“Well,” said Father, changing the subject. “In the end, not only did the Belgians get rid of the Germans, they also got rid of King Musinga. He fought against the Belgians when they were fighting the Germans, so they didn't like him much. And he was naughty and wouldn't go to church!” I wished I were the King, so that I didn't have to go to church. “So the Belgians picked a new king, Musinga's son. People called him Mwami w'abazungu, ‘King of the Whites’, because he dressed in Western clothes, drove his own car and went to church.” I liked the idea of a king driving around in a car. “And if the King goes to church,” concluded Father as we arrived outside the plain red-brick building where lots of people were milling about, “so does everyone else.”
“Yeesss,” said Mother, as though she didn't believe him. “Let's go inside, Arthur.” She ushered me through the crowd of brightly dressed women and men wearing shirts and ties.
At the entrance, Father stopped to greet Sebazungu and Simon, who were talking animatedly to the priest as if they were the best of friends. Simon placed his left hand on his own arm when he shook Father's hand. Sebazungu didn't.
“Mwaramutse,” said one of the elders inside the entrance.
“Good morning,” said Mother.
“Mwaramutse,” he said again, this time to me. I stared past him into the huge, barn-like church that smelt of straw and dung. I heard Mother mutter an apology to the elder – the same thing she said to every stranger who didn't know I didn't talk, something about “going through a difficult phase” – which clearly wasn't the truth – and hurried me along. The tang of warm bodies rose towards the giant wooden cross that hung slantwise above the altar, which was covered in faded artificial flowers. The concrete walls and floors shimmered, and the ironwork around the plain glass windows was brown with rust.
Mother greeted everyone she knew: Celeste and her family – twelve of them in total, all with smiles as wide and gummy as hers – Thomas chewing on tobacco and Joseph half-asleep from being awake all night in the yard. Hundreds of eyes followed us as we walked to the front. I felt uncomfortable in my long trousers. All the other boys wore shorts.
“There, Arthur.” Mother motioned towards a wooden bench in front of Beni's family. Beni was in her shiny Sunday dress, and her hair had been newly braided. Mother greeted Beni's parents, who nodded politely. Her mama was sitting upright and proud, wearing her Sunday best; her data held on to his Bible, which had an ID card as a marker and a black leather case. I thought I'd like such a case for my butterfly book.
We sat down. The bench buckled beneath us. Father acknowledged Beni's family and thumbed his Bible. Mother studied the growing congregation, nodding when she caught someone's eye. I watched the musicians, who wore dirty anoraks, rubber boots and trousers that were too big and covered in mud. They were playing out of tune, and the shrill noise from the speakers hurt my ears.
A family of seven joined us on the bench. They shoved us along until our shoulders were curved forward and our arms crossed. We sat huddled like golden monkeys on a straining branch: it felt as if we might crash to the ground.
The choir began to sing. The men wore uniforms that were just like my Christmas clothes – blue shirts and beige trousers – and the women black T-shirts under their glittering mushanana, traditional dresses. They made gestures with their hands – placing them on their hearts to signify love, or on their cheeks to symbolize sleep, and they swayed in time with the music.
As the choir sang, Mother nodded at a passing family. It was the fuel attendant with his fat wife, Sammy and Zach, who wore a bandage round his head.
“Ha-ha,” Beni whispered in my ear, and I giggled. Mother placed her hand on my knee to shush me.
When the choir finished, the priest rose. The sun crept behind a cloud, and the church lost its glimmer. Mother sat with an attentive face, nodding her head and clasping her hands, listening to the priest, who preached in Kinyarwanda.
“Imana, Imana,” he shouted, over and over. Mother kept bobbing her head, even though I was sure she didn't understand. Father turned to the passage in his English Bible that the Priest was preaching about – Ephesians 4:1–6.
