The Cinnamon Tree (3 page)

The clapping faded, Yola turned and found that Father was standing in front of her. He looked into her eyes and for a
second
their minds seemed to touch – yes, she realised, he
understood
about Gabbin, too.

‘People–’ he began but halted. ‘People of our tribe …’

Suddenly, Yola realised he was fighting against
uncontrollable
laughter.

‘People, look on our daughter, Yola, witness that we
welcome
her back into our family.’

At that he could get no further. Like a volcano erupting, he burst into laughter, shaking and mopping his eyes.

‘Gabbin,’ he roared, ‘we’ll make a chief of you yet.’

For a moment, Yola was engulfed in the folds of his robes. ‘Well,’ he chuckled in her ear, ‘not all girls have an offer of
marriage
at thirteen. You’ll make me rich yet.’

As he held her, the clapping changed to the happy roar of a party in full swing and, through and above the bellow of the ghetto blaster, Yola heard the shouts and yips of her friends. Father released her. A great weight seemed to lift from her; she threw herself forward on to her crutches and lurched across the compound towards them.

B
eing home was so wonderful after her stay at the hospital that Yola managed to bury deep any thoughts about the future. She lived from day to day and never noticed the black clouds of misery gathering until, one morning, she heard Shimima’s voice calling. Yola was standing, hesitant between her crutches, pulled first one way and then the other by the sounds of the morning. This was the time when the women left to work in the fields. But she could not work in the fields;
instead
she had been left with a mountain of maize to grind.

‘Ehhh, ehhh,’ came the call of the women’s voices. ‘Are you going to the fields, sisters?’

‘Yes, we are off to the fields so that our husbands can eat.’

‘Yes, sisters. But who will you meet in the fields? Will the man of your dreams be hiding in the corn?’

‘Quiet, sister! It is not just the corn that has ears.’

Laughter rippled through the cool morning air. Yola used to scorn these shouted jokes and conversations, called out over long distances as the women’s paths crossed. The same each morning, meaningless ripples of sound and merriment, like pebbles thrown idly into a pool. But now they spoke to her of different things: of the freedom to walk the paths and work the
fields and be part of the community of women: all pieces of a life that she, Yola, could no longer have.

The girl who had been speaking came into sight, a huge earthenware pot balanced on her head. It would have taken two other women to lift that pot on to her head at the well.

‘Shimima,’ Yola called, ‘I see you.’ She watched with a pang of jealousy as the girl, with the controlled grace of a giraffe,
adjusted
her pace and turned towards Yola without a splash from the pot.

‘Ho, Yola, I see you. You are welcome back,’ she called. ‘Don’t get into mischief on your own in the compound now.’

‘Come and talk to me some day, Shimima,’ Yola called, and she meant it. She’d always liked Shimima, a strong girl, older than she, who’d given up school to get married.

‘I will when I haven’t got the town’s water supply on my head,’ the girl called, laughing, beginning her slow turn back to the path.

‘Your husband is lucky to have you.’

‘I’ll drown the layabout!’ laughed Shimima happily. ‘At least your husband won’t be able to make you carry water for him. Make the most of it. I am walking.’ At that she eased herself into a graceful walk again. Yola watched her go, the huge water pot seeming to float above her head.

‘You are walking,’ she called against a growing constriction in her throat. How could Shimima know that the one thing Yola wanted to do – and do right now – was to walk, like her, with a heavy pot of water on her head, away from the compound, away to someplace where there was a husband she could joke about, or to the North Pole, or to anywhere but here!

A group of children from up the valley passed by on their way to school. Would she ever get to school again? Her hopes had run high when she had seen Sister Martha at her
homecoming 
party, but she knew that she could never manage the two miles to school on her crutches. Would she be stuck inside here forever? She looked around, and her mind turned to
troubles
closer to home. Trouble with her mothers.

She surveyed the compound. It was roughly circular,
surrounded
by a thick thorn hedge, broken on the downhill-side by the main entrance, which was a gap that could be closed at night with a thorn-reinforced gate. When you came into the compound, the first thing you saw was the great tree at its
centre
, with its welcome pool of shade. To the right of this was a square, mud-brick building with glass windows and an open porch – this was Father’s house, where Senior Mother reigned supreme. When the electricity supply worked, Father had
electric
light and a television, which he would place on a table in the doorway for football matches; everyone would crowd around the door to watch the game.

