Baking Cakes in Kigali

by Gaile Parkin

Smiling, they drank their tea quietly for a few moments as Angel prepared herself to raise a subject that, when she allowed herself to focus on it, troubled her deeply.

  “Tell me, Thérèse, may I ask you a personal question?”

  “Of course, Angel.”

  “Is your mother still alive?”

  “My mother? No, unfortunately she’s late.”

  “And did you … Did you ever tell her that you were sick?”

  Thérèse took a sip of her tea before answering. “Yes, I did. It was only when my baby boy died that they advised me to have the test. I was shocked when they told me I was positive—”

  Angel interrupted. “Odile told me that that is the way, the time, that many mothers discover that they’re positive. When a baby is late.”

  “It’s true, Angel.”

  “And, Thérèse, how was it when you told your mother?”

  “Eh, it’s a very hard thing to tell a mother! And I regret so much that I told mine. It upset her too much. Truly, Angel, I think it was my news that made her late so soon.”

  “Eh?”

  “It shocked her too much, and I think she preferred to die before she had to watch me die. We didn’t know then about the medication. If I could go back in time and untell her, she could be alive today and not worrying about me being sick—because I’m well.”

  “That is not an easy thought for you to have, Thérèse. I’m sorry.” Angel swallowed a sip of tea. “Now … say you met a girl who was sick. Would you advise her not to tell her mother?”

  “Eh! That is a very difficult question to answer. Each and every case is different, and only the girl herself will know what to do.” She drained her mug. “Although, in my case I thought I knew what to do but I did the wrong thing. I wish I hadn’t told the truth, Angel. A lie would have been so much kinder to my mother. Sometimes a lie can hold more love in its heart than the truth.”

  Angel was contemplating this when a shout began in the street, distant at first and then brought nearer by voices closer to the compound: “Amazi! Water.”

  “Eh, the water has come back,” said Angel, scrambling to her feet. “Let us wash the mixing bowls so that we can make the icing.”

  LATER, as they had arranged, Angel and Thérèse knocked on the door of Jenna’s apartment. It was exactly eleven-thirty.

  “Perfect timing, Angel,” said Jenna, opening the door. “We’ve just finished today’s lesson.”

  “That’s good,” said Angel. “Jenna, this is Thérèse, my student.”

  “Delighted to meet you, Thérèse,” said Jenna in French, shaking Thérèse’s hand. “Let me introduce you to my students. That’s Leocadie, and next to her is Agathe, and on the other side of the table there’s Eugenia and Inés.”

  Thérèse worked her way around the table, greeting the women in Kinyarwanda and shaking each of them by the hand.

  “Good morning, ladies,” said Angel in English. “I’m sorry that I don’t know French, and if I speak Swahili then Jenna and Agathe will not understand me, and if I speak the small bit of Kinyarwanda that I know, Jenna won’t understand me. So I’m going to speak in English and Jenna will repeat after me in French.”

  As Jenna translated, Angel put down the plate that she had been holding.

  “Ladies, you are honoured to be the first people in Kigali to taste cakes baked by our sister Thérèse.” As Jenna translated, everyone looked at Thérèse, who beamed and dipped her head. “It’s a new business for her; a new way of supporting her two girls. Our job today is to taste these cakes and to help Thérèse with our opinions and advice.”

  Nestled together on the plate were a number of cupcakes: half of them decorated with pale yellow butter icing—made with margarine—and half with white glacé icing. Not wanting to spoil her first cakes in any way, Thérèse had been too nervous to add colour to her own icing, but she had observed and taken notes as Angel had coloured the icing for her own batch of cupcakes. She had been amazed by the number of colours it was possible to make from just three: red, blue and yellow.

  Jenna and her students applied themselves earnestly to their task. The cakes were unanimously declared to be extremely delicious, and there was discussion about which type of icing would be more popular. Finally, agreement was reached that, while some adults might prefer the glacé icing, children would probably prefer the butter icing—and that Thérèse could probably charge more for a cake with butter icing on it because it made the cake look a bit bigger.

