The Flower Plantation (17 page)

22

1992

“Your Father hasn't told you one of his stories in a while,” said Mother, trying to start the pickup – which eventually spluttered to life. We were going on a drive “to get out of the house and feel the wind in our hair”.

We headed up the track by Beni's house. It had been such a long time since I'd seen Beni I wasn't sure I'd recognize her any more. I wondered if she had grown like me. I was almost as tall as Mother.

“Has Father told you about Kayibanda, the President of Rwanda after Independence?” she asked, driving out of the plantation, honking at people ambling along to get out of her way. I shook my head. All I knew about Kayibanda was from Celeste and the photo Father had shown on his projector.

“Kayibanda was a quiet man,” said Mother, dodging potholes. “He rarely left his palace, but because he was the President, people obeyed him just the same, whether they saw him or not.”

We bounced up the track – the pickup's exhaust pipe clattered on every stone, and it spewed out black fumes.

“Under the President, Rwanda was a lawful place: prostitution was punished, everyone worked hard and went to church on Sundays, just like they were told to do.

“But with time the President became more and more reclusive and spoke to his government less and less. His politicians began to squabble” – Mother tried to change gear, but the gearstick wouldn't shift and she had to fight it into position – “and one man in particular was keen to make the most of his weakness. That man was Major General Habyarimana.”

I'd heard of Habyarimana: he'd been the President of Rwanda all my life. There were pictures of him wherever you went.

“He was a big man and a strong leader, and he decided he wanted to be President. Soon many of the President's men were found dead and their families paid to keep quiet.

“I'm afraid the story has a sad ending, Arthur,” said Mother glancing over at me. The forest came into view. “After Habyarimana became President, there were rumours that Kayibanda and his wife had been imprisoned. People said they were starved to death.” I thought that sounded horrid, and felt bad for the old president and his wife. “No one really knows what happened to the reclusive President in the palace. And, as you know, Habyarimana is still our President, but” – and she added this under her breath after we'd stopped and got out – “who knows for how much longer.”

I wondered why Mother thought the President might not stay in power for much longer. The ceasefire hadn't lasted long, but around the plantation the gardeners were talking about peace, new ministers and a renewed ceasefire. Did Mother know something they did not?

“Fancy having a go?” she asked, holding the driver's door open. She moved the wheel from side to side and pointed at the pedals – which I understood to mean really having a go, proper driving, not just sitting on Father's lap and turning the wheel. I got in.

Sitting with the wheel in front of me felt a bit like getting on my bike for the first time. It was risky and strange, but exciting too.

“So, first things first,” said Mother getting in the other side. “Before we start, we need to check the vehicle's in neutral.” I wiggled the gearstick from side to side. “Good, now put down the clutch and turn the key.” I did as she said, and initially the engine coughed, but then it roared to life. “Now move the gearstick into first – that's it – and push the accelerator as you release the clutch.”

And we were off. I couldn't believe it. I was driving!

“Great, Arthur,” said Mother. “This is fun!”

Little by little I became confident and learnt to change gears and go faster, under Mother's watchful eye.

“Best to slow a bit here,” she said when we hit a difficult patch. She reached out to steady the wheel. I took my foot
off the gas, hit the brake harder than intended and we rocked to a sudden halt. The engine cut out.

“You OK?” she asked as the dust settled around us. I nodded. “Well, let's just turn it back on.”

Cautiously I turned the key, but nothing happened.

“Try again.”

Nothing.

“Let me have a look.”

Mother couldn't get it started either.

“It's not your fault,” she muttered, getting out and lifting the bonnet. “This old thing's been on its way out for years.”

As Mother tinkered under the hood, I sat by the roadside, worrying that dusk was not far away. It was dangerous to be stuck on the track after dark – gunfire rattled around the terraced hills most nights. Soldiers continued to raid the
shambas
, killing anyone who got in their way. I thought that if we remained on the road the soldiers might shoot us.

