by Gaile Parkin
Goats had already been slaughtered, and their meat would be cooked over open fires by the women from the restaurant at the centre in Biryogo; they would also cook huge pots of rice and vegetables. Beer and sodas would be supplied by Françoise, who would keep them cool in large aluminium tubs filled with iced water that would be kept out of the way in the section under the building that was still waiting to house a generator. Several of the Girls Who Mean Business would be on hand to serve the drinks and food, and Thérèse, Miremba, Eugenia, Titi and Jeanne d’Arc would wash guests’ hands and help with serving. The food would not be served until the sun had set, so that Muslims and non-Muslims could eat together.
Assured that there was nothing more that she could do at this stage, Angel looked up from her list and watched the boys watching the video. Moses had drifted off to sleep, and Kamal, the younger of the Mukherjees, was struggling not to do the same. Rajesh was watching with interest, while Daniel kept glancing at Benedict to get a sense of how he should react. As he watched Dian Fossey discover the dead body of one of her beloved gorillas, tears filled Benedict’s eyes. That boy has found something to love in place of his late father, thought Angel: surely he is going to work with animals when he grows up.
In the evening of the day before the wedding, Pius came home from work exhausted. Over dinner he explained that he and a small team of colleagues had just finished putting together an important application for a prestigious—and generous—new award for innovations in renewable energy technologies. Their entry was a bread oven that the university had developed and manufactured, capable of baking 320 bread-rolls every twenty minutes using only a quarter of the wood that a conventional oven used.
“So it will save the forests here, Baba?” Benedict asked.
“It will help, certainly.”
“Then I’m sure it will win the prize.” Benedict was confident.
Pius laughed. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because the oven will make bread to feed people so that they don’t die, and it will also save the forest so that the gorillas don’t die. That is a very important oven, Baba.”
“Eh! You are too clever, Benedict,” said Angel, proud of the boy.
“I hope you’re right,” said Pius. “You know that my job here is to help the university to generate income, to make its own money so that it can keep itself running. Publicity from the award would help a great deal. But the winner will only be announced next year. What’s more important is that we’ll know soon if they want me to stay here for another year.”
“How soon will we know?” asked Angel.
“They’ve promised to let us know by the end of next week. You know that expatriates are here only until Rwandans have qualified to fill the positions that we’re filling now. Apparently, every year at this time the expatriate staff become very nervous and start to whisper about who will have their contracts renewed and who will go home.”
“Are you nervous, Baba?” Grace wanted to know.
Pius laughed. “No, Grace, I’m not nervous. But I’d like to know soon so that I can start to make arrangements. If we’re going back to Dar es Salaam, then we must contact your school there; and if we are going somewhere else, then I need to start researching that somewhere else on the internet.”
“We can go somewhere else, Uncle?”
“Possibly, Titi. The University of Dar es Salaam gave me extended leave, so I can still be away for another couple of years after this one. If they don’t renew my contract here, I’m not obliged to go back there immediately. I’m sure there’ll be other options.”
“What about us, Baba?” asked Daniel. “Where will we go?”
“You’ll come with me wherever I go,” assured Pius. “We’re a family. And, Titi, that includes you.”
Titi beamed. Grace and Faith had styled the section of her hair from her forehead to the crown of her head in neat corn-rows, leaving her hair behind that to stand tall and natural in a halo-effect around her head. Grace’s long hair had been corn-rowed all over, and Faith’s shorter hair had been parted into neat, small squares and tied into little bunches with elastic bands.
“Rajesh and Kamal are going to live in India next year with Mama-Rajesh,” said Daniel, “even if Baba-Rajesh lives here.”
“That’s not going to happen to this family, Daniel,” said Angel. “We’re all going to be together, wherever we are.”
