The Eternal Audience of One

by Rémy Ngamije

  Angelo had come to represent what all the Rwandan families feared: the child who refused to work hard and pull them further away from poverty. He carried first-year courses longer and further than anyone they knew, and, when Nikita attended university the following year, there was a genuine belief that she would complete her architectural degree before he successfully completed his second year in finance.

  “What are you studying, Thierry?” asked Valentin.

  “I’m not studying right now.”

  There was a creasing of foreheads as everyone tried to figure out the real meaning of the answer. Did Thierry mean that he had completed his studies or did he mean that he was not studying at all? The former seemed more likely, the latter an impossibility.

  “Have you finished, then?” asked Credence.

  “No, I started but I stopped. I was doing medicine. I didn’t dig it, you know?”

  They did not know. Abandoning tertiary studies was not part of the modus operandi for their families.

  “So what’re you doing now?” asked Valentin.

  “Taking a gap year,” said Thierry. “Actually, more than one. To figure things out, you know? I want to study, but I ain’t gonna do it just because people say I should do it. I ain’t fucking with the system like that. Way I figure, I take some time out, figure out what the fuck I want to do, and then do that thing instead of wasting time doing some shit that was chosen for me by my parents or my circumstances. You know?”

  “So what d’you do now that you’re not studying?” Nikita asked. Her phone was lightly clutched in her hand, in danger of being dropped. The majority of her body’s resources were dedicated to sifting through Thierry’s seemingly impossible answers.

  “Travel,” Thierry replied. “Did most of Southeast Asia last year, year before that South America, and before that Europe. I also hit up Africa last year too. Did Egypt, Morocco, Uganda, Mozambique, and South Africa. Last place I visited was Cape Town last year.”

  “Yeah, Séraphin’s studying in Cape Town,” said Angelo.

  “Massively overrated city,” said Thierry. “I still don’t get the hype.”

  Séraphin was about to retort a reply but Yves silenced him with a slight shake of his head.

  “You’re Rwandan, right?” asked Nikita.

  “Yes,” said Thierry. “But now I am Canadian.”

  Espoir and Claudine’s freshly minted Canadian citizenship distanced them from everyone else in the lounge by several years of declined asylum applications and unlucky Green Card lotteries. Their Canadian passports brought more than easy travel around the world. They brought security in an already secure country, where the worst thing that could probably happen to the nation would be losing a pop star to America’s bright lights. Espoir and Claudine were beyond Rwandan. They were gods of a distant, snow-capped Olympus. They put genuine maple syrup on nearly everything, supported the Toronto Raptors faithfully, and even took the time to learn the rules of ice hockey so they could cheer for the Maple Leaves. Autumn was fall, jam was jelly, the boot of a car was a trunk, and Espoir called New Year’s “a wonderful gig”.

  Therése had temporarily blanched when she saw who the final guests to arrive were. She forced herself to be hospitable. She embraced Claudine in her arms, catching a whiff of the Gucci fragrance Guillome bought for her each year for their anniversary. She loved the light, airy smell for its understated freshness, which gave the nostrils a rush. Smelling it on Claudine, however, made her nose itch. It felt heavy and she could not help thinking she wore it with more grace. She moved to embrace Espoir, exchanging clipped greetings with him before leading everyone back to the lounge while Séraphin hurried outside to bring two extra chairs in from the yard. Therése felt a sliver of sweet malice as she watched Claudine and Espoir trying to be comfortable in the oldest garden chairs in the house. She also felt a bit embarrassed she could not have the full luxury of her life on display for them; she could feel Claudine judging the gimcrack seating as she looked around. Therése suddenly felt as though the room was overdone. She watched Claudine’s eyes travel around the room, assessing everything before their gazes clanged together in greeting challenges.

  “It has been so long since we saw each other,” Claudine said.

  “Ten years,” Therése stated flatly.