During the day people came to discuss business with Father – he was the chief of the people who lived on the south side of Nopani, also he was a city councillor. Because she was a girl, Yola knew little about his business. She was keen on geography however, and knew all about her country. Nopani was the northernmost town in Kasemba, separated from Murabende, the country to the north, by the Ruri river. There was a bridge connecting Nopani to Murabende, but it was heavily guarded. Until recently, Murabende had supported the rebels, so their two countries had been close to war.

Father had three wives, each of whom had a hut of her own. First in importance was, of course, Senior Mother. Next came Yola’s mother, who often acted as Father’s secretary as she could speak English and type letters. Then, in a hut that still had fresh new thatch, lived Father’s new wife, Sindu, a girl only a few years older than Yola. Yola grimaced, if Father had
wanted a new wife why hadn’t he chosen a nicer one? They’d been fine before she came. Yola suspected that her father chose his new wife to help Sindu’s dad, who owed Father a lot of money. A generous bride-price from Father would cancel the debt. Perhaps Sindu would have preferred a younger husband? Even so, Yola’s idea of a junior wife comprised a friend for her and someone to help Mother and Senior Mother with their work. Instead, from the very first day, Sindu seemed to resent Yola, seeing her as some sort of rival perhaps. At any rate, she seemed intent on making Yola into her slave while she lorded it around the compound.

Yola remembered her latest brush with Sindu; she hadn’t really meant to insult her. It was the day of the party and Yola had been doing the rounds, talking and hugging and laughing with her friends; then she came on the ‘Mothers’. These were all the older women and their friends, talking like hens,
scratching
and clucking over the town gossip as if someone had kicked open an ants’ nest for them. There in the circle was Sindu, licking her dry little lips, trying to look twice her age and
picking
and scratching with the best. Yola knew she ought to say something polite. Later she told herself that it had been one of Gabbin’s little demons that had got into her. She greeted
Senior
Mother without mishap.

‘Senior Mother, I have returned. Ladies, I see you.’ She bowed and smiled.

‘We see you Yola, and are glad to see you back,’ they chanted.

But it was the way Sindu chanted with them like an old crone that got into Yola and let loose the demon. Damn it! the girl was only a few years older than her. All Yola had said was, ‘Hi, Sindu. How’s the babies?’

She meant it – really meant it, as she told herself afterwards
– as just a little jibe at the way Sindu always chose to mind the babies when there was hard work to be done. But that wasn’t what the demon had in mind. Sindu had no children of her own, no babies, not even a bulge, and this was a cause of great shame to her. The circle of ladies froze, sitting in mid-peck as if mesmerised by a snake that had suddenly slid into their midst. Yola froze too, unable either to speak or move; she had gone too far. Senior Mother, who had been sitting aloof, stirred ominously. If Yola had been younger or had not lost her leg, she was sure she’d have been beaten; but Senior Mother chose reconciliation.

‘Do not greet your Mother Sindu with “Hi”, Yola. But I
believe
you mean well.’ The old woman’s eyes flashed up at Yola; she knew a demon when she saw one. ‘Sindu will be glad of your help with the children now that you are back.’

Yola wanted to show her thanks, but the matter was closed. Senior Mother gathered her wrap around her and hunched up her shoulders, looking more like a vulture than ever. Yola
realised
she was dismissed and she backed away awkwardly. The hooded lids stayed down, but she had seen a glint in those eyes; Senior Mother understood her.

Apart from Senior Mother, who was scary, Uncle Banda seemed to be the only other interesting person in the
compound
, but he was in disgrace. He had fought with the rebels during the civil war; Father, of course, had supported the
government
. Uncle Banda was supposed to have surrendered his rifle when the rebels lost, but he hadn’t. One day, Mother caught him teaching Gabbin how to aim it and she had made such a fuss that he had to hand it in to the police. He was
Gabbin’s
godfather, so when Gabbin’s parents died in the war he became Gabbin’s legal guardian. Yola loved him, he was funny and wonderfully unpredictable – but even Yola had to agree
that he was a bad influence on Gabbin.

