The Flower Plantation (5 page)

5

The following day I folded back my blanket as the cockerel crowed, reached under the bed and pulled out the jam pot to examine my eggs. Overnight, condensation had formed inside the jar, and the fine beads of water made it difficult to see. I gave it a gentle shake, flicked my fingernail against the glass and looked at it from every angle. The eggs were ever so slightly bigger than they'd been the day before.

At twenty past six Joseph whistled his way through the front garden – I moved the jar to the window sill for warmth, then went to the kitchen to fetch my two small green bananas and to feed Monty.

In the middle of the kitchen table, under a see-through cloche, was my birthday cake. I lifted the cloche and stood salivating like Monty on a hot day. It was a chocolate cake – delicious and gooey and all mine. Mother must have made it – cake being the only thing she could make. Fabrice only knew how to bake cookies.

“Happy birthday, Arthur,” said Mother, appearing in the doorway. Her hair wasn't brushed, and there were pillow marks on her face. She had no colour to her skin and big grey rings circled her eyes. I wondered if she'd been up all night baking.

“How does it feel to be seven?”

I thought it would feel different being seven. I had hoped that being seven would feel better than being six. But it didn't. It felt just the same. I shrugged.

“Well, no cake until supper time,” she said, filling up the kettle, her hands shaking. “Just because it's your birthday doesn't excuse you from your studies and chores. Now run along. Sebazungu will be waiting.” I knew better than to delay when Mother was tired, so I retreated out of the kitchen. Upsetting Mother in the morning meant she could be in a mood for the rest of the day – and nobody wanted that.

I fed Monty, rode my trike once round the yard, took my bath, checked on my eggs and put on my green shorts and orange T-shirt – the clothes I wore every Thursday. At eight o'clock I opened the back door to head out to see Sebazungu, but a sudden blast of noise stopped me. I shut the door and rubbed my knuckles together.

“Arthur, for Heaven's sake,” said Mother from behind me. “It's only the gardeners' wives and their babies.” She might as well have said, “It's only a herd of stampeding elephants and their hungry calves,” such was the fear the gardeners' wives invoked in me. They came to the back door on Thursday mornings for medicine. Mother was a botanist, but that was good enough for them. Father used to laugh about it. He called her the White Witch, a name I didn't like. It reminded me of the witch in the
forest and the stampeding elephants that could return at any moment.

The gardeners didn't believe in visiting the doctor the same way Mother did. They believed in spells. I'd heard them talk about spells to make women fall in love with men, others to make women pregnant and others still to heal sick babies. Dr Sadler used to tut about it when babies were brought to him too sick to cure. The gardeners buried a baby most months.

“They don't bite,” Mother said, but I couldn't be certain. She opened the door, and the women surged forward in one enormous herd. Even Monty cowered in the corner.

I took a deep breath, sneaked through the women's legs and only released my breath when I was through and clear and able to view the scene from the safety of the gate to the cutting shed and fields. More than twenty women gathered round the door, most of them clutching a screaming baby, with others strapped to their backs. They talked at Mother like bees buzzing round a tree hive. I don't know why: Mother didn't understand Kinyarwanda – she refused to learn anything other than greetings.

I left the women and the noise behind and went to the shack by the cutting shed where Sebazungu had his office.

The office was made from mud bricks and had a drape instead of a door, a small window with stained net curtains, a wobbly table (one leg was propped up by a piece of folded
cardboard) and a filing cabinet that screeched every time it was opened and closed. I hated that noise.

“Arthur,” said Sebazungu when I entered the office. “
Amakuru?”
I shuffled my feet on the dirt floor to indicate that I was fine and stuffed my hands into my pockets.

“Quoi?”
he said, laughing. “Seven years old and still no tongue! But I told Mama Ruku this morning that I was certain you'd be getting a tongue today.” I didn't like Sebazungu talking to his wife about me or teasing me about being mute. When he did, I felt awkward, aware that not talking wasn't normal. It made me feel as if I was to blame – and that made it worse. I looked at my shoes.

“This morning you make baskets. No tongue needed for that,” he said, and led me to the cutting shed. Basket-making was awful: it made my fingers sore and my bum numb from sitting all morning on a hard stool. It was almost as bad as eating cabbage or going to the dentist.