  “Eh, that is very good advice,” said Thérèse. “Thank you. Now I’m going to ask my teacher to try one of my cakes, and then I’m going to eat one myself.”

  Silently, six pairs of eyes watched Angel as she peeled away the paper case and took a bite. She chewed slowly, savouring her mouthful, then swallowed.

  “Thérèse,” she said, with a serious and solemn expression befitting a teacher, “this is a very fine cake indeed.”

  Five pairs of eyes swung towards Jenna, who mimicked Angel’s expression as she translated. The women erupted into laughter and applause, and finally Thérèse felt that she could relax and eat a cake herself. As she took her first mouthful, a broad grin spread across her face.

  “Okay, ladies,” said Jenna, clapping her hands together with an air of authority, “time to go. You all need to get back to your jobs, and I need to make this place look like you were never here before my husband even thinks about coming home for lunch.”

  “Eh, Inés,” said Angel as the women walked down the stairs, “I think you should fetch Prosper from his office before you go and open up the bar. I think he wanted to have a beer there earlier when you were closed for your lesson.”

  “Eh, that Prosper!” said Inés, shaking her head. “I’ve told him many times that the bar is shut from half-past ten to half-past eleven on weekdays now.”

  “I’m sure that he doesn’t want to accept that,” said Eugenia. “When there’s something that a man wants, it is now that he wants that something. Waiting is something that is very difficult for a man to do.”

  Angel thought of Eugenia being sent to get condoms for the Egyptian.

  “Eh, men?” said Leocadie, shaking her head. “Uh-uh.” “Men? Uh-uh-uh,” agreed Inés.

  “And my shop was shut, too,” said Leocadie. “Prosper couldn’t buy beer there, either.”

  “Exactly,” said Angel. “Now he’s sitting inside his office with the door shut, and you know there’s no window there, and no light. He’s sitting in the dark.”

  The women laughed. They had reached ground level now.

  “Okay,” said Inés with a sigh. “I’ll go and get him.” She headed towards the stairs leading down into the yard.

  “Eh, and make sure he takes his Bible with him,” Angel called after her, still laughing. “Ask him to show you the verses that talk about the virtue of patience.”

  EARLY that afternoon, just after Titi had finished washing up after lunch and had settled for her afternoon nap, Angel received a surprise visitor.

  “Gasana! Welcome!” she said, ushering the translator into the apartment. “Children, you remember Mr Gasana, who works with Baba? We went to Cyangugu with him.”

  Gasana stretched across the coffee table around which the children sat on the floor, and on which their homework books vied for space, shaking each of the children by the hand.

  “I can’t stay long, Mrs T; the driver has just dropped me here while he goes for fuel, and then he’s taking me to a meeting. But I need to discuss some business with you very quickly.”

  “Then let us sit at my work table,” said Angel, indicating an upright wooden chair next to the table and sitting on another herself. “Do you want to make changes to your order?”

  “In a way, Mrs T. I know from your Cake Order Form that I signed that it’s not possible for my deposit to be refunded, so I’m not actually cancelling my order. But I was wondering, Mrs T, could I postpone it?”

  Angel considered this. “So you want to change the delivery dat
e?”

  “Yes. But I’m not sure yet what date I’ll need the cake.”

  “But is it not for the first meeting of your new book club? Are the people not able to come?”

  “Eh, Mrs T, it’s me who is unable to come! The others are still very excited. Everybody has managed to read Things Fall Apart, even though we have only one copy, and we’re all ready to discuss it. But I’ve just received news that my brother in Byumba is late.”

  “Eh, Gasana! I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you, Mrs T. So now I’ll have to go and arrange for burial, and of course I can’t be here for the book club this weekend. I’ve spoken to some of the others, and they say they don’t want to have the meeting without me because the club was my idea, and it’s my book.”

  “Of course.”

  “And I don’t know yet when everybody will be free again, so I can’t set the date yet.”

  “No, I understand. You can just tell me when you’re going to be ready for the cake. I’m sure it will be soon.”

  “I hope so,” said Gasana, but he shook his head. “Eh, Mrs T, I’m obliged to inherit my brother’s wife and his four children. Obviously we cannot all fit in my small house. I don’t know how I’m going to afford to have a wife and children. Marriage was not in my immediate three-year plan.”

