Small Country

by Gaël Faye

  The capital had been seized by a new phenomenon. We called these days “lockdowns.” Flyers were distributed across the city with messages advising people not to leave home on one or more specific days. When these operations were underway, gangs of youths headed for the streets with the blessing of the police. They erected blockades on the main roads in different neighborhoods, attacking and throwing stones at any cars or passersby that dared to venture out. Fear came crashing down on the city. Shops were shut, schools remained closed, street hawkers disappeared, and everyone barricaded themselves inside their homes. The morning after these days of paralysis, corpses were counted in the ditches, stones were cleared from the roads, and life resumed its usual rhythm.

  Papa felt powerless. Having tried so hard to distance us from politics, he was now incapable of protecting us from what was going on in the country. He looked haggard, and he worried about his children and his business. He had halted work at his construction sites, due to the large-scale massacres taking place in the country’s interior—there was talk of fifty thousand deaths—and he’d had to lay off most of his workers.

  One morning, while I was at school, a violent argument broke out on our land between Prothé and Innocent, in full view of Papa. I never discovered what it was about, but Innocent raised his hand against Prothé. Papa fired Innocent on the spot for refusing to apologize, and for continuing to threaten everybody.

  The permanent tension made people nervous. They became sensitive to the slightest noise, kept their guard up in the street, looked in the rear-view mirror to check they weren’t being followed. Everyone was in a state of high alert. One day, in the middle of a geography lesson, a tire blew out on boulevard de l’Indépendence, just outside the school walls, and our entire class, including the teacher, dived under our desks.

  At school, relationships between the Burundian students had changed, subtly, but in ways I grew conscious of. There were lots of cryptic comments, as well as secret codes. When we needed to get into groups, for sport or to prepare a presentation in class, our sense of unease was quick to surface. I couldn’t explain this cruel shift, this tangible sense of confusion.

  That is, until break-time one day, when two Burundian boys started fighting behind the main playground, hidden from the view of teachers and supervisors. The other Burundian students, wading into the hot waters of the dispute, promptly divided into two groups, each supporting one of the boys. “Filthy Hutus!” shouted one side. “Filthy Tutsis!” replied the other.

  That afternoon, for the first time in my life, I entered the dark reality of this country. I was a direct witness to Hutu–Tutsi antagonism, the line that could not be crossed, forcing everyone to belong to one camp or the other. This camp was something you were born with, like a child’s given name, something that followed you forever. Hutu or Tutsi. It had to be one or the other. Heads or tails. From that day on, I was like a blind person who had regained their sight, as I began to decipher people’s body language and glances, words left unspoken and ways of behaving that had previously passed me by.

  War always takes it upon itself, unsolicited, to find us an enemy. I wanted to remain neutral, but I couldn’t. I was born with this story. It ran in my blood. I belonged to it.

  19

  We discovered an even more violent reality in Rwanda, which we visited at the end of the February holidays, when we attended Pacifique’s wedding. My uncle had announced the news only a week earlier, after growing insecurity in Kigali had accelerated matters. Maman, Ana, and I were representing the family: Mamie and Rosalie had to stay behind in Bujumbura, since their refugee status meant they couldn’t travel.

  In the arrivals hall of Grégoire-Kayibanda airport we were met by Eusébie, Maman’s aunt, who was barely older than Maman and who had always refused to go into exile. Maman thought of her as the big sister she’d never had. Aunt Eusébie was as pale-skinned as I was. Her long face resembled those of the women in our family, she had a wide domed forehead, tiny ears, a slender neck, a gap between her slightly protruding front teeth, and a sprinkling of freckles on her nose and eyelids. She wore a black pleated skirt down to her ankles and a jacket with big shoulder pads that made her look like a scarecrow. Ana had spent a week as a guest in her home when she had visited with Maman, but I was meeting her for the first time. She was overcome and hugged me tightly against her soft skin, which smelled of shea butter.

  Aunt Eusébie was a widow who lived in a house in the center of Kigali where, single-handedly, she raised her four children—three girls and a boy, aged five to sixteen—Christelle, Christiane, Christian, and Christine.