ANGEL cried at the wedding. The entire service was in Kinyarwanda, so she did not understand all of it—although she did understand a lot more of it than she would have at the beginning of the year. But her tears had nothing to do with her frustration at not following the language; they were caused in part by memories of the wedding of her own daughter, Vinas, with its unprofessional cake, and in part by the obligations of her role at this wedding. The mother of the bride was fully expected to shed tears of joy, especially when her daughter looked as beautiful as Leocadie did. Youssou had stitched the pale lemon-yellow fabric with its gold and orange pattern into a separate blouse and skirt. The skirt fitted snugly over Leocadie’s hips then flared out and flowed softly around her gold sandals, and the sleeveless blouse had been tailored to her shape with a scoop neck and with small gold buttons running down the front. The white net veil that had been made by the women at the centre in Biryogo flowed down from a gold alice-band around her shoulders and as far as her waist.
Throughout the ceremony, Beckham sat on Titi’s lap in the front pew, kicking his legs and sucking at a corner of the shirt that the Biryogo women had stitched for him from the remnants of Leocadie’s pale lemon-yellow fabric.
Afterwards, after Pacifique had made them pose at the entrance of the church for photographs, an alarming number of the guests crowded into the red microbus with Pius, Titi and the children, and the wedding party got into Ken Akimoto’s Pajero with Bosco at the wheel and Angel sitting next to him in the front. Angel noticed again—as she had on the way to the church—that it was very easy to climb up into a big vehicle in a skirt that was voluminous rather than straight and tight. Perhaps this was the answer that she had been searching for. She also noticed that Bosco was rather quiet.
“Is everything okay, Bosco?”
“Eh, Auntie!”
Angel could not tell from the side view of his face, as he concentrated on driving, exactly what emotion he was feeling. “What is it, Bosco?”
“Eh, Auntie, Alice’s father has found a scholarship for her in America.”
“Eh!”
“He spent a very, very long time on the internet looking at American universities. He owns an internet café in town, so he was able to search every day at work. Now he’s found a university that will accept Alice and pay her fees and books and everything. That university is very excited about Alice, because they’ve never had a student from Rwanda before.”
“Eh, that is exciting news for Alice, Bosco!”
“Yes, Auntie, for Alice. But now I must find somebody else to love.”
“I’m sorry, Bosco. That is very sad.”
“Very, very sad, Auntie,” said Bosco as he pressed his hand down on the Pajero’s horn to tell the neighbourhood the happy news that he was driving a new bride and groom.
The wedding reception in the yard of the compound was a joyous occasion. Prosper fulfilled the role of Master of Ceremonies with the zeal of a man proclaiming from the pulpit, peppering his speech with quotations from the Bible and even managing—every now and then—to say something light-hearted enough to raise a laugh and a smattering of applause. There was thunderous applause for Angel, though, when Prosper announced how much money was in the bride-price envelope. Of course, in the absence of Leocadie’s parents, that money belonged to the bride and groom—and it would be enough to buy them a small two-roomed house. The house would have no electricity or water, but it would be their own. There were not many young couples who could start their married life so blessed, and throughout the party people continued to approach Angel to congratulate her.
/> “That is a very fine herd of cows, Mama-Leocadie!”
“Eh, Angel! Those cows have very big horns.”
“Mrs Tungaraza, when our daughters are ready to marry, you are the one who will negotiate bride-price for us!”
“So many cows, Auntie!”
It was only much later, after all the speeches had been made and the tables and chairs had been pushed back so that the dancing could begin, that Prosper succumbed to an overindulgence in Primus and slid quietly from his chair on to the ground beneath the high table. Angel considered simply leaving him there, but in the end she fetched Gaspard, who fetched Kalisa, and together they carried Prosper to the seclusion of his office, where it would be safe for him to remain until morning.
Long before that, just after the sun had set and the guests who were fasting had arrived and the food could be served, Angel’s heart was warmed by the sight of Odile entering the yard with Dieudonné, who was carrying a small boy on his shoulders. She rushed to greet them.
“Hello, Angel,” said Odile. “Don’t worry, we’re not bringing extra hungry mouths to your party! We’ve just come to speak to Jeanne d’Arc.”
“There’s food here for many hungry mouths,” assured Angel. “You’re very welcome. But tell me, Dieudonné, who is this handsome young boy on your shoulders?”
“This is Muto, the boy Jeanne d’Arc has raised. Muto, greet Auntie.”
Clinging on to Dieudonné’s head with his left hand, Muto leaned down and shook Angel’s hand with his right.