Mother was rubbing her brow with oily hands and making more and more noises of concern and frustration when a sound from the forest caught our attention. It sounded like the cry of a snared duiker.

“We should take a look,” she said, closing the hood and wiping her hands on her trousers. “There's nothing more I can do here anyway.”

I grabbed the torch from the glove compartment, and Mother reached for her pistol.

“Just in case it's in a bad way,” she said.

I'd never seen Mother shoot anything before; I wasn't sure if the idea filled me with excitement or dread.

We crept into the forest, following the sound. I led, and Mother walked behind. I flashed the torch from side to side looking for signs of snares. Worried that Sebazungu might be checking them, I was glad that Mother had her gun.

Over the months since Ms Laney's death I'd done my best to keep out of Sebazungu's way. I even managed to get out of working with him on Thursdays by teaching myself to cook, something that Mother valued, given that we still had no cook. I couldn't tell if Sebazungu was aware that I knew he was a poacher and Ms Laney's killer. I pretended not to know. Sometimes that helped me forget my fear, and at other times – such as now, as I advanced through the forest with Mother – it filled me with terror.

Mother and I crept in deeper, until we came to a small dell where a group of men were gathered round a body on the ground. It shocked me to see the priest restraining Sammy, whose face was swollen – black and blue. Zach stood to the side of the dell watching Sebazungu, who was kneeling over the body. Simon had a hand in the pocket of his dungarees, rubbing himself.

Sebazungu flipped the body over as if it were one of the rag dolls sold for tourists. It was then I realized this was no rag doll – it was Beni, who was screaming herself hoarse.

The priest pulled Sammy's hair so tight he couldn't look away and said, “This is what the Tutsi deserve. This is what you should have done – broken her like a mule.” Zach whooped in agreement.

Sebazungu undid the zip of his trousers and pulled at Beni's pants.

The priest, Simon and Zach looked on as if they were watching a game of football or some other form of entertainment. Sammy closed his eyes and fought to turn away.

“Jesus,” said Mother when she saw what they were doing. “Arthur, stay where you are.”

She stalked up to the men and put her pistol to Sebazungu's temple, saying that nobody should move.

Beni slithered on her belly away from him, into the long grass. I knelt down beside her and, without thinking, held her hand in mine. She sobbed heavily, unable to talk. I felt like crying too, but no tears came.

Mother pointed her gun at Simon, who knelt and begged not to be shot. With Sebazungu and Simon down, she motioned with her gun for the priest to let go of Sammy. He did so and joined the others on the ground. Zach quickly followed.

When the men were on the floor, Mother whispered something to Sammy, who ran off the way we had come. He returned with a rope from the back of the pickup. Together, Mother and he tied up Sebazungu, Simon, Zach and the priest, before rounding up Beni and me and guiding us home.

* * *

Mother never spoke to me about what happened in the forest, but I overheard her telling Father:

“We have to report them.”

“There's no point – nothing will be done.”

“Why ever not?” she asked

“Because they'll turn a blind eye.”

I knew neither who “they” were nor who eventually freed the four men, but Sebazungu and Simon never returned to work, and we, as a family, never went back to church. With Sebazungu off the plantation I was no longer quite so worried about him being a threat to Father, and Sammy didn't frighten me in quite the same way either. On the walk back from the forest that night, it was clear that he'd been badly scared. As we walked Beni explained that her
sogokuru
had been forced to put her “to work” to feed the family. Sammy hung his head. Mother's face crumbled. I wondered what she meant.

For nights on end I thought about what those men had been doing, how long they had remained in the forest with their hands behind their backs and how Beni was feeling. I longed to see her again.

In time everything regained an air of normality. Fabrice was given his job back, and so too was Joseph. The fighting stopped for a whole dry season and the following wet one. The guns remained silent, and people went about their
lives, tending their crops and animals. But best of all, I was allowed to see Beni again. The sense of emptiness I had felt without her all but disappeared.