  Aunt Eusébie’s daughters rushed to greet Ana and wouldn’t let go of her. She was their guest of honor, the doll they wanted to pamper in the coming days. They argued over who got to spend the most time with her and fought to brush her smooth hair, which seemed so exotic to them. On the walls of their bedroom, they had stuck up the photos they’d taken a year earlier with Ana, during the Christmas holidays.

  Christian, who was my age, stared playfully at me with his twinkling eyes. He was almost as talkative as the twins, and his curiosity was in a league of its own. He asked a thousand and one questions about Burundi, my friends, and my favorite sports. As the proud captain of his school football team, he insisted on showing me the cups and medals he had won at the inter-schools’ championships and which were displayed on the big chest of drawers in the living room. He couldn’t wait for the next Africa Cup of Nations, which was being held in Tunisia. His favorite team, Cameroon, hadn’t qualified, so he had decided to support Nigeria.

  Over dinner, Aunt Eusébie told us all sorts of funny stories that made Maman giggle uncontrollably. My aunt was hilarious when it came to recounting the holidays she and Maman had spent as teenagers with the Girl Scouts in the Burundian countryside. She transformed the trials and tribulations of our family into comic tales and fantastic adventures, egged on affectionately by her children. They applauded and encouraged, sometimes finishing off the stories for her or helping her to find the right word in French. After dinner, Aunt Eusébie told us to get ready for bed and our cousins jumped up happily and noisily. The girls used their toothbrushes as microphones in the bathroom, singing and dancing in front of the large mirror. Christian had put on his Roger Milla shirt instead of pajamas. Before going to sleep, he liked to kick a ball against his bedroom wall, which was covered in footballer posters. He claimed that, afterward, he was bound to dream of winning the World Cup final.

  Christian fell asleep within two minutes of Aunt Eusébie turning out the lights. I was just drifting off when I heard Pacifique’s voice. I rushed into the living room, expecting to see him in uniform, but he was dressed in a polo shirt, jeans, and trainers. He lifted me up, holding me at arm’s length above his head. “Look at you, my Gaby! You’re a man! Soon you’ll be taller than your uncle!” He still had the face of an angel and the look of a free-spirited poet, but something in his eyes had changed, he had grown serious. Aunt Eusébie was busy double-locking all the doors with a big set of keys. She returned from the kitchen, flicking off the switch in the living room. A second later, the flame from a cigarette lighter lit a candle on the coffee table, and Pacifique settled into the armchair opposite Maman. She told me to go to bed, adding that the grown-ups needed to talk now. Reluctantly, I turned to leave, but instead of doing as I was told, I stayed in the hallway, just behind the door, where I could watch them unseen.

  “Thank you for coming so quickly, big sister,” said Pacifique, turning toward Maman once Aunt Eusébie had finally sat down. “I’m sorry that everything’s so rushed. The thing is, our wedding couldn’t wait. You see, Jeanne’s family are devout believers, they’re very traditional and like to do things in the right order. So we had to be married before telling them the news, about the baby. Are you following me?” he asked, punctuating his question with a wink.

  Maman paused, as if to make sure she had hear
d properly, then she let out a whoop of joy and threw her arms around Pacifique. Aunt Eusébie, who was already in on the secret, beamed. Pacifique was quick to pull away from Maman. “Please, sit down,” he said, sounding preoccupied. “There’s more I need to talk to you about.”

  His face clouded over. He motioned with his chin to Aunt Eusébie, who immediately went over to the window and glanced outside, after which she closed the blinds and drew the curtains. She returned to sit next to Pacifique, underneath a plastic rococo frame boasting a handsome black-and-white studio photo of her with her husband and children. Oddly, she was the only person smiling in the shot. The rest of the family looked stiff and frozen in front of the camera.

  Pacifique pulled up his chair until his knees were touching Maman’s. He began to talk in a voice that was almost inaudible.

