How could he not come back? They had plans. They would grow old and content, never elderly, together on this land. They would hire on the older children who wanted to tend to the farm and save some money to buy their own property, start their own families. They would build another house as their community expanded, maybe two—plenty of land, even without cutting into the forest. But every last one of her forty-eight children who graduated from high school have moved on, most to Tanzania, Uganda and Kenya. Not that she blames them for leaving. There’s been plenty of talk about reform, but Tutsis are still treated like second-class citizens, worse than anything she saw growing up in Atlanta. And then, there are the prisons crammed with tens of thousands of Hutu men and women—some innocent, no doubt—still waiting to be tried for genocide crimes. The new Tutsi president, that fellow, Kagame, comes off sincere enough. He’s stirring up hope among some with talk of reconciliation and forgiveness. Lillian shares most of the aunties’ wait-and-see attitude. They’ll wait on passing judgment until after the first round of gacaca trials. A test run of sorts, one right here in Mubaro after the New Year. Meanwhile, she continues her mini-revolution, creating small but significant increments of change, one child at a time.
She’s so very proud of her kids: teachers and shopkeepers, one’s a dentist and another runs a charity that builds houses in the slums of Kigali. Of course she’s proud! And yet, sometimes late at night she is awakened by a spark of fear that ignites worries more easily brushed aside during her busy days. How long will she be able to take in new orphans, like Robert, who has blossomed during the three months he’s been here? Who will keep Kwizera up and running when she’s gone?
A black Mercedes pulls over on the driveway, not a total surprise but Lillian wasn’t expecting her visitor this early. “You boys run on ahead,” she says. “Ask Nadine to kindly fry up some of those bananas for breakfast. I’ll be along shortly.”
Robert and Thomas amble past the sporty car, a rare sight in Mubaro, boggle-eyed but not touching. A tall, solid woman with coffee skin, from Nairobi or London judging by the sleek navy pantsuit and fashionable knot of hair atop her head, steps out of the car and greets the boys in French. Lillian smoothes back her own sensibly short hair threaded with silver strands. Is this gal old enough to have completed law school, let alone be a deputy prosecutor for the International Tribunal?
Lillian flashes back to her friend Deirdre, plumping up a fluffy Angela-Davis-style Afro, so proud she’d been accepted to law school. Stanford, no less. Her best friend had taken a sixteen-hour Greyhound ride to Cleveland, during the gray winter she spent with Mama’s sister’s family, to share the big news. She can still see Deirdre’s face, a mixture of sympathy and awe, eyes on the watermelon-sized belly between them. Can you keep a secret? I’m fixing on working for the Panthers, making some real change. I’m never going back to Atlanta. Lillian chose another route out of Atlanta: Reverend Morton’s orphanage in Kenya. She shakes her head at her younger self, so certain that none of the violence erupting in the States, or South Africa, for that matter, could touch her in the remote town under the watchful snow-lidded eyes of Mt. Kenya.
Three years later, a letter from Mama changed everything: Deirdre had been shot dead in Oakland during a Black Panthers riot protesting the arrest of Ms. Davis. Shortly afterwards, Lillian asked Reverend Morton to help her find a small farm to purchase someplace where she could do some good for a handful of children who needed a home. She didn’t care about the danger to her own life. Deirdre was dead. Samuel, dead. They had each, in their way, followed Reverend King’s call to action and taken a risk to make the world a better place. She had no grand designs on the world, but she could surely change lives. She saw that during four years at the orphanage in Kenya. Buying Kwizera was her way of taking her own risk.
“Mwaramutse, Madame Carlson.” The attorney offers a manicured hand, nails polished clear with squared white tips. “I’m Valeria Ogoni.”
“Thank you for coming,” Lillian says. She’s conscious of her own rough hand against smooth fingers, almost ashamed of nails cut to the quick so that no dirt can get underneath.
“So,” Ms. Ogoni says, “I understand you have some concerns about my office calling Mademoiselle Neguro at school.”
