by Rémy Ngamije
“Sure,” Séraphin said.
“You are not excited, Séraphin. You would have preferred that I did not come?”
“It’s good that you are here. I am sure you’ll have a good time.” Séraphin did his best to press some sincerity into his voice.
“So how did the exams go? They went well?”
Not for the first or last time Séraphin noted East African parents’ tendency to frame questions in the affirmative. There was no invitation for negative answers. “Yes, they were good,” he said. “The marks should be out this week.’
“So graduation is definitely happening?”
“Pappa, that was never in doubt.”
“Of course,” Guillome said as he stepped onto the balcony, “but everything else is.”
Séraphin felt a tightening in his stomach. “What?”
“Don’t worry, Séraphin. We can talk about that later.” He looked at his watch. “It is still early. What can we do for the afternoon? I want to see this city that my son loves so much he feels the need not to come home in the holidays.”
That afternoon they started with the Company’s Gardens. Guillome thought the squirrels running around were disgusting. After they finished the tour of the Gardens Séraphin took him on a walk through the city. His father looked up at buildings and into shop windows and stopped to look at things being sold on the side of the street. They stopped by a roadside stall manned by a Somalian and bought some chin-chins. When they resumed walking his father said, “Your mother would kill me if she saw me walking and eating.”
“Yes, Mamma hates that.” Séraphin raised his voice an octave. “Your feet and your mouth can’t move at the same time. One of them is going to do something stupid sooner or later.”
“That is actually how she says it,” Guillome said. “She has many wisdoms.”
“I’m sure of it.”
“No, you do not understand,” Guillome said. “To you she is wise because she is your mother. But she was smart even before she was that.”
Their stroll turned to silence again. Father and son ambled down into Long Street and walked it from top to bottom. Then from a signal from his father, Séraphin turned their walk homewards. At the hotel, Guillome telephoned home.
“Yes, he is here with me. Séraphin, ni Mamma.” Guillome handed his son the phone.
“Bite? Biragenda?”
“Yes,” Séraphin said. He told his mother about the walk and the plans to take Guillome to some of the tourist attractions.
“Nu kumutembeza cyane. He will like it,” she said. “Ntabwo agisohoka. He must get out more.”
“Yes, Mamma.”
“You must take pictures.”
When he hung up, his father came out of the bathroom, towelling his face.
“So when am I meeting your friends?”
“Soon.”
In the afternoons, Séraphin would arrive with Idriss to shuttle his father around the city. They started with Cape Point. The drive was sterilised of conversation besides Idriss trying to show them points of interest along the way. At the southernmost tip of Africa, Guillome and Séraphin posed for a picture. Behind them, the warm Indian Ocean rubbed shoulders with the cold Atlantic. When Guillome sent Therése the photographs that evening she said they ought to smile more. “You two look so miserable,” she said.
The next day, Séraphin took his father on a tour of the Iziko Museums. His father stopped to read every display’s explanatory note, refusing to leave even the most obvious of plaques unread.
“Knowledge is—”
“I know, Pappa.”
They ascended into the Bo-Kaap after that. The rainbow-coloured houses fascinated Guillome. “This is a nice neighbourhood,” said. “You know, we were going to paint our house in Rwanda bright orange.”
“Why?”
“Your mother’s idea. I think she saw a house like that in a picture and decided she would have one too.”
At the hotel, before parting ways again, his mother provided running commentary on that day’s photographic haul. “But you are not in any of them,” she said. “Honestly, the two of you do not know how to take holiday photos.”
Boulder’s Beach was full of penguins waddling all over the place which did little to interest Guillome, so they had proceeded to tour the seaside towns. Séraphin suggested they stop in Kalk Bay for lunch but his father waved the idea. “Come, let’s walk.” They walked all the way to Muizenberg and even further along the beach. Despite the cheerful weather, Séraphin’s mood was dampened with reminiscence and he kept the walking pace brisk. His father did not falter in keeping up.
“Are the two of you even enjoying the trip?” Therése asked that evening on the phone.
“We are,” Guillome said. “I am.”
“And Séraphin?”
“He is how you know him to be.”
Guillome had little interest in shopping malls or markets. He wanted to do everything outdoors. “We have malls in Windhoek,” he said. “All that ever changes in malls is how fat people are. That is all.” Séraphin smiled at the quip.
“Then we can go up Table Mountain.”
Guillome insisted they not take the cable car up Table Mountain. He wanted to hike up instead. “I am not so old that I cannot make it up there.”
Séraphin was surprised by the pace his father maintained up the steep Skeleton Gorge, not stopping for a break despite the heat of the day, all the way up to the top where the whole of Cape Town was spread before them. Guillome would point at something and Séraphin would readily explain some particular detail or the cultural makeup of a suburb. “You know a lot about this place,” Guillome said.
They took some photographs from the top, standing next to each other, the tall son with the formerly tall father. (“At least in this one you don’t look like you are going to kill each other,” Therése would later say.) Guillome insisted on hiking down again. When they reached the bottom he turned to Séraphin and said, “Where to next?”
“Aren’t you tired?”
“I’ve not had a holiday in a long time. So I’m not going to spend this one sitting down.”