Time passed, and the congregation began to fidget – mothers took their screaming babies to the back of the church, fathers stifled yawns, children whispered messages, but the priest continued with his sermon. Father pointed to the relevant verse. “Be humble and gentle,” it said. I became aware of the bones in my bottom. Beni swung her legs in boredom, her shoes kicked against our pew. Father nudged me and ran his finger along the words the preacher was quoting: “Keep the unity of the spirit through the bond of peace…”
The choir pretended to close their eyes in prayer, but really they were trying to sleep. But still the priest preached. “There is one Lord, one faith, one God and Father who is over all and through all and in all…” I read, with Father's guidance.
The smell of bodies got worse. Little children ran outside and banged on the sheet-metal doors until their mothers let them in again. Even the elders, shuffling on the pews, rubbed their palms over their tired, hot faces.
Having lost interest in the sermon, I turned my attention to a shabby tiger moth, struggling along the dusty window ledge beside me. I scooped it up. Its wings fluttered gently, tickling my skin. Peeking through the hole in my cupped hands I blew on it lightly. It shut its wings defensively. I thought about how it would feel to pull them off. It was lethargic enough for me to try.
“Arthur,” Mother rebuked me with a cross look, but there was a lightness in her expression that told me she understood. I placed the moth on an open page of my book, unharmed. Then the priest stared directly at our bench and shouted in English, thumping his Bible:
“The Devil is mighty, but God is almighty.”
He gave me such a fright that I slammed my book shut, squashing the moth to death. Beni smothered a giggle. The priest bowed his head in prayer. I opened my book to look at the moth: its yellow insides stained the page. I fell into an absence.
“Arthur,” said Mother, tugging at my sleeve and bringing me round. The prayers were over, and she and Father were standing, waiting for me to join them. It was time for the collection. I squeezed past the family of seven and put our money in the small wooden box. An entire church of eyes watched me: everyone stared at the mzungu boy.
On our return Zach stuck his leg into the aisle. I tripped.
Father caught me before I fell.
* * *
When we returned from church, Fabrice had already laid the table. Mother's crystal glasses were down from the shelves and sparkling, the silver cutlery was polished, the tablecloth was spotless, and in the centre was a flower arrangement with three candles. Fabrice had lit the fire, even though it was twenty-five degrees outside.
In my bedroom I took off my Christmas clothes and put on my brown shorts and blue T-shirt, which instantly made me feel better. I peered into my farm – the last remaining chrysalis clung inertly to a twig.
“Arthur. Dinner. Presents!” called Father from the living room.
Mother was lying on the sofa with a wineglass in her hand. Fabrice – who wore a cracker hat – was placing foie gras and toast on the table, while Father was busy under the tree.
“Dinner is served,” said Fabrice, who stood to admire the table before returning to the kitchen.
“Foie gras?!” Mother asked Father as he spread it on his toast.
“It's Christmas, Martha,” he replied, tucking in. “A treat.”
“We could pay the staff's wages for a month with what that cost,” she muttered, and took a swig of wine.
I nibbled a corner of foie gras and toast. It tasted like something Romeo would eat, so I fed it to him under the table – even he looked at it twice.
Mother rang the brass bell for Fabrice. We sat in silence, waiting for him. Mother drank her wine.
“Pull, Arthur,” Father said, waving a shiny red cracker. I tugged hard. It gave way with a subdued bang. I put on the hat, read
the joke to myself and put the small bag of tiddlywinks into the pocket of my shorts.
“Sorry I couldn't find a turkey,” said Father when Fabrice returned with a roast chicken. He made a gobble sound and flapped his arms. “Gobble, gobble, Arthur. Can you say gobble?” I felt guilty when Father encouraged me to talk with humour. I wanted to say gobble for him but couldn't. It was as though my teeth were stuck together. Father looked discouraged, and that made me feel worse. I wished Father could be more like Mother, just ask a question and let it go.
Mother picked at her chicken; Father and I wolfed it down, scraping our plates and smiling at Fabrice when he gathered them up. I wondered if Beni was also having a Christmas – and, if so, with whom. Would she wait for her sogokuru to return home, or were they eating without him?
