Baking Cakes in Kigali (2 page)

“Of course,” agreed the Ambassador’s wife, shifting rather uncomfortably on the orange and brown cushions of the wooden sofa.

Angel knew that Ambassador Wanyika’s salary would have been boosted dramatically by an additional bonus to compensate him for the dangers and hardships of being stationed in a country so recently torn apart by conflict. She observed Mrs Wanyika casting about for a change of subject, and saw discomfort giving way to relief when her guest’s eyes found the four framed photographs hanging high up on the wall next to the sofa.

“Who are these, Angel?” She stood up to get a better look.

Angel put down her cup and stood to join her. “This is Grace,” she said, indicating the first photograph. “She’s the eldest, from our son Joseph. She has eleven years now. Then these two here are Benedict and Moses, also from Joseph. Moses is the youngest, with just six years.” She moved on to the third photograph while Mrs Wanyika produced well-rehearsed exclamations of admiration. “These are Faith and Daniel. They’re both from our daughter Vinas.” Then Angel touched the fourth and final photograph. “These are Joseph and Vinas,” she said. “Joseph has been late for nearly three years now, and we lost Vinas last year.” She sat down again rather heavily, the wood beneath the cushions of her chair creaking perilously, and knotted her hands in her lap.

“
Eh
, Angel!” said Mrs Wanyika softly, sitting down and reaching across the coffee table to put a comforting, well-moisturised hand on Angel’s knee. “It’s a terrible thing to bury your own children.”

Angel’s sigh was deep. “Terrible, Mrs Ambassador. And such a shock to lose both. Joseph was shot by robbers at his home in Mwanza …”

“Uh-uh-uh!” Mrs Wanyika shut her eyes and shook her head, giving Angel’s knee a squeeze.

“And Vinas …” Angel put her hand on top of her guest’s where it rested on her knee. “Vinas worked herself too hard after her husband left her. It stressed her to the extent that her blood pressure took her.”

“Ooh, that can happen, Angel.” Releasing her grip on Angel’s knee, Mrs Wanyika turned her hand over to meet Angel’s hand palm to palm, and held it tightly. “My own uncle, after he lost his wife, he devoted himself to his business to such an extent that a heart attack took him.
Eh!
Stress? Uh-uh.” Shaking her head, she clicked her tongue against the back of her neat upper row of glistening teeth.

“Uh-uh,” agreed Angel. “But Pius and I are not alone in
such a situation, Mrs Ambassador. It’s how it is for so many grandparents these days. Our children are taken and we’re made parents all over again to our grandchildren.” Angel gave a small shrug. “It can be a bullet. It can be blood pressure. But in most cases it’s the virus.”

Mrs Wanyika let go of Angel’s hand and reached for her tea. “But of course, as Tanzanians,” she said, her tone suddenly official, drained of compassion, “that is a problem that we don’t have.”

Angel’s eyebrows rushed to consult with each other across the bridge of her nose. “I’m sorry, Mrs Ambassador, but you’re confusing me. It sounds to me like you’re saying that we don’t have the virus at home in Tanzania. But everybody knows …”

“Angel!” Mrs Wanyika’s voice, now a stern whisper, interrupted. “Let us not let people believe that we have that problem in our country. Please!”

Angel stared hard at her guest. Then she removed her glasses and again polished the lenses with her tissue. “Mrs Ambassador,” she began, “do you think that the virus is in Uganda?”

“In Uganda? Well, yes, of course. Even the government of Uganda has said that it’s there.”

“And in Kenya?” continued Angel. “Do you think that it’s in Kenya?”

“Well, yes, I’ve heard that it’s there.”

“And in Zambia? Malawi? Mozambique?” Angel put her glasses and her tissue down on the coffee table and began counting the countries off on her fingers.

“Yes,” admitted Mrs Wanyika, “it’s in those countries, too.”

“And what about the Democratic Republic of Congo?”