“I’m the child’s legal guardian,” Lillian begins, just as she told the curt secretary who finally returned her call yesterday. “Although Nadine is legally an adult, she’s still vulnerable. She’s still under my care, and I prefer that you come to me instead of calling her directly. Now, what’s this about Nadine testifying at a trial?”
Ms. Ogoni is head down, rifling through a slim black valise, and produces a packet of papers. “Our office has reason to believe that some young men in Mubaro are guilty of more serious crimes than they were originally convicted of as juveniles during the genocide,” she says, handing the packet to Lillian without meeting her eyes. “We wish to build one strong case against Nadine’s former neighbor Felix Kensamara and set a precedent. We need Mademoiselle Neguro to lay the foundation for these charges at the pilot program gacaca trial here in January. This is an internal document. I can’t give it to you, but I thought you should read it to explain matters.”
Lillian’s eyes dart from the attorney to the document as she scans the first page, searching for what these new charges are. Shortly after the genocide ended, there had been a trial in Kigali for dozens of Hutu boys from the region, including Felix and his younger brother, Christian. Most were charged with the vague crime of disorderly conduct and given a light sentence as a reward for not fleeing to a neighboring country. Besides, they were children; they were only doing as they were told. That was the reasoning. Felix, nearly a man at sixteen, was given a sentence of four years. Christian, only thirteen, was free to go live with relatives in Uganda.
“I have to tell you,” Lillian says, “my daughter doesn’t remember much about what happened at the church.” She flips to the second and then the third page, wading through the legalese, in French no less, picking out words she can translate.
“That did appear to be the case at the trial in Arusha for Felix and Christian’s father,” Ms. Ogoni says. “Perhaps now that mademoiselle is older, she will remember more. Yes?”
Lillian glances up, eyes narrowed. She believed Nadine then, she believes her now. “These new charges…” She can’t figure them out for the life of her, but then she turns the page: Rape. No wonder the attorney couldn’t tell her; it’s impossible to say the word aloud. “How much…” she says, reaching behind her only to find there’s nothing to hang onto. She allows her legs to collapse and sits, knees to her chin, on the grass. How much can one child take? There’s no use in asking, not after all she’s seen. She can only hope that Naddie truly doesn’t remember.
Ms. Ogoni leans down to offer a white kerchief. “Now you understand why this case is so important. There are countless women living silently with the shame of being raped before, during, and after the genocide. The world will be watching the first gacaca trials. Felix Kensamara’s case could draw attention to the need to prosecute this crime more fully.”
Lillian wipes her cheek with the back of her hand instead of the lacy kerchief. Yes, she’s well aware that rape is a powerful weapon of war throughout Africa, the victims often ostracized by their families and communities. But why wouldn’t Naddie have come to her? Did Henry know?
“Madame, we need Nadine to testify this time. We need proper justice—”
Lillian puts up her hand, and then lets it drop as the attorney sits beside her on the grass. There wasn’t enough evidence to convict Rahim Kensamara or the other men he was tried with, so they were released. She’s not proud to think of how she and the aunties agreed that justice was served when, within weeks, all of the accused were shot and killed, likely ambushed by Tutsi soldiers. A twist of nausea turns her stomach as she flashes on the gun that’s buried in a metal box in the forest. She nearly carried out her own vigilante justice against Gahiji, the man who forced
himself on her.
They sit in silence, Lillian trying to call up a prayer, but none come to mind. What does come is a series of numbers: More than 130,000 arrests during the months after the slaughter. About 4,000 trials in six years. The International Tribunal was set up by the United Nations to expedite cases of the worst war crimes, but so far the organization has prosecuted less than thirty men and convicted about half of them. The number of women raped during the genocide is estimated in the hundreds of thousands; nobody knows for sure because few of the victims are alive and even fewer come forward. She’s only heard about a small handful of convictions. What’s the point of subjecting Naddie to what may be months of sitting in a courtroom, interrupting her studies—her life? She’s the one who will, without question, suffer. Lillian folds the lacy kerchief into careful squares and hands it back to the attorney. To this day, part of her wishes she had murdered Gahiji.