“Good boy,” said Dieudonné. “We took him swimming with us at Cercle Sportif this afternoon. Now we want to check with Jeanne d’Arc if it would be okay for him to sleep over at Odile’s tonight.”
Odile smiled at Angel. “He’s made friends with Emmanuel’s children. They taught him how to swim.”
Angel’s heart was ready to burst. Would the next wedding cake she made be for this couple? Would they adopt Muto? She pointed to the far end of the yard where Jeanne d’Arc was pouring water from a jug on to Omar’s hands as he rinsed them over the plastic bowl held by Titi. “There she is. I’m sure she’ll be very happy for you to have Muto.”
As she watched them weaving their way towards Jeanne d’Arc, stopping to greet guests whom they knew and to introduce Muto to them, Angel was approached by Grace and Benedict, both of them looking agitated.
“Mama, please tell him the meat is goat,” begged Grace. “He’s saying it might be gorilla!”
“Benedict? Where did you get that idea?”
“They told me in the Virunga Mountains, Mama,” Benedict answered. “Our guide said people kill gorillas and sell the meat. They call it bush-meat. Sometimes bush-meat is a deer or another kind of animal, but sometimes it’s a gorilla or a monkey.”
“Eh!” declared Angel. “Do you think that I’m the kind of person to kill a gorilla and serve it to my guests?” “I told you, Benedict,” said Grace.
“But are you sure it’s goat, Mama? Did you see the goats being slaughtered with your own eyes?”
Like his grandfather, this boy was somebody who needed evidence rather than mere assurance. “No, Benedict, I did not see it with my own eyes, but I know somebody who did. Come with me and we’ll ask her.”
Angel led Benedict out through the compound’s driveway, where the gate had been left open for the guests to come and go, to the roadside where the women from the restaurant at Odile’s centre in Biryogo were loading plates with meat from their fires and vegetables from their enormous pots. The Girls Who Mean Business were balancing the platefuls on trays and then carrying them down the driveway to the guests.
“Immaculée,” said Angel to one of the women, “this is my son Benedict.”
“I’m happy to meet you, Benedict,” said Immaculée, not pausing in her work for a second. “I’ve already met your sisters, Grace and Faith.”
“Immaculée, Benedict is anxious to know what the meat is that you’ve cooked. He’s seen gorillas in the forests of the Virunga Mountains, and he’s afraid that it is a gorilla that has been slaughtered for this wedding.”
“Eh, Benedict!” Immaculée stopped what she was doing and squatted down on her haunches to talk to the boy. “You’re right to worry about gorillas being killed, because it is gorillas who bring tourists to our country with their dollars. But you’re wrong to worry that this is gorilla meat that we are serving. I slaughtered these goats with my own hands.”
Benedict smiled at her, relieved, and went back to join the other children at their table.
“Thank you, Immaculée,” said Angel. “That boy has some strange ideas. Eh, you ladies are doing a good job here. Don’t forget to save some food for the mayibobo in the Dumpster.”
Immaculée laughed. “They were the first to eat, Angel! Do you think we can cook food just down the road from them and make them smell it for hours before we give them some to eat?”
After the empty plates had been cleared away, the traditional dancers performed again to get the guests in the mood for dancing, and encouraged Leocadie and Modeste to join them. Beckham remained strapped to Leocadie’s back all the time, safely protected from mosquito-bites by the mosquitocide in the veil that covered him. Amina slipped into Leocadie’s empty seat next to Angel.
“Our girls are growing up,” she said, indicating with a nod of her head for Angel to look at Grace and Safiya. Ignoring the dancers, the two girls were focusing all their attention on the young man who was beating the drum. Tall and bare-chested, he stood apart from the dancers, beating out a rhythm for them on a large drum that hung from a strap around his neck to the level of his groin. Without taking their eyes off him for a second, Grace and Safiya exchanged comments and giggled.
“Eh!” said Angel, shaking her head. “Trouble is going to come knocking on our doors very, very soon!”
Later, when the guests had begun to dance to the music that Idi-Amini was selecting carefully and playing through his PA system, Angel observed two other girls looking at another young man in exactly the same way. She went over to join them.
“Thank you for performing here today,” she began, speaking to them in Swahili. “Your traditional dancing is very, very beautiful.”