  “Something like that. It is good to see you are all well. How is Guillome? Séraphin told me he was still at work.”

  “Yes, he is,” said Therése, internally wincing at Séraphin’s inability to master the fine Rwandan art of discretion in the face of family enemies. Honestly, she thought, the boy could have said something else. That Guillome had gone out to fetch some drinks or had to attend a prestigious work function with high-ranking officials. Instead he had opted for the truth and given away their station in life: Guillome was working on New Year’s Eve as though he was some underpaid security guard. “He had a few matters to tie up at work but he will be home soon.”

  Séraphin asked Espoir and Claudine what they would have to drink. Both of them asked for juice and Séraphine went back to the kitchen

  “We don’t drink anymore, you know,” said Claudine. “It has been so much better for us.” The rest of the party looked at their drinks without shame, taking sincere sips out of collective solidarity. “And how are the boys?” she asked Therése.

  “Comme ci, comme ça. Séraphin will finish next year, and Yves the year after that. And Éric is going into second year.”

  “And where are they studying?” Espoir asked.

  “Séraphin is in Cape Town, Yves is here, and Éric will also study here.” Therése’s bosom felt hollowed and heavy when she talked about Yves and Éric.

  “Soon you will have a house full of graduates.”

  “Who would have thought we would come so far?” said Adrien. His eyes were soft with drink and heavy with emotion.

  “We are thankful,” said Therése. “Imana yaradufashije.” There was a murmuring of agreement at every fortunate part God had played in their present lives. All questions about the capriciousness of his Divine Plan would be kept for later when they were alone. “And what about you? What news from Canada?”

  The two women had been smiling at each other graciously, exchanging niceties in the manner of two people who despised each other, like two exes who meet in a shopping aisle with their new lovers in tow, filling out the particulars of their lives in fine detail, communicating to the other in no uncertain terms that they had survived past hurts to reach new levels of fulfilled nirvana, which they hoped remained hidden and elusive to the other.

  Claudine gushed about the Canadian social welfare system and the generous paternity leave which made white men such good fathers. The quaint French settlements in Quebec, she said, were her favourite places to visit and in the holidays she enjoyed skiing. Therése, Sonia, Solange, and Marie Chantal noted the subtle emphasis placed on the plural: the holidays. Not one day of the year, not two, but a period of time long enough to relax. They noted, too, the absolute certainty with which she said “when the holidays come around”. Unlike them, she did not speak of a holiday, an event which happened once every so often and took the form of a long, crowded, bickering drive to the Etosha National Park with their families where zebra and springbok would be looked at lazily by children who seemed more concerned with finding reliable cellphone signal. No, Claudine’s holidays were the kind that involved flying to foreign latitudes. She had travelled to so many places, checked into so many four and five star hotels in so many countries she had forgotten each individual place she had visited. She spoke in geographic swathes: “Northern Europe was exquisite, much better than Eastern Europe. Still, it is worth seeing. Latin America is a place you must visit.”

  Claudine and Espoir had wound up running out of foreign world to travel in that they had even visited Africa. It was a novel experience for present company to hear of their continent spoken of in such detached terms, as though Africa were a distant alien world to which the Canadian couple ha
d travelled on a missionary quest. “West and East Africa were too loud,” Claudine said, “too busy and too dirty.” Southern Africa, the couple agreed, was just hot and dirty. “But Namibia is clean,” added Claudine. “Very, very hot but also clean.”

  “Yes,” added Therése with a bit of bite in her voice, “this place is clean. It is always good to travel to places near and far away and to arrive to find them clean. What could be more important for an adventure?” Therése was glad Séraphin was out of the room at that precise moment because her hypocrisy would have been held against her for a month at least. She was not being nice and she knew it. She tried to make up for it by asking how Thierry was doing.

  “He is fine,” said Espoir. “He is taking a bit of a break from his studies at the moment. I am sure he will pursue them again soon.”