Idriss took them on a sunset drive through Green Point, Sea Point, and Camps Bay. He took a road from which Silmary’s house was visible. Séraphin looked up and saw the balcony. The lights were on. He felt an itch in his pocket. Idriss drove on, taking them around the suburb before angling back to Cape Town. The next day they visited Kirstenbosch and the two of them walked without talking until Guillome said, “Your mother would like this place. She always liked parks or gardens. She never wanted to leave them when we were in Paris.”
“How was she when you were staying there?”
“She was like you,” Guillome said. “Determined not to come home. She was a superstar. She had many friends there, and she was more Parisian than Parisians. She did it all. She was really happy there. She did not want to return to Rwanda.”
“What made her?” Séraphin asked.
“A good reason,” Guillome said. He smiled. “A very good reason.”
“What?”
“We were going to have a life that was not like anything in Rwanda. We were young. And things went well for a long, long time. But then things went wrong. Then we had to leave.” Guillome sighed. “Your mother, she has never complained about anything since we left. She has just done her part.” They stopped every so often so that Guillome could take photos of the flowers and when they left the gardens Guillome turned back for a last look and said, “I should bring your mother here.”
That night, Therése said to Guillome, “The pictures are wonderful. I wish I could see everything.”
“I will show you,” he said. “We can see them together. We shall make time. We have time.”
Séraphin was on the balcony again, and the emotion he heard in his father’s voice made him feel like he was intruding on some private moment.
“So, what are we doing tomorrow?” Guillome stepped outside.
“Th
e exam results will be out tomorrow. So we can go out with my friends after that,” Séraphin said.
“So I finally meet them.”
“I’m not hiding them,” Séraphin said. There was annoyance in his voice.
“I know,” his father replied gently. “You will let me know how the results go?”
“Of course.”
The day the final law results came out was the day Guillome met the High Lords. Séraphin, Bianca, and Yasseen walked to the faculty building together and scrolled through all of the exam results looking for their names. They had passed everything. They would graduate. The law atrium was filled with students hugging each other, shaking hands. Kim, Kelly and Megan were there with their parents. Séraphin made his way across to them and hugged them fiercely. “Thanks for everything,” he said. “You guys saved my ass so many times.”
“So what’s next?” Kelly asked. “In life, that is.”
“Me? I’m gonna go where the people are.” They all laughed together and then hugged each other some more before Séraphin went back to Yasseen and Bianca.
“We should celebrate,” Bianca said.
“My father wants to meet you guys,” Séraphin said.
“Is he like you?”
“Not in the least bit,” said Séraphin vehemently.
“Then we definitely want him around,” Yasseen said.
They had supper at The Good Night. Guillome declined the offer to eat at a fancier restaurant after he had congratulated Séraphin, embracing him, separating, and looking at him and saying, “This is good news, Séraphin. For you. For us. This is really good news.”
His mother had cried on the phone. “Séraphin, this is good news. I hope you are happy.”
“I am, Mamma,” he replied.
“You are going out for supper with your father?”
“Yes, but we’re meeting some of my friends.”
“I hope it is fancy.”
“He wants to go to the place me and my friends usually go. He says it is more genuine.”
“And affordable,” Guillome said from the bathroom where he was freshening up.
“Your father,” Therése said. “He does not know nice things.”
“Then how do I know you?” his father called out.
“I’ll just leave the two of you to your conversation then,” Séraphin said.
“We were just having fun, Séraphin,” his mother said. “You are being serious all of a sudden. Anyway, you must have a nice time tonight.”
The conversation at The Good Night was distinctly polite and polished, scrubbed clean of all innuendo. Guillome enquired courteously about everyone’s future plans, giving words of encouragement at the appropriate times. When supper arrived they ate in relative silence, broken only with scattered conversation about all of their previous times at the restaurant, when they were a full complement, and about the time Andrew brought Silmary. It seemed far way. Richard accidentally let it slip that it was probably then that Séraphin had started hitting on Silmary.
Séraphin coughed on his burger bite. “The fuck, Rich?”
“My son has a girlfriend?” Guillome asked. There was a humorous gleam in his eye. “You mean to tell me someone took pity on him? A real person?”
“Yes,” Richard said. “A real person.”
“Who was this person?”
“Silmary,” Richard replied.
“What was she like? She was smart? Pretty? Did you look at her and him and ask yourself: ‘Why him?’”
Bianca burst out laughing. “Your father’s roasting you, Séraphin.”
“What happened to her?” Guillome asked. They all turned to Séraphin.
“Guys, leave it alone,” Séraphin said brusquely.
Guillome looked at his son for a long time and then he turned back to his food. For a while there was no talk, just the clinking of knives and forks on plates. Guillome disturbed the lull in conversation by saying, “Okay, let me tell you all a secret.”
“That’s about to be a very loud secret,” Séraphin said.
“Keep quiet, Séraphin,” his father said.
“Yes, Séraphin,” James said. “Keep quiet.” Séraphin usually dominated their conversations; seeing him play second fiddle to his father was entertaining them.
