The Eternal Audience of One

by Rémy Ngamije

  The room lit up with good humour. Guillome appreciated how Séraphin could lighten a mood, but at the same time he cursed how his oldest son could darken it at a whim.

  “Thierry’s high school team was also really good,” said Claudine. “They won their finals. And his school voted him as the most valuable player.”

  “Cool,” said Séraphin.

  “What other sports do you enjoy?” Espoir asked him.

  “I only play basketball,” Séraphin replied, “but I watch football.”

  “You know your father used to play football?” said Adrien. “He was really good. A real talent.”

  “Yeah, everyone says that,” Séraphin said. His brow rolled itself into puzzlement. “But I am not so sure, you know. Some soccer genes would have been passed on to us. Yves tried for St. Luke’s team once.”

  “And?” prompted Adrien.

  “Unfortunately for him, offensive bench wasn’t a real position,” said Séraphin.

  More laughter.

  “And what team do you support, Séra?” Espoir asked.

  “Arsenal.”

  “That is a good team,” said Espoir. “Who is your favourite player?”

  “Dennis Bergkamp.” The smoothness of the lie made Guillome and Therése smile in appreciation. There was no way Séraphin would let Thierry’s name come from his mouth. Family pride was at stake.

  “And what about the studies?” asked Espoir, changing the subject. “If you ever decide to do your Master’s abroad, Séra, you must come to Canada. There are some excellent universities there. Have you heard of McGill?”

  “Yes,” replied Séraphin. “Very good university.”

  “Yes. Thierry was studying there. And he is keen to go back after he is done with his travels,” said Claudine. “It would be lovely if the two of you were there. You could even room together.”

  “Yeah, sure,” said Séraphin.

  Séraphin and Thierry’s corpses would probably kill each other again if they were forced to share a coffin. Were he to lay some sarcastic replies in Claudine’s way, like caltrops, Séraphin thought, he was sure she would step over them without having her cloying false sweetness maimed. He smiled politely at the group and then excused himself to go and set up the sound system outside. With food and drink in them, and midnight an hour away, there was no way they would welcome a new year in any other way than with song and dance. As he left the lounge the adults’ conversation meandered into talk of French national team players, Zinedine Zidane’s vacuous, irreplaceable absence, and, predictably, the heat of the night and more prayers for rain.

  When Séraphin queued up Senegalese funk, Cameroonian blues, Congolese rock, Kenyan jazz, South African kwaito, and Nigerian soul to compile The Department of Native Affairs he hoped that it would do the trick when it was time to dance. It did not disappoint.

  Anyone watching the alcohol-loosened twirling of Rwandan parents with children too cool to dance with them would have remarked upon the nuance of the music and how at the signal of a drumbeat a foot would stamp and at the command of a guitar string a hip would sway. As the New Year’s countdown began glasses were filled with beer, juice, and champagne that had been left to chill in the freezer and as the year came to an end there was emphatic hugging and back clapping.

  “Happy New Year!”

  “Bonne Année!”

  “Umwaka mwiza!”

  The hope and the promise rang out into the air.

  Guillome and Therése kissed and hugged. As their bodies pulled close to each other Therése whispered into Guillome’s ear, “I do not want those people to come to this house ever again.” Her husband pulled back from her and said, “I agree.”

  Séraphin, Yves, and Éric bumped fists with the other children of tomorrow. Nobody bumped Thierry’s. He was too busy sending messages on his cellphone.

  “Probably telling people how this party isn’t a movie,” said Yves.

  “Fuck that guy,” said Séraphin.

  Thierry’s family was the first to depart, just ten or so minutes into the new year. When Espoir shook hands with Guillome he said, “This was really good. We should have that talk about what we spoke about a long time ago, eh?”

  Guillome said, “I will think about it.” He looked around at the dancers, the enthusiastic and the reluctant. “You know, it is not so bad here. We have done well. Better than we could have hoped for. We should learn to let go of things.” He turned back to Espoir and said, “Especially the past—it is an unhealthy place to revisit. Those things will poison you.”