  “He is not studying?” Therése asked. A single eyebrow rose, just slightly. The thrust in her question could not be hidden from the rest of the party, who held their breath at seeing this unimaginable shortcoming in the otherwise unblemished life of Canadian-Rwandans. At least all of their children were studying. Even Angelo.

  “Not at the moment,” said Claudine. “He was doing medicine but he stopped it.”

  “Temporarily,” added Espoir.

  Therése and the rest of the party sipped their drinks to cover their small smiles. So the son had found medicine too hard. Therése felt the tip of her blade sink deep and, giddy from scoring this tiny victory, she pulled it out to deliver another blow. “What is he doing now?”

  “He is travelling, trying to see as much of the world as he can,” said Claudine. Then, turning to her husband, “How long has he been abroad now, Espoir?”

  “Three years,” Espoir replied. He listed all the places his son had visited. Thierry always returned with the strangest stories about life abroad, he said.

  “Yes, he has such wonderful and funny stories about his travels,” said Claudine. “We keep telling him he should write about them.”

  Therése felt her attack being parried, Claudine retreating to higher, unassailable ground. Gap years were expensive in their fiction let alone in their reality. That Thierry could have a respite from responsibility for so long spoke of a level of privilege that existed only in films. Espoir and Claudine had truly ascended to another plane of existence, one that could not be assailed by any barbs Therése could throw. Her throat closed with emotion as she thought of Thierry travelling and writing without a care in the world. What would her children do with those kinds of opportunities?

  Séraphin came back into the lounge to see if anyone’s drinks needed replenishing. Claudine asked him how his studies were progressing.

  “They’re fine,” he said. “Next year will be my final year.”

  “And then what will you do, Séra?”

  Séraphin was about to throw a distraction their way before he noticed how attentively everyone was watching him. Adrien and Sonia, Olivier and Marie Chantal, Eugene and Immaculée, and César and Solange: they all gazed at him with expectation. He looked at Therése, whose eyes also shone with some sort of eagerness. Somehow the playing field had changed and he could no longer run and dribble for as long as he liked. He was being penned in.

  “Uhmm—” he began before Adrien cut him off.

  “Master’s degree, no? I think you said so. And then articles here in Windhoek.”

  “That is good,” said César. “Very good. You will do well here. Lawyers are valued here.”

  “That is good news, Séraphin,” said Marie Chantal. “At least we can sleep knowing that we will have one of our own representing us if the need ever arises.”

  “Of course. The salaries these lawyers have here in Namibia are ridiculous,” said Eugene. “Séraphin, that is what you must look at. Commercial law. Avoid human rights work – human rights do not pay the bills.”

  “Séraphin will be brilliant at that,” said Sonia. “A lawyer. That will be a grand day. We will come to court to see you in action, eh?”

  “Tuzaba turihamwe,” Adrien said. “We shall be together.”

  Séraphin felt the core of his being vibrate at an unknown frequency. They all looked towards him in optimism. He looked at his mother, whose eyes beseeched him to accede to the future being mapped in front of him.

  Turihamwe, no?

  He felt his stomach tighten in bitterness before he marched a smile onto his face and cheerily said, “Of course.”

  Everyone sat back in their seats and smiled, happy to know that at least one aspect of the future was decided. The first generation of their community’s graduates would come into the world soon. And who better to lead it than Séraphin Turihamwe, local pride, all-conquering hero of studies home and abroad.

  Who better indeed?

  X

  Foreigners have no business being under-qualified or under-performing so Guillome diligently collected certificates or diplomas in business administration or international drug procurement and distribution each year. He did this so that every two years, when his contract was up for review with the Ministry of Health and Social Services, he filed a dossier of his recent qualifications which, in its thickness, coupled with his years of long service in the department of drug procurement, distanced him from any clauses in national employment policies which stated that a local was to be preferred in the event similar qualifications were held by a foreign applicant. The reviewing committee would open his re-application, flip through each degree and leaf through the neatly typed curriculum vitae before signing his reappointment, giving Guillome another two years of stability to work for less than he was worth and harder than he should.