“This is difficult, I know,” Ms. Ogoni says. “A crime that nobody wants to talk about. We are counting on you to help Nadine. She must be strong for all of the others who cannot.”
The attorney’s voice is soft and cool, but it’s Deirdre’s sharp words that Lillian hears. We must take action. No more bowing our heads and taking shit.
“If it were me, I’d testify…”
Do the right thing. It’s a new day, a new generation.
But Nadine’s just getting strong again, Lillian pleads with the voice in her head. Last time, even without getting on the witness stand, the whole experience nearly pushed the child back into the dark place where she wouldn’t speak at all. She wouldn’t sleep alone for months afterwards, wouldn’t walk to school with the other children. The shame was clearly unbearable. To speak of it, unfathomable. Still.
“Madame Carlson,” the attorney persists, “if we can show evidence of these serious charges at the gacaca, Felix Kensamara will be tried in the international court in Arusha. He will go to prison for twenty years and set a precedent for prosecution of rapes committed by juveniles as an act of war.”
“Nadine will be back at school in January,” Lillian says. She’s happy now, with her music and friends. “I’m sorry, I can’t put her through that again.”
“But this isn’t only about your daughter.” The hard edge is back in the attorney’s voice, as if Lillian’s the one on trial. “Our records show there were at least fifteen girls, quite possibly more, held hostage in the storage shed behind the church.”
“Then you don’t need Nadine,” Lillian says loudly to drown out Deirdre’s disapproval.
“We found fingerprints, hair samples, teeth, various physical evidence—”
“Ask someone else.”
“There is no one else. The others are dead.”
BY THE TIME LILLIAN WALKS back to the main house, breakfast is nearly over. Nadine’s imploring a tight-lipped Rose to try one more spoonful of oatmeal. “Take a look at your friend Zeke,” she cajoles. “See how much he’s enjoying his breakfast?” Rose gives the boy with cereal dotting his cheeks a dubious glance, and then pushes her near-full bowl away.
“We’ll eat breakfast together on the patio, how about that?” Lillian smoothes a hand over Rose’s sharp shoulder blades, like a bird’s wings. “Some of my superpower protein cookies.”
“Cookies?” Rose grins up at her. “For breakfast?”
“Special treat.” Lillian kisses the top of her head. It’s warm but only a little. A good sign. “Why don’t you go wait for me. I’ll join you in few minutes, after I make tea.”
Lillian isn’t hungry either. She waits for the kettle to boil, mostly just for a chance to steady herself enough to be fully present with Rose. The audacity of that brash young attorney. Perhaps now that mademoiselle is older, she will remember more. Yes? No. What good will it do, encouraging Naddie to relive the horrors of the past? She startles at the hiss of steam, and then practically burns her fingers as she swipes the kettle off the stove. The aroma of peppermint and licorice is soothing. Hopefully, it will settle Rose’s stomach. It does the trick with Lillian’s nerves as she waits a few minutes for the herbs to steep. It’s not really the attorney she’s angry with.
She watches her daughter, humming while cleaning up after breakfast. It would be easy to assume the child doesn’t have a care in the world. Naddie keeps her hands busy washing dishes and then drying them, stacking plates on the wooden shelves above the sink, wiping down the white and blue tile counter. It’s her hands that give her away; they tremble slightly. Lillian hears it in the prolonged clatter of each dish as it hits the shelf.
When Naddie first came here to live, Tucker taught her to play his guitar to steady her hands. At first, she strummed a few simple chords that eventually turned into songs. It was a beautiful process, watching her daughter discover the joy of creating music, and then finding her voice, a powerful instrument that moves folks whether she’s singing an aria from an opera or a Kinyarwanda lullaby. Her daughter’s voice is responsible for her scholarship to the University of Nairobi, and giving her a real future. The kind of future Lillian can’t afford to provide. The kind of future Rwanda surely can’t promise.
“Naddie, there’s something I want you to consider,” Lillian says, a thought forming as she takes the dish towel. What if her daughter were to use her voice, her beautiful voice, to create change?