  Espoir looked long at Guillome as the two men stood apart. Eventually, he said, “It is not always like that.”

  “Maybe,” said Guillome. “But sometimes it is like that. And when it is like that it is better to make a new way.” He smiled at Espoir. “But we shall speak soon. Mutware neza.” The two men shook hands a final time and then Espoir looked for Claudine and Thierry. They were talking to Therése. The two men made their way over.

  “Murakoze cyane,” Claudine said. “We shall see each other soon.”

  “Yes,” Therése said, “we shall. Maybe here again, maybe somewhere else.”

  The two couples exchanged hugs once more and then Guillome flagged Séraphin to open for them. At the gate, Séraphin shook hands with Espoir and Claudine politely. He offered the hand to Thierry who held a closed fist instead. Séraphin bumped it with his.

  “Maybe the two of you should keep in touch,” Claudine said.

  Thierry and Séraphin looked at each other.

  “Yes,” Séraphin said, “maybe.” He made no move to reach for his cellphone.

  “Agreed,” said Thierry as he followed his mother to the car.

  “Good night, Séraphin,” Espoir said. “All the best with the studies. We need more lawyers, you know.”

  “Fewer lawyers,” Séraphin said. “Just more people following the law.”

  “That is also true. Please keep in touch. You never know where there can be opportunities. Well, we must go.”

  “Yes,” Séraphin said, “you must go.”

  Espoir and Séraphin looked at each other for while before the elder man walked to his car. Séraphin harrumphed and locked the gate. He went to his bedroom where he sat on the bed with his cellphone. He scrolled to a particular chat window and wrote a specific message.

  Sans_Seraph—HiLos_Of_E: Fools, lords, and lady! Happy New Year! May your unfortunate souls continue to plague this poor world in your own special ways.

  JustSayYaz: Mabruk! Have a good one, guys.

  AddyWale: God bless! Happy New Year!

  RichDick: Happy New Year! No fucking power on this end so this phone is going to die soon!

  GodForTheWin: Oan, this Zim life is tough. Power’s been out for a span. Anyway, Happy New Year, gents.

  BeeEffGee: Happy New Year, friends. Missing all of you morons.

  KentTouchThis: Happy New Year from Zanzibar! Cool vibe here. These people know how to party!

  KimJohnUn: Enjoy @KentTouchThis, that place is dope. We East Africans know how to jam. All the best for the year everyone. See you all soon.

  Addywale: Yo, Séra, when do you get back to Cape Town?

  Sans_Séraph: Soon. Two weeks.

  JustSayYaz: Aweh! Check you soon then, bro.

  Sans_Séraph: For sure.

  Before Séraphin put his phone away a brand new message flicked onto the screen.

  Wolff_Jazz—Sans_Seraph: Happy New Year!

  Sans_Séraph: Happy New Year to you too, Jasmyn. Catch up soon.

  Wolff_Jazz: Tomorrow, if you aren’t doing anything.

  Sans_Séraph: Sure, I’m not doing anything tomorrow.

  Wolff_Jazz: You might.

  Sans_Séraph: Say what now?

  Wolff_Jazz: Good night, Séraphin.

  “Whoa!” a voice said.

  “Dude,” said another.

  “It is so on!” said a third.

  Séraphin put his cellphone away and went back outside, his spirit
s bobbing up and down like a buoy at sea. Swept up in the brilliance of his own playlist he even joined his parents on the dance floor and welcomed whatever uncertainty might be coming his way.

  Before this chapter closes something has to be said about the generosity of God. It is often said that the Lord works in mysterious ways but the wary spiritual auditor will look at balance sheets brimming with unnatural karmic felicity and find that in each instance someone’s goodwill played a pivotal part in a promotion, or that a home loan was secured by saving and then having the paperwork processed by a consultant who was not having a bad day. The causality of kindness is deemed to be a rare thing, so out of humanity’s potential that its presence can only be attributed to God, Allah, or the Celestial Teacup.