I took a seat between the head gardener, Simon, who was stocky and walked with a swagger, and Thomas, the tallest gardener, who was gaunt and chewed tobacco.

Even though it was only eight in the morning, the gardeners were already busy. Every day at six thirty they arrived from their tiny mud homes scattered over the terraced hills, some on ramshackle bikes, others on foot. They arrived at dawn and left at dusk.

“Ah-fuh,” said Simon in his loud voice. “Ah-fuh” was how Simon pronounced my name: he was trying to learn
English. Mother said he'd been trying for years. “How you go?” I looked up at his big hat that shaded his leathery skin and hid his eyes. I shuffled my feet.

“Ah-huh,” he laughed. His breath made me turn away: it smelt as if his teeth were rotting. Mother said he had “halitosis – something he can't help”, so I wasn't to make a fuss. It was difficult not to. He went about his basket-making, chanting loudly, “I am garden. I am garden,” and breathing over everyone.

The gardeners chatted as they worked. Usually Sebazungu was there to translate for me, but that day he went off to do something else. I listened on my own, understanding snippets, but not enough.

“U-u-umuzimu
,” said Thomas, who was quietly spoken with a stutter.
Umuzimu
meant ghost. The others looked at me and laughed. I felt uneasy and wished Sebazungu would come back, or that Monty was with me. I thought the gardeners were making fun of my appearance.

I did look peculiar. Every time Mother and I went to town and I saw a
mzungu
, I thought how ghostly they seemed. They looked as if they might die from their greyness. I stared at them just as the gardeners stared at me. Where had we come from? Did England have no sun? Had all the rain Mother spoke about washed our colour away?

And I was thin, too thin – Dr Sadler said so. I was so thin I could play percussion on my ribs. It wasn't normal, not for a
mzungu
. White people were meant to be fat. I
was odd. So I'd stare at myself too, I thought – but not on my birthday. I drifted into a world of butterfly eggs and chocolate cakes, which helped me to block out the gardeners' glances and ignore the pain of binding banana leaves to bamboo frames with raffia.

“C'est ça
,” said Simon, wiping his hands on his blue dungarees when the final basket was complete. “Lunch,” he said, and the gardeners put down their things and went to the yard to eat the rice, cabbage and beans that Fabrice had prepared for them on the outside stove.

After I'd had a meal of pizza and jelly with Mother, I spent the rest of the day helping to make the bouquets. I stripped leaves from stems and sorted the flowers by type into buckets. Thomas and the others made up the bouquets, which were then checked by Simon and placed securely in a basket.

In the middle of the afternoon, when the gardeners stopped for milky tea, their wives, who had been sitting in the side garden all morning taking their medicine and feeding their babies, came to take the flowers away. It was their job to carry the flowers to the main road and put them on the bus to Kigali, where they would be taken to hotels, shops, embassies and the wives of foreign diplomats.

When the wives arrived, I rubbed my knuckles together and stayed out of the way, keeping a safe distance beside Joseph, who was back from his sleep and sawing firewood. He whistled as he worked – the gaps between his teeth
made him an expert whistler. It was one of my favourite sounds.

“Muraho
, Arthur,” he said and gave me the thumbs up – the pad of his thumb had a deep scar. His gesture was the one he used to ask if I was OK. I gave a nod and watched him saw – I found the rhythm comforting. The wives lifted the baskets onto their heads and sang as they began the long walk to the road.

After they had gone and the work was done, the gardeners did as they did every Thursday: a game of draughts in the shed. I sat in the corner, out of the way, and watched Thomas stoop lazily to pick up the crate that had a chequer-board – eight by eight – painted on its base. He placed it in the centre of the cutting shed and rolled in two tree stumps that they used as stools. Simon threw contorted branches onto a blazing pyre, creating a woody smell of garden remains.

“Ah-fuh,” he said, catching my eye. He held out his hand. I didn't take it, but I knelt beside him when he and Thomas sat down at the board. The gardeners crowded round.

Thomas took out the pieces – twenty-four used soda-bottle caps in black and red – from the pocket of his blazer, which was three sizes too big and covered in holes, and set them in place.