  “Listen carefully, Yvonne. You must take what I’m about to tell you very seriously. The situation is graver than it appears. Our intelligence has intercepted messages that give cause for alarm, and has detected signs that lead us to believe something horrific is about to happen here. The Hutu extremists don’t want to power-share with our members in the RPF. They’re ready to do whatever it takes to overturn the peace agreements. Their plan is to eliminate all the opposition leaders, as well as every moderate Hutu figure in civil society. Then they’ll turn their attention to the Tutsi…”

  He paused, looking around, straining his ear as he listened out for any untoward noise. Outside, the toads croaked in a regular rhythm. Despite the closed curtains, a pale orange glow from the streetlight had worked its way into the living room.

  “We fear widespread slaughters across the country,” Pacifique continued, still in a whisper. “Slaughters on a scale that will make what’s gone before seem nothing more than a rehearsal.”

  The candlelight cast shadows on the wall, the darkness blurred my uncle’s features so that his eyes appeared suspended in the gloom.

  “Machetes have been distributed throughout the provinces, there are significant arms caches in Kigali, the militia are being trained with the support of the regular army, lists of people to be assassinated are being circulated in every district, and the United Nations is in receipt of information confirming that there is the capacity to kill one thousand Tutsis every twenty minutes…”

  A car drove past outside. Pacifique fell quiet and waited until the vehicle was far enough away.

  “There’s a long list of what’s in store for us,” he murmured. “Our families are living on borrowed time. Death is encircling us, soon it will swoop down and there’ll be no escape.”

  Maman’s distress and bewilderment were visible as she glanced for confirmation from Aunt Eusébie, who stared bleakly at a spot on the floor.

  “What about the Arusha peace agreements?” Maman asked, sounding horrified. “And the transitional government? I thought the war was over, that it was all being resolved. How could a massacre on the scale you’re talking about take place in Kigali, in the presence of so many UN peacekeepers? I mean, it’s inconceivable…”

  “All it takes is for a few of those Blue Berets to be killed, and every white in the country will be evacuated. It’s part of the Hutu strategy. The powers that be won’t risk the lives of their own soldiers on behalf of some poor Africans. And the extremists know that.”

  “So what are we waiting for? The international press, the embassies, the United Nations—why haven’t they all been informed?”

  “Oh, they know what’s going on. They can access the same intelligence as us, but they don’t place any value on it. We can’t expect anything from them. We can only count on ourselves. I’ve come to see you because we need your help, big sister. I have to make a quick decision, as the only man in our family. I’m asking you to take in Aunt Eusébie’s children in Bujumbura, as well as my wife-to-be and the baby she’s carrying. They’ll stay in Burundi for as long as it takes. They’ll be safe over there.”

  “There’s a war being waged in Burundi, too, as well you know.”

  “What’s set to happen here will be far worse than any war.”

  “When do you plan on sending them?” asked Maman, getting straight to the point.

  “Everybody will join you for the Easter holidays, so as not to arouse any suspicions.”

  “What about you, Eusébie? What are you going to do?”

  “I’m staying here, Yvonne, I have to carry on working, for the children’s sake. I’ll feel less vulnerable without them. In any event, we can’t all flee. I’ll be all right, don’t worry, I have contacts at the United Nations, so if there’s a problem I’ll make sure I’m evacuated.”

  We heard the sound of an engine in front of the house. Aunt Eusébie rushed over to the window and parted the curtains slightly. Someone was signaling with their headlights. Then my aunt turned and nodded at Pacifique. When he stood up, I noticed a gun tucked inside the belt of his jeans.

  “I have to go now, they’re waiting for me. I’ll see you tomorrow at the wedding. Drive carefully. I won’t be traveling with you to Gitarama: I’m under close surveillance by the secret services and I don’t want them making the connection between us. The families of RPF soldiers are at the top of the lists of people to be assassinated. I’ll join you when it’s time for the ceremony.”

  Then he slipped outside. I emerged from my hiding place and went over to join my aunt by the window. A motorbike drove off. We could make out the red glow of its rear lights when it braked for potholes. Gradually, the hum of the engine faded until it was out of earshot. Aunt Eusébie closed the curtains again. Nothing moved now. Everything was silent all over the world.