The girls surprised her by answering in English. “Oh, thank you, Mrs Tungaraza. Thank you for the work. It’s just a pity that not much of our fee comes to us after we’ve paid to hire our costumes and drums.”
“Eh? You don’t have your own costumes?” The girls shook their heads. “That is not good,” said Angel, shaking her head with them. “But I have an idea. You must speak to my husband, because he is the one who is helping KIST to raise money. Perhaps you can persuade him that KIST should buy costumes for you, because you are the university’s official dance troupe. Then, when you perform at occasions like this, KIST can keep some of the money and the rest can come to you.”
“That is a very good idea, Mrs Tungaraza. KIST will soon recover the cost of the costumes and start to earn a profit; and without having to pay for costume hire, we’ll be in a win-win situation.”
“Eh, you’re speaking like a Business student!” observed Angel.
The girl laughed. “Yes, I’m doing Management. But I’m sorry, Mrs Tungaraza, we have not introduced ourselves. I am Véronique, and my friend is Marie.”
Angel shook hands with both of them. “Are you also studying Management, Marie?”
“No, I’m doing Civil Engineering. We’ll both graduate next year, then I’m hoping to go to Johannesburg for a Master’s.”
“Well, your English is very good. I’m sure you’ll be able to study there very easily.”
“Thank you, Mrs Tungaraza. At KIST we follow the government’s policy of bilingualism.”
“Don’t underestimate yourselves, girls,” said Angel. “Actually, you’re multilingual, because you know Kinyarwanda and Swahili as well as French and English. Please, girls, let us not think as Africans that it is only European things that are important. When you two become Ministers of
what-what-what in your government, you must set an example to others by saying that you are multilingual.”
“Eh, Mrs Tungaraza!” said Véronique, laughing. “We are not going to become Ministers of what-what-what!”
“Somebody is going to become those Ministers,” assured Angel. “Somebody who has studied at KIST or the National University in Butare. Why not you?”
Véronique and Marie exchanged glances.
“Mrs Tungaraza, you have given us a new idea,” said Véronique. “I have only thought as far as graduating and getting a job in Kigali as an accountant. Now I will think about the possibility of bigger things.”
“That is good,” said Angel. “But the reason I came to talk to you was not to turn you into government ministers. I came to talk to you because I saw you looking at that young man.” Angel nodded her head in the direction of Elvis Khumalo, who was deep in conversation with Kwame.
Once again, Véronique and Marie exchanged glances, this time looking embarrassed.
“He looks nice,” said Marie, shyly.
“Oh, he is a very, very nice young man,” assured Angel, “and I will introduce you to him in a moment. But first I must tell you that he is not a man who likes girls.”
“Mrs Tungaraza?”
“He’s from South Africa,” explained Angel. “I have even met his boyfriend.”
“Eh! He has a boyfriend?” asked Véronique. She looked at Angel with big eyes.
“That is a fashion in America,” said Marie, disappointed. “I didn’t know it had come to South Africa, too.”
“South Africa is very modern,” said Angel. “But let me introduce you to him, Marie. He lives in Johannesburg and he can tell you all about studying there.”
Angel took the girls over to Elvis and introduced them, leaving them to talk. Earlier, Elvis had photographed the wedding cake from many different angles, including from a first-floor balcony, where he had lain on the ground and angled the camera through the railings, under the ropes of the massive tarpaulin that covered the yard. From above, the cake had looked like a giant sunflower. Elvis had taken other photographs during the wedding, of course: photos of the bride and groom, the dancers, the women cooking in the street outside the compound, Angel and Leocadie in their beautiful dresses—but he had concentrated particularly on the cake because that was the part of the wedding that True Love had sponsored. Angel could not wait to receive a copy of the magazine with her cake featured in it. She would be sure to show it to Mrs Margaret Wanyika so that the Tanzanian Ambassador to Rwanda would know that a Tanzanian living in Kigali was famous in South Africa—and also, if the truth be told, so that Mrs Wanyika could see how beautiful a wedding cake could be when it was not white. Of course, Angel would not mention to Mrs Wanyika that the man who had taken the photographs and written the article had a boyfriend.