Simon handed me a coin, said “You” and flicked his fingers, which I understood to mean “You flip the coin”. So I did. It landed head side up. Thomas clapped his hands
in delight and some of the others cheered. He made the first move.

“Where?” asked Simon, looking from the board to me: I pointed to the piece I thought he should move. He slid it diagonally forward.

“Good choice,” said Fabrice, arriving with cassava chips covered in salt for the gardeners.
Urwagwa
, banana beer, was passed round too. The gardeners supped on it slowly, wiping their mouths with the backs of their hands. Fabrice smiled at me reassuringly, then returned to the house to make dinner.

Thomas made his next move and Simon his, and soon I and everybody else was caught up in the game. Thomas leapt over Simon's pieces – Simon leapt over Thomas's. It wasn't long before each of them had several of the other's pieces and the cutting shed had come alive. It was warm from the fire and body heat; the scent of wood smoke and cassava rose to the rafters, and the place was filled with laughter as darkness crept in.

“Where?” asked Simon, and I saw an opportunity for him to reach the other end. I showed him the move. “Eh, Ah-fuh!” He laughed, his breath smelling of beer. “Very good.”

He placed his piece on the opposite end of the board and requested Thomas crown his king. The gardeners whooped and drank their beers. Thomas laughed good-humouredly. Simon offered me a cassava chip to celebrate.

I chewed on the salty chip, while Thomas considered his play. He too found a way to reach the opposite end and casually held out his hand for a piece to crown his own king. Simon gave it grudgingly.

As the game became closer the anticipation grew. The gardeners jostled and bantered with every piece claimed. I wondered who would win. The tension built, the laughter heightened. Everyone was having fun. Just when things were really getting really good, Mother turned up.

“There you are, Arthur,” she said, and picked her way through the gardeners, who pulled themselves upright, put down their beers and stopped their banter and laughter.

“It's time for your birthday tea.” She held out her hand.

The pyre had begun to die down; the cassava and banana beer had all been consumed. Reluctantly I got up and took her hand.

“Mwiriwe
,” slurred the gardeners as she led me away.

“
Mwiriwe
,” I said internally, wishing I could stay.

I never found out who won.

* * *

“Happy birthday, Son,” said Father, ruffling my hair and kissing Mother on the top of her head instead of her cheek. We sat down at the dining-room table, with Monty curled at Mother's feet. “Have you had a good day? Can you tell me something about it?”

I thought about the boring hours of basket-making, the excitement of draughts, and then about my eggs and how they appeared to have grown. I fetched them for Father to see.

“Very good, Arthur. Very good indeed,” he said with a smile, though I knew he was disappointed I'd shown him rather than told him. I placed my eggs on the table and let Father hold my hand.

Now that I was seven I thought I might have grown like my eggs. I stretched my heels towards the floor to see if they'd touch the antelope skin. They didn't. I slid forward in my seat, wondering how far I'd have to slide before I felt both heels on the ground. I didn't get the chance to find out.

“Arthur, sit up,” said Mother.

“Martha,” whispered Father.

I scrambled back into position and flicked through
African Butterflies
, which wasn't usually allowed at the table. “A birthday treat,” Mother had said.

“That looks like fine soup,” said Father when Fabrice arrived. He beamed and ladled it into our bowls.

“Hmm,” said Mother, taking a sip and laying down her spoon. “It's far too salty. I can't eat it.”

Fabrice sidled out with his tail between his legs, like Monty.

“All the more for us,” chuckled Father. He looked at me with a twinkle in his eye and slurped back his soup. “Soup-er!” he said, and we both laughed. Laughter didn't
frighten me the way talking did. Laughter actually felt quite nice, like sneezing or coughing. But Mother didn't laugh: she poured herself some wine.

“Happy birthday, Arthur,” she said, raising her glass to me.

“Happy birthday indeed,” said Father, lifting his glass – and so I held mine up too, which felt part grown-up, part silly. I wondered if this was the moment when they would bring out my gift. Father pushed back his chair. A bubble of anticipation formed in my tummy. Fabrice returned to remove the soup plates. Father pulled his chair back in, and the bubble burst. I wished Fabrice would hurry up.