“Oh, it’s very well known that it’s in DRC.”

“And surely you’ve heard that it’s in Burundi, and here in Rwanda?”

“Well, yes …”

“Then, Mrs Ambassador, if you know that the virus is in every country that is our neighbour, then there are others who already know that too; it cannot be a secret. And if people know that all of Tanzania’s neighbours have it, why will they think that Tanzania
doesn’t
have it? Will they think that there’s something special about our borders, that our borders don’t let it in?” Angel stopped, anxious that she had gone too far and that she might have offended her important guest. She put her glasses back on and looked at her. To her relief, Mrs Wanyika appeared more contrite than angry.

“No, you’re right, Angel. It’s only that Amos is always very careful not to admit that we have the problem of that disease in Tanzania. It’s his job.”

“That’s easy to understand,” assured Angel, “and, of course, as the Ambassador’s wife you must do the same, especially when you’re talking to people from outside our country. But we’re both from there, and we both know that it can come to any family there and take away somebody close.”

“Yes, of course. Although … not
every
family,” Mrs Wanyika countered. “Not ours. And not yours, Angel, I’m sure.”

But the Ambassador’s wife was wrong. Had the robber’s bullet not found Joseph’s head when he returned home that night from visiting his wife as she lay dying in Bugando Hospital, Angel would be telling a very different story about his death. Though perhaps not yet: he had been keeping himself fit and healthy, continuing to jog every evening and to play soccer every weekend; he could still—possibly—have been alive today. But Angel recognised that it was best not to say any of this to her guest, who would not be comfortable with the idea and might even feel moved to tear up her Cake Order Form. She decided to move away from the subject.

“You know, Pius and I were careful to have just two children
so that we could afford to educate them well. Back in those days, family planning was still very modern. We were pioneers. Our lives should be growing more peaceful now. Pius should be relaxing more as he works the last few years to his retirement, but instead he has to work even harder. Our children should be preparing themselves to take care of us now, but instead we find ourselves taking care of their five children.
Five!
Grace and Faith are good girls, they’re serious. But the boys? Uh-uh.” Angel shook her head.

“Ooh! Boys? Uh-uh,” agreed Mrs Wanyika, who—Angel knew—had herself raised three sons, and she also shook her head.

“Uh-uh,” said Angel again.

“Ooh, uh-uh-uh. Boys?” Mrs Wanyika concurred.

Both women were silent for a while as they contemplated the problems of boys.

Then Mrs Wanyika said, “God has indeed given you a cross to bear, Angel. But has He not also given you a blessing? Is a child’s laughter not the roof of a house?”

“Oh, yes!” Angel agreed quickly. “It’s only that we won’t be able to provide for these children as well as we did for our first children. But we must try by all means to give them a good life. That’s why we decided to leave Tanzania and come here to Rwanda. There’s aid money for the university and they’re paying Pius so much more as a Special Consultant than he was getting at the university in Dar. Okay, Rwanda has suffered a terrible thing. Terrible, Mrs Ambassador; bad, bad, bad. Many of the hearts here are filled with pain. Many of the eyes here have seen terrible things. Terrible! But many of those same hearts are now brave enough to hope, and many of those same eyes have begun to look towards the future instead of the past. Life is going on, every day. And for us the pluses of coming here are many more than the minuses. And
my cake business is doing well because there are almost no shops here that sell cakes. A cake business doesn’t do well in a place where people have nothing to celebrate.”

“Oh, everybody talks about your cakes! You can go to any function and the cake is from Angel. Or if the cake is not from Angel, somebody there will be talking about another function where the cake
was
from Angel.”

Angel smiled, patting her hair in a modestly proud gesture. One of the few luxuries that she allowed herself was regular trips to the hair salon to have her hair relaxed and kept trim in a style appropriate for her age.

“Well, being so busy with my cake business keeps me young, Mrs Ambassador. And I must keep young for the children. You know, many people here don’t even know that I’m already a grandmother. Everybody just calls me Mama-Grace, as if Grace is my firstborn, not my grandchild.”