Though it took her a while to recover from her experience in the forest, we spent most of our time together holding hands. And even though we had grown taller and Beni had grown fuller and begun to wear T-shirts and wraps instead of dresses, we still chased butterflies in the garden. One of the best days we shared was when we caught a second
Charaxes acræoides
, which was almost identical to the one now buried beside Monty. Father said that having had one was rare but to have had two was “something else”. Then and there I hatched a plan to take Beni up to the summit where we could release this butterfly – just as I should have done with the first.

When we weren't catching butterflies we played Jenga in the yard. We spent hours sitting at the table we'd made out of a cooking-oil drum and a piece of scrap metal that Joseph had helped to hammer flat. Mother had bought the game from the wood-carving beggar in town – her one and only purchase from him.

One afternoon in August, when we were playing in the yard and listening to the radio with Fabrice, Beni whispered:

“It is the President on the radio.” She removed her first block from the tower and placed it on the top.

She was right. The President was giving a speech that was being broadcast live to the nation. Fabrice
listened intently at the back door, absent-mindedly peeling potatoes; some of the peelings missed the bucket and landed on the ground.

I concentrated on the game, carefully sliding out a piece in the middle and putting it up top. The President was talking about the importance of peace.

Celeste was in the yard too, sweeping. The scritch-scratch of her broom made it difficult for Fabrice to hear, so he turned up the radio. But Celeste went on sweeping, louder and louder. Beni was taking her next block when Fabrice shouted at Celeste:

“Be quiet!”

Celeste didn't stop.

Angry, Fabrice abandoned the potatoes, took the radio and went inside. His shouting caused Beni to tremble: the tower leant to one side but remained intact.

“
Sogokuru
is worried,” said Beni anxiously. “Mama say so.”

I took a piece near the bottom and positioned it on top.

“Everyone at home is shouting.
Data
say there is trouble ahead.” Beni looked concerned. I wondered if I should be too.

When the President had finished his speech, Fabrice turned off the radio. Celeste went inside and tuned it to another station. She began ironing Father's shirts, leaving the back door open.

“These people say President does not want peace,” said Beni as she nudged one block but chose another, finding it harder with every move.

From where I was sitting I could see Celeste nodding her head at what the radio presenters were saying. When it was my turn, I inched out a piece from the tower, which began to wobble precariously.

Fabrice shouted from the kitchen:

“Turn the radio off!”

Celeste turned it up.

Fabrice threw a pan on the floor, which made Beni and me jump and the tower crash to the ground.

* * *

As the months went by, despite their differences, Fabrice and Celeste still took care of the house, leaving Mother, without Sebazungu, in sole charge of the plantation. More and more of the gardeners decided to leave, which made Mother unhappy. One night, over dinner, she said to Father: “I don't know what I'm doing wrong. They just don't obey me any more. I have hardly any staff left.”

“It's not your fault,” Father told her, clutching a tumbler of whisky. “Anyone and everyone are being recruited for training at the moment. God knows what's been planned behind closed doors.”

I brushed my bare feet on the antelope skin and thought, “Training for what?” But Father switched subjects.

“I've been reading that children who grow up in multilingual environments often have delayed speech.”

“Oh please,” replied Mother, and cast him a withering look.

“It might be worth looking into, Martha. Maybe England isn't such a bad idea, given all that's happening here.”

There was something about Father's tone and remote expression that made me feel uncomfortable. It must have shown on my face, because the next thing he said was:

“No reason to worry, Arthur.
You'll
be fine.”

Why was I the only one who was going to be fine? I wanted to ask. Was I going to England? And what about Mother and Father and everyone else – were they going too?

Just as I was thinking this, Fabrice rushed into the room.

“
Eh, bwana
, you hear the radio?” he asked.

“No,” replied Father.

“So sawree,
bwana
. Ceasefire over. War starts again.”