Now the excitement of coming home was a thing of the past – nothing about life in the compound was interesting. She
lowered
herself to the ground with a sigh, her leg to one side of the grindstone, her stump to the other. She placed a pad of cloth under her stump as it was still very tender. She sat at the
grindstone
as she had on the day of her accident. Perhaps she could start the story again. When little Gabbin starts calling, this time she will reassure him and tell him that Managu can find his way down from the hill on his own. All Gabbin has to do is to stay with his cows. Then she will be able to run again …
Stop
! She hammered the grinder down on the maize. Why did all her daydreams end with her running?

She looked at the grinder, a rounded stone that fitted neatly in the hand – pity it hadn’t broken the grindstone! She steadied herself, brushed back the grain she had scattered and started the rhythmic swing of grinding. To begin with, the stone
rumbled
and grumbled over the grain, then, slowly, it began to move more smoothly over the ever-fining flour. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth her body moved.

The compound fence rose around her higher and higher, crowding in on her like a prison wall. Her future held nothing but this
crish … crish … crish
.

She heard the sound of the approaching vehicle through the rumble of her grinding. No vehicles came beyond the town on this road, not since an anti-tank mine had wrecked a timber lorry a mile outside the town. She was staring in the direction of the noise when she saw the car’s aerial – to her it was a long, thin pole whipping backwards and forwards above the hedge as the car lurched up the hill. She stared, wondering what it could be. She saw Sindu appear at the door of her hut, cocking
an ear at the sound. Yola listened, spellbound, her hands white, the maize flour a glistening peak on the mat in front of her. She was like a prisoner hearing, with sudden hope, footsteps
approaching
and keys chinking. She had to know what this new sound meant … she had to see … she had to be there. In a minute it would be gone – quick! She rolled over and grabbed at her crutches, scrabbling in the dirt like a wounded bird
trying
to get up. Once up, she tried to run, but then lost her rhythm and nearly fell. Sindu was running ahead, trailing a comet-tail of toddlers ready to tangle in Yola’s crutches. For just a second, Yola saw the big car as it passed, its tyres spurting dust. She saw a uniformed driver, some writing on the door … and it was gone. The long, thin pole mocked her over the fence; the car changed gear and ground on up the hill. Yola was immobilised by a grubby infant who was holding on to one of her crutches. She detached him and worked her way through the youngsters to the gate. All that remained was a cloud of dust where the car had been.

‘Where were you? You should have seen it!’ Sindu gasped, wide-eyed.

Yola pursed her mouth. Sindu knew perfectly well that she couldn’t run, but Yola was determined not to react.

‘You should have hurried,’ tried Sindu again with a wicked little glance.

Yola would happily have taken a swipe at her, but the
memory
of Senior Mother’s look on the day of the party sat on her shoulder like a vulture; she would be good.

‘Who were they?’ she asked.

‘How would I know, they didn’t stop to say.’ Sindu’s
sarcasm
was unmistakeable. This time Yola’s frustration flared.

‘But on the side. It was written! What did it say?’

The words had come out without Yola realising their
significance
.
Sindu was looking at her like a knife looking for a set of ribs to slide through; Sindu could not read. Yola’s demon had struck again, and having popped the words into her mouth, it scuttled off and left her to clear up. Wearily she said, ‘Look Sindu, I’m sorry, but if only you’d let me help you I’d teach you to read.’

Sindu had never been to school, she didn’t want to learn, and Yola had offered. Sindu walked away from her, towards the compound entrance. Yola, remorseful now, was
determined
to repair her bridges, so she called, ‘I do mean it Sindu, it’s really quite easy, we–’

She stopped in mid-sentence. Sindu wasn’t listening. She was smiling and looking intently up into the compound.

‘What’s up, Sindu?’

‘Oh Yola, trouble, trouble … chuck, chuck, chuck.’

Yola hitched herself forward urgently to see. Chickens were flocking and pecking all over her abandoned corn, wading through the ground flour, scattering it left and right.