  “That is very difficult,” Angel sympathised. “It was not in our immediate three-year plan to raise five more children, but circumstances arose that made us have to change our plan.”

  Gasana glanced at the children. “I understand your situation, because Dr T has told me, more specifically about your son. And to tell the truth, Mrs T, I think my brother was sick, and that is why he’s late. Now I don’t know about his wife and the children. I don’t know if they’re well.”

  “Let us pray, Gasana,” said Angel. “I hope you won’t think that I’m being too direct if I suggest to you that you should … be careful?” This advice surprised Angel herself: before getting to know Odile and spending time at the centre, she would have considered such a subject too delicate even to think about, let alone to mention openly.

  Gasana laughed. “No, you’re not too direct, Mrs T! In fact, nobody is direct like Dr Rejoice, and she’s already given me a lecture and a big handful of Prudence! She’s one of the people who’ll be in the book club. Eh, Mrs T, are you sure I can’t persuade you to change your mind and join the club? All the books we’ll read will be in English.”

  “Thank you, Gasana, but I told you before that I’m not an educated somebody; I’m not somebody to read books. But you know, I’m going to make an exception in your case and return your deposit to you, because I haven’t used it yet to buy ingredients.” Angel reached into her brassiere and removed some banknotes. “I’m sure you’ll need this money for the funeral.”

  “Mrs T, I’m very grateful to you.” Gasana accepted the money that Angel counted out and handed to him. “Thank you for understanding my situation.” He glanced at his watch. “Where is that driver now? I must be at the Ministry of Justice by half-past two!”

  “The Ministry of Justice! That sounds important. What are you doing there?”

  “Earning money for KIST as usual!” Gasana replied. “Eh, your husband is very good at hiring out my services! There’s a big report there that needs translating from French to English. I don’t know many details yet; this is the first meeting about it.”

  “Actually, I needed a translator myself, today,” said Angel. “I’m picking up bits of Kinyarwanda okay, but French is very hard for me. I wish I had my late daughter’s language skills. Eh! Already as a child she knew Swahili and English on top of Haya, our home language in Bukoba, and then she learned some German from her father. Pius had to know it for his studies. I know if she was here she’d be picking up French like that.” Angel clicked her thumb and middle finger together rapidly several times.

  “French is a difficult language just to pick up, Mrs T. You should take some lessons. We teach it at KIST in the evenings, you know? And we also teach English. Our president has said that everybody should become bilingual.”

  “Yes, I know. But, Gasana, is everybody here not already bilingual?”

  “Mrs T?”

  “Well, I’ve looked in the children’s dictionary, and it says there that bilingual means you can speak two languages. People here can already speak two languages at least: Kinyarwanda and French, or Kinyarwanda and Swahili, or some other two. But when your president talks about bilingual, he means only English and French—Wazungu languages. Does he mean to say that our own African languages are not languages?”

  “Eh, Mrs T! Now you’re speaking like somebody who reads books! Really, you should join our book club! Or at least come to our university to learn French.”

  Angel smiled. “I can’t attend evening classes, Gasana. Evenings are a time for me to be with my family; and I can’t spend our money on private lessons during the day.”

  A loud and insistent hooting started up outside the compound.

  “Eh! That’s the driver!” declared Gasana, and he jumped up from his chair, shook Angel by the hand, thanked her again and shouted goodbyes to the children as he hurtled out of the apartment.

  Angel looked at her watch. It was almost half-past two; she had half an hour to supervise the children’s homework before Mrs Mukherjee would arrive with her sons Rajesh and Kamal, and their nanny Miremba.

  At five to three, she sent Grace and Faith up to Safiya’s apartment to continue with their homework, and woke Titi from her afternoon nap. At exactly three o’clock the Mukherjees arrived, and Angel suggested that Titi and Miremba should take all the boys down to the yard with their soccer ball so that she and Mama-Rajesh could talk business.

  “Yard is safe, no?” asked Mrs Mukherjee, a thin, nervous woman who was constantly wringing her bony hands together.