  20

  The early-morning light chased away the anguish of the night. I woke to the sounds of laughter as Ana and the cousins played in the garden. Aunt Eusébie and Maman hadn’t slept a wink, I’d heard them whispering until dawn. We set out for the wedding straight after breakfast. Christian and I were in the trunk of the car, sitting on the suitcases that contained our outfits. Aunt Eusébie thought it best for us to get dressed on arrival, so as not to draw attention to ourselves in the event of a police check. The girls were wedged together on the backseat. Maman sat in the passenger seat, applying her makeup in the sun-visor mirror. At first, we drove through the poorer districts full of hustle and bustle and tooting horns, then, after the bus station, the landscape gradually became less cluttered. The city gave way to papyrus marshes as far as the eye could see. Gitarama was fifty kilometers from Kigali, and Aunt Eusébie drove fast to reach it as early as possible. We were stuck for ages behind a truck whose exhaust pipe belched out thick, sulphurous black smoke. The girls quickly wound up the windows and pinched their noses at the smell of rotten eggs.

  Maman switched on the radio and the catchy rhythm of a Papa Wemba song filled the car. The cousins started moving to the beat, and Christian gave me a mischievous look as he raised his eyebrows and shimmied his shoulders like an Ethiopian dancer. Aunt Eusébie didn’t waste any time in turning up the volume. From the back, I had a view of heads swaying left and right to the music. When the chorus came round, the girls sang: “Maria Valencia hey, hey, hey!” This amused Maman, who turned around to give me a knowing wink. The radio presenter was singing over the music. I could grasp only a few words in his Kinyarwanda: “Radio 106 FM! Radio Sympa! Papa Wemba!” Sounding very upbeat, he sang the chorus, chatted, joked, and generally fooled about on air. I got carried away, and even though I usually hate dancing, I found myself wiggling my hips, clapping my hands regardless, and singing enthusiastically “Hey, hey, hey” when, all of a sudden, I noticed that everyone else had stopped moving. The expressions on my cousins’ faces had changed. Christian had frozen. Aunt Eusébie hastily switched off the radio. Nobody spoke in the car. Although I couldn’t see Maman’s face, I could sense her discomfort.

  “What is it?” I asked, looking at Christian.

  “Nothing. Ju
st some nonsense. It was the radio presenter…what he was saying…”

  “What was he saying?”

  “He said all cockroaches must die.”

  “Cockroaches?”

  “Yes, cockroaches. Inyenzi.”

  “…”

  “They use that word to talk about us, the Tutsi.”

  The car slowed down. Ahead of us, some vehicles had stopped on a bridge.

  “A military roadblock!” said Aunt Eusébie, panicking.

  When we were level with the soldiers, one of them signaled to Aunt Eusébie to turn off the engine and then asked to see her identity card. Another, with a Kalashnikov slung across his shoulder, inspected our car, walking around it in a threatening manner. On reaching the trunk, he stuck his face up against the back window. Christian looked away to avoid eye contact, and so did I. The soldier proceeded toward Maman. After staring at her, he asked curtly for her papers. Maman held out her French passport. The soldier glanced at it, then sniggered.

  “Bonjour, Madame la Française!”

  He leafed through her passport with an amused expression. Maman didn’t dare say anything.

  “Hmm…I don’t think you’re a real Frenchie,” he said. “I’ve never seen a Frenchwoman with a nose like yours. And as for that neck…”

  He ran his hand down the nape of Maman’s neck. She sat there, rigid with fear. Over on her side, Aunt Eusébie was negotiating with the other soldier. She was desperately trying to hide her nervousness.

  “We’re going to Gitarama to visit a sick relative.”

  I was staring at the barrier behind the soldiers, at the weapons swinging from their shoulders, and I could hear their straps creaking, as well as the sound of the red-ocher river, squeezed between its papyrus banks, flowing under the bridge with its fleeting eddies on the water’s surface. It felt strange to understand the soldier’s innuendoes, the fear in Aunt Eusébie’s gestures, the fear that had taken hold of Maman. A month earlier, I wouldn’t have grasped any of this. But now—Hutu soldiers in one camp, a Tutsi family in the other—I had a ringside seat for this spectacle of hatred.