  Unbeknownst to Claudine, who believes her husband’s acquisition of the pharmacy at which he worked was down to his sober habits and a favourable interest rate on his savings is a series of emails between Guillome and Espoir, stretching back to Guillome’s early arrival in Namibia.

  Guillome is contacted by Espoir, who is already living in Canada, asking for finance to start a pharmaceutical company there, which would then acquire medicines and stock the Namibian market. Guillome has the expertise, and Espoir has, since his arrival in Canada, been rustling up the necessary contacts to get the venture off the ground. If Guillome can get his family to Canada, Espoir says, the formal registration and incorporation of the company would be hastened and they could work jointly to get the venture going. “Send me your family’s particulars and we can start working on your paperwork,” Espoir says over a scratchy phone call. “We can sort this out in no time at all and be in business.” According to Espoir, who has crafty agents on his side, the administration will be easy if they can fill in and file the necessary documentation.

  There is, of course, a fee and not a small one. Guillome and Therése hesitate for a while considering it. Séraphin will be off to university soon, and while the scholarship their eldest son has been awarded will cover all of his undergraduate tuition, the rest of their savings have been put aside for Yves and, eventually, Éric. It is a risk, but a risk worth taking, they decide. They imagine what life could be like for the boys.

  Canada!

  The First World is calling.

  So, ten Western Union money transfers make their way across the Atlantic Ocean to Toronto. Espoir sends them emails letting them know the money has been received and that the agents are already hard at work lodging their applications. All that is needed to be done is wait.

  The waiting wait. The months pass.

  The emails, once regular, dwindle.

  From: rwibonera-nzira.guillome@writemail.com

  To: espoir.tuhuze@writemail.com

  Subject: Visa Application

  Is something wrong?

  ===================================================================

  From: espoir.tuhuze@writemail.com

  To: rwibonera-nzira.guillome@writemail.com

  Subject: RE: Visa Application

  Everything is fine. These things take time. C’est la vie, n’est-pas?

  ===================================================================

  From: rwibonera-nzira.guillome@writemail.com

  It has been a while. How is the process going? Is there any other documentation you need?

  ===================================================================

  From: espoir.tuhuze@writemail.com

  I have bad news. I went to the Immigration Office to see how far along the application was and they said that nothing was filed in the beginning. I have been contacting the agents and they are not replying. I will send you another email tomorrow.

  ===================================================================

  From: rwibonera-nzira.guillome@writemail.com

  This is bad news. I am hoping that something can be done to correct the situation.

  ===================================================================

  From: espoir.tuhuze@writemail.com

  My friend, I have tried as much as possible to get in touch with the agents but they are nowhere to be found. I will restart the application process for you.

  ===================================================================

  From: rwibonera-nzira.guillome@writemail.com

  The application is not so important anymore. Any news with the money?

  ===================================================================

  From: espoir.tuhuze@writemail.com

  I have no news, my friend. I have tried my best but there is nothing.

  ===================================================================

  From: rwiboneranzira.guillome@writemail.com

  I see.

  ===================================================================

  What is unknown to Guillome and Therése is that only seven of the ten payments are given to the agents who, after receiving their take, vanish into longitudes and latitudes unknown on the Canadian map. The other three payments remain in Espoir’s bank account.

  Guillome and Therése smell the whiff of a swindle but have no way to prove it. For a while they are crestfallen but then they pull themselves out of their malaise. It was too good to be true. From the Rwandan grapevine they hear that Espoir has acquired a small but lucrative pharmacy in Toronto. But how he did it remains a mystery to most people. God’s generosity then grants Espoir’s family citizenship. Giullome’s family acquires yet another lesson in trust and blind faith.

  How, it might be asked, could Guillome and Therése now permit such villainy under their roof on such a festive occasion? Surely they were well within their right to brand them with the mark of Cain.