  “Completely safe,” assured Angel. “The children play there every day.”

  “Not too much of germs?”

  This was difficult. Angel knew from Dr Rejoice that there were germs everywhere, so of course there must be germs in the yard. But Dr Rejoice had also told her that it was wrong to protect children from all germs. That was the fashion in Europe now, and many Wazungu were becoming sick because they had never learnt how to fight germs when they were small. But Angel did not think it would be useful to try to explain that to Mrs Mukherjee.

  “No germs,” she assured her.

  The boys and their carers were dispatched to the yard and Mrs Mukherjee stationed herself at the window to watch them while Angel made tea. She was barely able to coax her guest away from the window when she brought the tea and cupcakes to the coffee table, and it was with a great show of reluctance that the woman sat down opposite her. Angel tried to distract her from the imminent deaths of her boys in the yard.

  “These cakes look beautiful with your outfit,” she said. She had deliberately picked out the cakes from the morning’s colour-mixing lesson that would complement the deep purple of her guest’s salwar kameez. She eyed the design of the outfit now: surely the long dress over the trousers—with slits where it passed over both thighs—would enable a woman to get into and out of a big vehicle elegantly? It looked very fashionable on Mrs Mukherjee’s thin body: would it work over her own expanding hips?

  Mrs Mukherjee gave the plate of cakes a cursory glance. “Mrs Tungaraza, did you read New Vision?”

  “Call me Angel, please, Mrs Mukherjee. I do read it sometimes.” Once or twice a week Pius would bring a copy of the Ugandan newspaper home.

  “Ebola!” declared Mrs Mukherjee, leaning forward across the coffee table with an air of conspiracy. Then she sat back in her chair and said again, this time almost defiantly, “Ebola!”

  Angel was not quite sure what to make of this. “Has Ebola come to Kigali?”

  “No!” Mrs Mukherjee’s bony hands flew to the sides of her head for a moment. “No! If Ebola is coming to Kigali then we are booking tickets to Delhi. Immediately!” He
r right hand added emphasis to this final word by executing a chopping motion into the palm of her left. She shook her head vehemently.

  “Where exactly is this Ebola, Mrs Mukherjee?”

  “Uganda!” Mrs Mukherjee raised both her arms in an exaggerated gesture. “Right next door to Rwanda! Ebola is killing in two weeks. Two weeks, Mrs Tungaraza!”

  “Angel, please. Let us not be formal.”

  “Two weeks. Blood is coming from the eyes, the ears, the nose. Finished!” The chopping motion came again.

  “But I think we’re safe here in Kigali.” Angel removed her glasses and began to clean them with the corner of her kanga.

  Mrs Mukherjee shook her head. “Ugandans are here! In Kigali! Working with our husbands! Dr Binaisa. Mr Luwandi …”

  “But Ebola is not a disease specifically of Ugandans, Mrs Mukherjee.” Angel’s rubbing of her lenses became more insistent.

  “Ugandan children are at school with our children. My boys will stay home until the Ebola is finished. I told my husband. I told that it is a Himalayan blunder to send our boys to school when the Ebola is next door. He agrees to my decision.”

  Angel had met Mr Mukherjee, who lectured in Information Technology. He was the exact opposite of his wife: big and broad with a quick sense of humour and sensible ideas. He would definitely have disagreed with his wife on this issue, but he probably understood that there was nothing to be gained from saying so. Angel saw the wisdom in this.

  “You are very wise, Mrs Mukherjee,” she conceded. “I’ll discuss it with my husband tonight, and perhaps we’ll keep our children at home, too.”

  The lie was rewarding: for the first time since her arrival, Angel suddenly had her guest’s full attention. The two women smiled at each other as Angel replaced her glasses.

  “Do try your tea, Mrs Mukherjee. I’ve heard that it’s similar to a tea that is made in India.”

  Mrs Mukherjee took a sip. “Oh, yes, cardamom. In India we are putting cardamom and lemon in green tea.”

  “I’ve always wanted to visit your country,” Angel lied.

  “It is a very beautiful country,” beamed Mrs Mukherjee.