingers and dipping them into the large bowl of chicken stew. As they ate, Pius and Welcome discussed the theoretical and philosophical aspects of reconciliation, while Angel and Elvis concentrated on one practical example: the wedding of Leocadie and Modeste.
“I think this is a story for a magazine rather than a newspaper,” suggested Angel. “There must be photographs of the wedding so that readers can see that these are real people, and that reconciliation is not just an idea.”
“I agree one hundred percent,” said Elvis. “It’ll need to be much longer than the average newspaper story anyway. Both parties will need to tell their story.”
“That’s true,” said Angel, reaching for the
bowl of ugali and beginning to shape another ball with a dip in it to hold the sauce. “But, Elvis, I must tell you that this is a story that will interest many journalists. Very many. From all over Africa, and even from Europe and America. Magazines like Hello! and Oprah’s new O magazine will be interested. You know that a magazine in South Africa will not want to buy the story from you if every other magazine in the world is already telling the same story.”
“Absolutely,” agreed Elvis. “Of course I would want exclusive rights to the story, and exclusive access to everyone involved.”
“Yes, and I am the one who will decide who gets exclusive access, because I am the wedding-mother and I am the one who can advise the two parties whether to talk to a journalist or not.”
“I understand,” said Elvis, smiling. “So let’s cut to the chase, Angel. What is it that will persuade you to grant a particular journalist exclusive rights to the story?”
She was ready with her answer: “The magazine that is going to tell this story must sponsor a small piece of the wedding.”
“I see. And what small piece of the wedding are we talking about?”
“The cake.”
“The cake?” Elvis looked at Angel with a mixture of relief and surprise. “Just the cake?”
“Yes. It’s going to be a very beautiful cake that I’m going to make myself. When we’ve finished eating I’ll show you photographs of other cakes that I’ve made.”
“Okay. Let me make a few calls tomorrow and I’ll let you know in the next day or two if that’s going to be possible.”
“Okay, Elvis. I won’t give anybody else exclusive rights until I’ve heard from you.”
The meal progressed with a mix of political debate, story-telling and happy laughter, and afterwards Elvis made appreciative noises as he looked through Angel’s photo album—particularly when he saw the cake of the South African flag.
The guests expressed reluctance at having to go, but felt that they must because there were young children in the house who needed to get to sleep.
“Where are you staying?” asked Pius. “Can I give you a lift?”
“Oh, thank you, no, we’re close by,” replied Welcome. “At the Presbyterian Guesthouse. It’s less than ten minutes’ walk from here.”
“Eh, but you cannot walk tonight,” declared Pius. “There’s no moon, and there are no streetlights along this road. You won’t find your way, I guarantee. No, I’ll take you there in the microbus. I insist.”
As soon as Pius had left with the South Africans, Angel and Titi began cleaning up in the kitchen and Benedict was sent upstairs to fetch the girls. Titi took the chicken bones, carrot peelings and other rubbish out to the Dumpster in the street so that they would not attract cockroaches or make the kitchen smell in the night, leaving Angel to transfer the uneaten rice from the pot in which it had cooked to a plastic bowl to store in the fridge. As she occupied herself with this task, Angel thought about the two young men who had just shared dinner with them. Unless she was very much mistaken—which she was sure she was not—they were more than just friends. South Africa was truly a very modern country indeed.
Suddenly the door of the apartment flew open and Titi came rushing into the room, trembling and whimpering, with tears running down her face.
“Eh, Titi!” said Angel, coming out of the kitchen. “What’s happened?” She went over to Titi, put her arm around her shoulders and led her to the sofa, where she sat down beside her. The children gathered round and looked at Titi with big eyes as she struggled to control her breathing.
“Grace, bring Titi a glass of water,” commanded Angel. “Faith, bring tissues. Eh, Titi, whatever has happened, you are safe now. There’s no need to cry. Nothing bad will happen to you in here.”
Titi wiped away her tears with the tissue that Faith had brought and took a sip from the glass of water that Grace had handed to her.
“Eh, Auntie!” she said, shaking her head. “Eh! I was not thinking when I took the rubbish to the Dumpster. I forgot that it had been emptied.” She took another sip of water. “When I opened the lid to put the rubbish inside, a voice in there spoke to me and hands grabbed the rubbish from me.”
“Eh, the mayibobo are back,” said Angel. A group of street-children sometimes slept in the bin at night when there was enough space inside. It provided warmth and shelter and—perhaps most important—instant access to anything that the neighbourhood was discarding, some of which might pass for food.
“It was very dark, Auntie,” said Titi. “I saw nothing. Then I heard a voice, and hands started grabbing. Eh, it frightened me!”
“Of course it did, Titi. You’ve had a very terrible fright. But you’re fine now. Why don’t you go and wash and prepare yourself for bed, and I’ll make some hot milk and honey for you.”