  One would think that. But only immigrants will understand the ability of a community to graciously treat enemies like friends and, at all times, to cling together even with the possible threat of drowning. Disappointments are swallowed because no disappointment can be as large as leaving or losing home.

  Everyone has to stick together. Even the sneaky. Even the sly.

  Everyone is part of the family.

  And everyone has to be survived.

  XI

  The earth spun across the finish line of one year in third place, an eternal bronze medallist. Séraphin woke up on the first day of the new year earlier than he had the entire time he had been in Windhoek. He cleaned up the debris of the previous night’s party with verve and energy. The Ambler put on its pop-laced shoes and walked through his earphones as he stacked dirty cutlery, crockery, and glassware in the kitchen, running hot water into the sink and attacking the grease. While the rest of the household slept Séraphin scrubbed, rinsed, dried, wiped, and then put away the dishes. He rearranged the furniture in the lounge and the television room. He left the unpleasant tasks such as sweeping and mopping the large house for Yves and Éric, who woke up later. The two brothers found Séraphin in the television room. They took seats on the remaining couches.

  “Morning,” said Séraphin cheerily. His brothers answered with grunts. “I just wanted to let you know that I did the dishes.”

  “We can see that,” said Éric.

  “You know what that means, don’t you?” said Séraphin.

  “Fuck off, Séra.” Yves rubbed his eyes and yawned.

  “That means I’m off the hook for the rest of the day. When Mamma wakes up you guys will be worked. You know how she gets after New Year’s. Everything has to be cleaned.” Séraphin raised his voice a couple of octaves in approximation of his mother’s voice. “Boys, how can we go into a new year with a dirty house?” Yves and Éric threw Séraphin looks laced with fratricidal intention. “It won’t be fun, I can tell you that.”

  “Early bird gets the worm, huh,” said Éric resignedly.

  “Fuck the worm, bro, I ate the bird.”

  After a few minutes of watching replays of explosive firework displays from around the world Yves asked Séraphin what he p
lanned on doing for the rest of the day.

  “Hopefully,” Séraphin said, “I’ll start the year with a bang.”

  Yves sighed in exasperation. After a minute he went off to the kitchen to make himself some breakfast, but Éric tarried a while longer. “When are you going back to Cape Town?” he asked.

  “Two weeks’ time,” replied Séraphin.

  “When do you start?”

  “End of Jan.”

  “Why go so early then?”

  “I need to get some partying in before the year starts. Plus, what would I be doing here anyway?”

  “Right.”

  “When do you start?” Séraphin asked offhandedly, still flicking through channels.

  “Three weeks’ time.”

  “Second year, huh?”

  “You noticed, did you?” Éric and Séraphin made eye contact. The two brothers looked at each other with unyielding stares.

  “Not really,” said Séraphin. “With the absence of distinctions and shit I thought you were repeating the year.” The response made Éric’s heckles rise, but having no sibling-crushing emotional mortar to launch at Séraphin he kept quiet. He stood up to leave the room. Séraphin continued flicking through channels before his vibrating cellphone drew his attention.

  Wolff_Jazz—Sans_Seraph: Hey.

  Séraphin let a minute pass before he replied.

  Sans_Seraph: Yo!

  About thirty seconds passed before Jasmyn replied.

  Wolf_Jazz: What’s up?

  Séraphin pretended to take an interest in stock markets on the television even though the New York Stock Exchange could not compete with the intrigue of the conversation hovering in hesitant limbo. The digital conversationalists circled each other, observing mandatory silences before replying, like boxers feeling each other out in a ring, trying not to let the other person know they were mutually eager for the conversation.

  Sans_Seraph: Not much. Chilling. A bit tired from last night. You?

  Wolff_Jazz: Same. Family party. Always a crazy and dramatic affair.

  Sans_Seraph: Family is a synonym for drama.

  Wolff_Jazz: Funny.

  Ding-ding!