By the time Fabrice had returned with the pineapple cake that Father had brought from the city, Mother had moved back to the sofa with a glass of liqueur, and she soon fell asleep.
“Never mind, Arthur,” said Father, when he saw me hover despondently between Mother and the presents under the tree. “We can open those ones later. Let's have a bit of fresh air.”
He took me to the back yard, where a shiny new bike was waiting for me. Mother must have collected it from Goma.
The rubber handlebar was warm from the sun, and the letters BMX were emblazoned on the crossbar in yellow and white. I ran my hand over the saddle and stood back for a moment, then swung my leg over the bar and wriggled onto the seat. It felt good, softer than the trike – and higher too. My toes just about grazed the ground. Father put his hand on my back and encouraged me forward.
“Let's walk Fabrice home,” he said, steering me down the path and onto the lane. I liked the idea: I could show Beni my new bike.
Off we went down the orange road – Father, Fabrice, Romeo and me. Father continued to steer, and Fabrice helped whenever I wobbled. Romeo ran alongside.
“Fabrice,” said Father. I concentrated on the road. “I was telling Arthur this morning about King Rudahigwa.”
“Eh, Bwana,” said Fabrice, laughing. “King of Whites!”
“But not so white in the end, right?”
“No, Bwana,” Fabrice tutted. “No, no, no. The King thinks abazungu like the Hutus too much.”
“And was he right?” Father asked, placing his hand securely on my back and pulling me straight as the bike leant to one side.
“Yes, Bwana. Abazungu begin to help the Hutus.”
“And the King didn't like the Whites helping the Hutus?”
“No, Bwana. The King want rid of e-ve-ry Ab-a-zun-gu so Tutsis can stay in power.”
“But it was too late, no? The Hutus had already organized new political parties.”
“Eh, Bwana, it is true. Soon Hutus and Tutsis were enemies.”
Going too fast I lost my footing, and a pedal clipped my ankle bone. Fabrice reached out to steady me, and I regained control.
“And then the King suddenly died,” said Father. I felt bad about that: I liked the King who drove his own car.
“Yes,” said Fabrice. “Big funeral for Rudahigwa. Everyone sawree for the King and angry at abazungu. Abazungu kill Rudahigwa!” Fabrice was serious, but Father laughed.
“Rudahigwa was greedy, Fabrice. He ate and drank himself to death.” Fabrice didn't respond. I wasn't sure he believed Father. I wasn't sure I believed Father. How much did one man have to eat and drink to kill himself? I wondered, correcting the position of my shaky front wheel without Father's help.
“And Rudahigwa's half-brother was chosen as the next king.”
“Eh, Kigeri the Fifth,” said Fabrice. “Very young, tall and thin.” I imagined the new king as a giraffe, with a long neck and spindly legs.
“Too young, perhaps,” said Father.
“Too young,” agreed Fabrice.
Fabrice and Father stopped their conversation when we were past the shops and looked in the direction of the bar. I noticed Sebazungu standing with a group of men drinking banana beer. I had become more confident, and when Father shouted “One – two – three” and his hand came away from my back, I decided I could do it on my own. I rode towards the shack, showing off to Sebazungu, who was watching and laughing and pointing to all his friends to look at me on my new bike. Then suddenly my front wheel hit a pothole, and though I fought hard to control it, the bike toppled and I tumbled to the ground.
A great roar of laughter echoed through the air. I lay stunned with my legs under the bike. Fabrice lifted it from me. Sebazungu came forward and held out his hand – I took it. He pulled me up, but his hand slipped and I fell back to the ground. The crowd laughed some more.
“Come on, Arthur,” said Father, helping me up and brushing me down. “We'll try again another day.”
Sebazungu handed a beer to one of the people in the jeering crowd. I had to look twice before realizing it was Sammy, the fuel attendant's son. He looked much more grown up in the company of men than he had next to his parents in church. Beside him was Zach. Sammy slapped him on the back and said:
“Eh, Zach. Look at the mzungu.”
“Nice bike,” he sneered.