“Thank you, Auntie.”
While she waited for the kettle to boil, Angel checked that all the children had washed their feet and brushed their teeth, and settled them into their beds with the promise that Baba would come to say goodnight in a few minutes. After taking Titi her warm milk in bed, she went back into the kitchen and filled the rice-pot with water to soak overnight, thinking as she did so that the few grains of rice that clung obstinately to the bottom and sides of the pot would probably seem like a big meal to one of the mayibobo outside in the Dumpster. Then she thought about the small boy who was living with Jeanne d’Arc, and about Jeanne d’Arc’s younger sisters. If Jeanne d’Arc were not willing to do what she was probably doing at that very moment—perhaps even in this very compound—to keep them off the street, those children could well be in that very Dumpster.
When Pius came back from delivering their visitors to their guesthouse, he found Angel frying onions in a big pot.
“Eh, why are you cooking at this time of night?”
“There are mayibobo in the Dumpster. I just want to take them something to eat.”
“I see. And have you forgotten the reason why I uprooted us all and left my comfortable job in Dar to come and work here in Kigali as a Special Consultant?” “No, Pius, I haven’t forgotten.”
“It was because I need to earn more money so that we can give our grandchildren a good life.” “I know that.”
“But now it looks to me like you intend to use my salary to feed the entire world.”
Angel emptied the rice from the plastic bowl into the pot with the onions and gave it a good stir. “No, Pius, I just intend to use a bit of my money from my cake business to put a bit of food into those homeless children’s bellies before they fall asleep on everybody’s stinking rubbish.” She silenced her husband with a look. “Our children are waiting in their warm beds for their Baba to come and say goodnight.”
Angel added a small amount of pilipili to the rice and onions to give the dish some flavour and warmth, and stirred until the rice had heated through. Then she spooned the food back into the plastic bowl.
Pius was coming out of the children’s room as she carried the bowl towards the door of the apartment. She hesitated for a brief moment before speaking.
“Pius, when I come back, I want us to talk.”
“What about?”
“About something that I told myself today.” “Eh?”
“Oh, Pius, is it not time for truth and unity and reconciliation to stop being just theories in our house?” “What do you mean, Angel?”
“I mean …” She lowered her voice to a whisper, conscious that the children were not yet fully asleep. “It wasn’t an accident, was it?”
Pius’s eyes widened, and he stared at his wife for almost a full minute without blinking. It was the way that a small animal on a country road might stare at a car coming towards it at night.
“I mean, Vinas,” she whispered. “The pills …”
He shook his head, exhaling strongly as if he had been holding his breath for a very, very long time. “No. It was no accident.” His eyes were damp as he reached out a hand and squeezed Angel’s shoulder gently. “Come back
quickly, Angel. It really is time we faced the truth together.”
Outside, Angel found Kalisa sitting on one of the big rocks that lined the path to the building’s entrance. She asked him to take the food to the mayibobo in the Dumpster.
“When they’ve finished, the bowl must come back to me. I’ll wait here.”
“Yes, Madame.”
Angel took Kalisa’s place on the rock and stared up at the stars in the very black sky. There were people who knew about stars, who could tell you the name of every star in the sky. She knew that one of the stars was called Venus, like the name of her daughter. Okay, it was actually a planet, not a star—she knew that from the children’s atlas—but it shone in the sky just like the stars. But she did not understand how it could be important to learn the name of every single star in the sky; surely it was better to know the name of every person in your street?
She thought of the cake that she was going to make for Solange’s confirmation. She and Jeanne d’Arc had agreed on a vanilla cake in the shape of a Christian cross, white on top to convey purity and with a turquoise and white basket-weave design piped around the sides to match the confirmation dress, which was white with turquoise ribbons threaded through it. Solange’s name would be piped in turquoise across the top.
Suddenly Angel was blinded by lights shining in her eyes as a large vehicle came down the hill and turned off the tarred road into the dirt road. The Pajero drew to a halt next to Angel.
“Everything okay, Angel?” asked Ken Akimoto.
“Everything’s okay,” she answered, feeling that yes, it was going to be. “Thanks, Ken. I’m just enjoying the night air.”
“Okay.” He drove to the other end of the building and parked outside his own apartment. Bosco was his driver only during office hours; after that, Ken was perfectly capable of driving himself. Of course, Bosco was much more than Ken’s driver, and was happy to be sent on any number of errands.
Angel smiled as she thought about what Bosco had told her that morning: Odile had a boyfriend! Dieudonné would be a good partner for a woman who was not able to bear children; having grown up without his parents, in the care of other people, he might easily be persuaded to think of adopting one or two of the thousands of children who filled the country’s orphanages. Which was a lot better for them, she considered, than filling the country’s rubbish dumps.