  Not once had he ever been late for work. His leave days accumulated like forgotten pennies in a glass jar. He smiled at everyone, at every task that was assigned to him, and any other task shirked by his colleagues to wind up, inevitably, and with deadlines looming, on his organised desk. At first his tireless work ethic was viewed with suspicion. Conversations of upcoming promotion usurpations temporarily forced the rest of the department to pedal faster for a while, just to keep up with Guillome. Eventually, though, after becoming conscious of the rigged race he could not hope to win, they allowed the pace to slacken. Guillome became the workhorse of an undecorated and sluggish peloton. He rarely participated in meetings, choosing to remain mute and observant. After such meetings, which were always heavy with protocol and comrade-calling, he would walk back to his desk and wait for a few minutes for the email that would come from the top brass stating what needed to be done. He would then find some way to complete the tasks while attributing all glory, project punctuality, and budget-friendly efficiency to his immediate superiors, who would present his ideas and work to their bosses, reading carefully from his annotated reports: “emphasise the low-cost nature of generics after this point”, “focus on the ease of transport for these medicines to make them more comfortable with this new direction”.

  Once, one of his superiors blundered into one of Guillome’s reports without bothering to acquaint himself with the territory of the subject matter or its structure. Without any trace of shame, he said, “Pause for effect here – this is important. You need the numbers to sink in.” Only three sentences later did he recognise his error. The rest of the conference room looked at their summary notes in embarrassment. Everyone knew Guillome’s work was being peddled under false authorship. What made everyone sheepish was the violation of the tacit collective agreement to appear as though they knew what they were talking about in front of their superiors. A few minutes after the presentation an angry email had plopped into Guillome’s inbox:

  Next time don’t embarrass me like that. I want reports two days early so I can read over them. And I want you there for them too.

  Guillome’s ambitions from his past were well behind him. He rose each morning prepared to spend a day with his two mistresses: duty and deference.

  It was duty which required him to spend New Year’s Eve in his cubicle, typing a ministerial rev
iew of the national antiretroviral rollout programme at speed. Deference made him use a template cover page which declared the authorship to come from a person other than the one who had woken up early to compile it. The report, in a meritocratic world, would have been submitted to his superiors a week ago. Guillome did not find himself in that world. He found himself in one where the approaching year’s end presaged office talk of farming projects, holidays by the seaside, or shopping trips to Cape Town. Such talk annexed most of the productive hours in the office, and such was the urgency and importance of their holiday plans that the colleagues to whom the report had been tasked had not even bothered to compile a basic abstract for the submission. It thus fell to Guillome, the only person who seemingly did not have a family to go home to, who owned no farm to work, or any desire to take a break of some sort, to come to the office and spend the last day of the year writing the report and then personally delivering the finished manuscript to the minister’s house.

  Guillome’s broad shoulders slumped as he hunkered down to his keyboard and summarised volumetric procurement logs and distribution timetables, and explained rollout protocols at government and private hospitals and clinics. He ploughed ahead, paragraph by paragraph, towards the final full stop, which dotted itself into the day’s labour with welcomed relief at half-past nine. Guillome printed the manuscript and then bound it before driving through Windhoek’s ghostly city centre to the minister’s house. The house seemed to be in five minds about what style of architecture it belonged to. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows faced the street and Romanesque columns lined a tiled catwalk leading to a large wooden door; a fountain with winged babies peeing into a pool gurgled nearby; and a herd of metal springbok grazed on invisible grass in a yard comprised of carefully arranged rockery and cactus plants.

  Guillome approached the dumpy hut outside the property’s iron gates, where the guard sitting inside slowly eased his bulk up off a plastic chair and cast him a disinterested look. He asked Guillome if he was a guest.