“Arthur,” said Father. “Come on. Let's go.”
I took the bike from Fabrice and watched him walk slowly away, carrying his bag of Christmas scraps; every eye in the crowd followed him down the orange dirt road apart from Zach and Sammy, who kept their eyes on me.
Merry Christmas, Fabrice, I wanted to say. Thank you.
But the words remained buried within me.
11
Later that evening I heard the wheels of Father's car crunching down the lane. Sometimes he went out on an evening alone. I didn't know where he went or why, and I was always asleep by the time he got home. In the mornings, when I woke, he'd have left again for Kigali.
With Father gone and Mother in her room, I sat in my bedroom staring at the last remaining chrysalis. I studied it through my magnifying glass by the light of the fading bulb and the chugging sound of the generator. The chrysalis was dangling from a twig by the hook of its tail. I wondered when the metamorphosis would take place. I was desperate to see the transformation with my own eyes. My book said that it was “a very interesting event to witness, and everyone should make a point of watching it happen”. I was determined not to miss it.
I pressed the magnifying glass as close to the chrysalis as I could. I was sure it began to move, almost imperceptibly. It seemed to vibrate. I was so excited I could barely hold the glass still. I wished Beni was with me.
Slowly the chrysalis's sides began to split, showing black and orange gashes similar to lava flow. The butterfly began to emerge, little by little. Small bursts of activity revealed more and more of its lacy, crumpled wings. As it slipped down further, there was a flare of orange and black.
Once free, the butterfly clung with its spidery legs to the remaining shell of the chrysalis. It tried to unfold its wings but failed, then tidied the remains of its cocoon. It remained attached to its old world until certain its wings would open.
I sat drawing the butterfly in my book, next to the picture of the egg, caterpillar and chrysalis. I drew its forewings striped with orange, black and tan, and then its orange hindwings, speckled with black.
I drew until I felt pins and needles in my calves. I unfolded my legs, and the butterfly fully unfolded her wings. I stood up, stretched and walked around the room, all the while watching the butterfly explore the caterpillar farm with her antennae.
Longing to show it to Beni, I took out an old jam jar from under my bed. I cupped my hands around the trembling butterfly and put it in the jar. Mother came in and stood at the window looking out over the front garden. Her cheeks were drained of colour. She came over to see what I was doing.
“What have you got there, Arthur?”
As I secured the lid, she told me in a faraway voice: “Catching them's the easy part: it's releasing them that's hard. You never know which way they're going to fly.”
I
didn't understand what she meant. I wanted to tell her about how many eggs Beni and I had collected over more than a year – and how few of those eggs had hatched into caterpillars and transformed into chrysalises – and that this was the only one that had made it to full adult stage. She must have known that releasing our butterfly wasn't hard at all – that was the easiest bit.
When Mother had returned to her bedroom, I pulled my jacket out from beneath my blanket, put it on and slipped the jar into my pocket. I opened the back door and stepped out into the dark, leaving the dogs behind and not even worrying about the mosquitoes. Joseph flashed his torch at me, and for a moment I stood in a circle of light. On seeing it was only me, he gave me the thumbs up, turned off the beam and hunkered into his sleeping bag, supping on the bottle of Primus that Mother had given him for Christmas.
I went to the log shed, collected my trike and tied it to the back of my new bike, then walked down the side of the house to the road. I rode with great care in the dark, past the closed-up shops and on towards the bar, where Sebazungu and the men were still gathered. They were huddled round a fire, drinking and smoking. It didn't smell like Father's cigarettes. They were shouting in Kinyarwanda, but spoke too quickly for me to understand. I hid in the shadows of the opposite shack and spied on them.
I recognized Simon by his big hat, Sammy and Zach, but it was too dark to make out anyone else.
Edging closer, I trod on a piece of wood that snapped beneath me. Sebazungu shot a look in my direction. I hunkered in the shadows and stood as still as possible. He grabbed a flame torch and held it high. The other men turned quiet and stared out into the dark.
The Flower Plantation Page 9