“Since you are all old now, and you are going into the world with all of your degrees,” Guillome began. “You know a lot about your studies, more than me, more than everyone. This is my graduation present to you.” He popped a chip into his mouth. “Do you know how to play poker?” Everyone nodded. “Well, then, let us say you have terrible cards. Maybe it is a four and a ten. Different suits. Useless cards. But there are cards on the table – three of them, turned over. Strong cards. The right thing to do is to fold, no? But in love”—Séraphin groaned—“things are not like that. Sometimes the logical thing to do is not what you must do. Let us say, for example, that Miss Bianca here is the cards turned over. B-I-A-N – anyone with C and A will win, right? Because that is the highest hand? But you never know who has the C and the A. It could be anyone else at the table. It could also be nobody. You look at your cards and they are not the C and the A. So already you know you do not have the highest hand. But you want to win. You do not fold. You go all in. If anyone else wants to challenge they must also go all in. But few people are going to go all in, because they fear someone else has a high hand. So you have to go all in. Now only two things can happen.” He looked around the table. “You can lose or you can win. If you lose, then you will lose everything. But at least you played the game the way it is supposed to be played. But if you win—” Guillome paused to swallow another chip—“then you will win the whole game. Forever.”
The whole table had stilled listening to Guillome. Then Bianca said, “Your dad has some serious game, Séraphin.”
“It is called game now?” Guillome asked. “That is what you call the skill of courting?”
“The skill of courting,” Séraphin said laughing. “So old-fashioned. Yes, that’s game.”
“Then I say to you that I do not have game. Games are for players. I do not play.” Guillome bit into his burger. “I win.”
Bianca fanned her face while Adewale flicked his fingers together. Yasseen said, “Yoh!”
Everyone relaxed after that. Séraphin noted how easily his father laughed, how widely he smiled. He did not resemble the stern father he knew growing up, always tired. At the table he was loquacious, making jokes. When he laughed it was deep and throaty, and infectious. When the bill came he insisted on paying for it, brooking no argument.
Back at the hotel, while Guillome arranged his clothes for the next day, Séraphin stood on the balcony responding to messages.
BeeEffGee—HiLos_Of_E: Your father’s cool, Séra.
AddyWale: Yeah man.
Sans_Seraph: I didn’t know he could be like that. He’s just always been my dad.
RichDick: Parents are only parents to their children. But you know they’re people, right?
Sans_Seraph: Duh. But how often has your father dropped hellfire game on you?
RichDick: Never. I’m going to use those lines on someone later.
KimJohnUn: Yeah, your dad is cool. Funny. I can see where you get the sense of humour from.
Sans_Seraph: That’s self-made.
BeeEffGee: Keep telling yourself that.
His father came and joined him. “You have good friends, Séraphin,” he said. “Friends and family are the only arrogance you should have.” Guillome looked at his son. “So you have a girlfriend. Or had a girlfriend.”
Without the dilution of company the awkwardness of their presence made itself known. Séraphin said, “She was not my girlfriend.” He said it stiffly, hoping it would close up other avenues of discussion. It didn’t.
“But the two of you had something?” Guillome said.
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Then you should be able t
o talk about it.”
“He’s got you there,” said a Séraphin from the bedroom.
“Was it an argument or was it circumstances?”
Séraphin refused to respond and then he said, “Argument.”
“Then it is not so bad,” Guillome said. “All arguments can be fixed. Circumstances, not so much.”
Formerly tall father stood next to tall son.
“You know how you solve arguments, Séraphin?” Guillome asked. “Especially with people who really matter? You have to decide whether you want to be right or whether you want to be happy. It is a simple choice.”
“Those are nonsense choices,” Séraphin said.
“They are real choices.”
Séraphin did not say anything. He focused on the traffic below, yellow lights moving on the street. “You know, if something is broken it will not bring itself together again. You have to do it. If you want to – if it is worth it to you.”
Séraphin grunted a reply.
“I understand from Bianca she was funny,” Guillome said.
Silence. Then, “Yes, she was.”
“Then you should go all in. You do not find that often. Your mother, when I met her, she could make me laugh. I knew I had to go all in. But there was a time when I did not know how to play this game called poker. I had to be shown too. I was in university, about your age, before I met your mother. I had a choice to make. To go all in or to fold.”
“What did you choose?”
“I folded. Obviously, Séraphin.”
“Guess she wasn’t worth it then.”
Guillome rested his elbows on the balcony railing. Then softly, almost inaudibly, he said, “Yes, he was.”
Séraphin had drifted out to the balcony, listening to the sound of the waves, thinking about a pair of eyes that searched and smiled. It was left to one of the other Séraphins to tap him on the shoulder gently to bring him back to the present.
“Wait,” said Séraphin. “What?”
XXXV
Back, back again to the past when everyone was dancing and grooving. Throats had never been deeper and Nixon would give the world a suffix for scandals. A skinny Vietnamese girl walked down a road, naked from napalm, and there would be rumbles in jungle. Booms and bumayes would sound in Angola, in Zaire, in Equatorial Guinea, in the Central African Republic, in Chile, and in Cambodia. It was in this ten-year stretch of time when hipsters awoke to find that pop had become rock, funk had become punk, and dance was disco, and music was mobile.