She takes both of Nadine’s hands in her own. “The attorney from Kigali was here this morning with some papers. Details about the charges they want to file against Felix Kensamara.” Nadine opens her mouth to protest, but Lillian rushes on. “Now, hear me out. I said you didn’t have to be involved with a big trial in Arusha, but the gacaca is different. It’s your community, people who lost friends and loved ones like you did. It’s a place where you can stand up and tell the truth about what happened at the church.”
“What does it matter?” Nadine says sharply, withdrawing her hands to cross them over her chest. “Telling the truth won’t change what happened.”
“Standing up for what’s right does matter,” Lillian says flatly. She lived her life by these words for a long time, isn’t sure that she still believes they are true. “Justice matters.”
“Maman, my loved ones are dead. There is no justice.”
“Oh, Naddie…” Lillian rubs at a speck of nothing on the counter with her finger, looks down so as not to reveal her own doubt. Deirdre was going to be an attorney. And Samuel, dear Samuel, died fighting a senseless war for his country in the name of justice. She remembers standing with both of them at rallies, Reverend King’s rumbling voice moving the entire room to their feet, moving an entire nation. Reverend King. Murdered.
“I’m sorry to upset you,” Nadine says. “I know you cannot be proud to hear me say these things. I’ll consider testifying at the gacaca.”
“Nadine Neguro, I’m always proud of you.” Lillian looks straight into her eyes. “Whatever you decide to do.” No, it’s not the attorney or her daughter she’s upset with. She has always been ashamed that she ran off to Kenya. She gave up on fighting for civil rights, and simply wanted to find her own personal peace after giving up her baby. Was that so wrong? Justice might be too much to ask for. Maybe, the best most folks can hope for is a little peace of mind.
TWENTY-FOUR
WE’RE ALMOST THERE, RIGHT?” RACHEL asks hopefully, both hands on the dashboard to keep from bouncing out of her seat as the Jeep kicks up dust and pebbles. If there’s a road on the steep hillside, she can’t see it, but there’s plenty going on outside her window. Leather-faced iguanas sunning on logs barely blink as the Jeep rumbles by. White lacy moths are flushed out of the tall grass. A flash of blue and gold wings darts into the acacia branches above.
“If by there, you mean a plateau where we park and then walk two miles to the village, then sure.” Tucker clamps a hand onto Rachel’s shoulder as the Jeep hits a major pothole.
She grasps his wrist and redirects his hand back onto the gearshift. “You don’t have to take care of me, or amuse me w
hile I’m here.”
“What makes you think—”
Rachel cuts him off with a sigh. “This morning before breakfast. I heard Lillian ask you to take me along.” More accurately, the Lady of Steel had said she was his responsibility.
“Regardless, I appreciate the company. Keeps me from thinking too much.”
Rachel places her hand on his, still on the gearshift. Rose’s fever spiked yesterday and she wasn’t awake before they left this morning. “Don’t worry,” she says, “Nadine’s parked in a chair by Rose’s bed, working on a paper for school. And I can guarantee Lillian’s not going far.”
“It’s not that; I know she’s well taken care of,” Tucker says. “It’s a friend’s birthday today. Someone who was special to me and Rose. She was murdered during the genocide.”
Rachel has never asked him about the brass band that’s a constant fixture on his pinky finger. Now, she feels his hand tense beneath hers, fingers twisting the ring. Was he married? Engaged? “Tucker, I’m sorry.”
“No worries,” he says, eyes fixed on the road. “Today’s just a rough one to handle alone. Let’s talk about something else.”
Rachel looks out the window, searching for something to fill the awkward silence. The rugged countryside is so unlike the soft rolling foothills that hug the road from Kigali to Mubaro. She hasn’t seen a person or a hut for at least an hour, since leaving the outskirts of Mubaro. “Where exactly are we going?”
“A village so small, I doubt it has a name,” Tucker says. “The land gets rich and green to the east, where there’s a valley with a chain of lakes. These amazing wildflowers pop up after the rainy season. A sea of purple, white, red, orange, gold. I think God made the valley difficult to get to because she didn’t want humans driving bulldozers over everything.”
In the Shadow of 10,000 Hills Page 19