“But you are Grace’s mother now, Angel. Who is Mama-Grace if it is not you? Who is
Baba-Grace
if it is not your husband?”

Angel was about to agree when the front door opened and a short, plump young woman with the humble demeanour of a servant walked quietly into the room.

“Ah, Titi,” said Angel, speaking to her in Swahili. “Are the girls not with you?”

“No, Auntie,” Titi replied. “We met Auntie Sophie at the entrance to the compound. She invited us up to her apartment. She’s given me money to go and buy Fantas from Leocadie, but she said first I must come and tell Auntie that the girls are with her.”

“
Sawa.
Okay,” said Angel. “Titi, greet the wife of our Ambassador from Tanzania, Mrs Wanyika.”

Titi approached Mrs Wanyika and shook her hand with a small curtsy, respectfully not looking her in the eye.
“Shikamoo.”

“
Marahaba
, Titi,” said Mrs Wanyika, graciously acknowledging Titi’s respectful greeting, and submitting to the pressure to reply in her country’s
first
official language.
“Habari?
How are you?”

“
Nzuri, Bibi.
I’m fine,” replied Titi, still not looking at Mrs Wanyika.

“
Sawa
, Titi, go and buy the Fantas now for Auntie Sophie,” instructed Angel. “Greet Leocadie for me. Tell her I’ll come to buy eggs tomorrow.”

“
Sawa
, Auntie,” said Titi, making for the door.

“And leave the door open, Titi. Let us get some air in here.” Angel was suddenly feeling very hot. She fanned her face with the Cake Order Form that Mrs Wanyika had completed. “We brought Titi with us from home,” she explained, switching back to English in deference to her guest’s choice. “It was our son Joseph who first employed her, then when … when the children came to us, Titi came with them. She’s not an educated somebody, but she cleans and cooks well, and she’s very good with the children.”

“I’m glad you have someone to help you, Angel,” said Mrs Wanyika, “but do you all manage to fit into this apartment?”

“We fit, Mrs Ambassador! The children and Titi have the main bedroom. It’s big. A carpentry professor at KIST made three double bunks for them, and still there’s room in there for a cupboard. Pius and I are fine in the smaller bedroom. And the children aren’t always inside; the compound has a yard for them to play in when they’re not at school.”

“And how is the school here?” asked Mrs Wanyika.

“It’s a good school, but quite expensive for five children!
Eh
, but what can we do? The children don’t know French, so they have to go to an English school. But the school sends a minibus to fetch all the children from this neighbourhood, so we don’t have to worry about transport. The boys are visiting some friends from school who live down the road, otherwise
you could meet them. Titi took the girls to the post office to post letters to their friends back in Dar, but now they’ve gone to visit Sophie. It’s a pity. I wish you could meet them, Mrs Ambassador.”

“I’ll meet them one day, Angel,” said Mrs Wanyika. “Who is this Sophie that they’re visiting?”

“A neighbour upstairs in this compound. She’s a good friend to our family. She shares her apartment with another lady called Catherine. Both of them are volunteers.”

“Volunteers?” queried Mrs Wanyika, raising a carefully-pencilled eyebrow.

“Yes. There are some few people here who have come to help Rwanda without demanding many dollars.” Angel gave a slightly embarrassed smile, knowing that neither her husband nor her guest’s husband fell into that category.

Again Mrs Wanyika shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. “And what do these volunteers do?”

“They’re both teachers. Catherine’s a trainer for the Ministry for Gender and Women, and Sophie teaches English at that secondary school that’s for girls only.”

“I see,” said Mrs Wanyika. “So these two volunteers are helping women and girls. That is very good.”

“Yes,” agreed Angel. “Actually, they told me that they’re both feminists.”

“Feminists?” Mrs Wanyika’s other eyebrow shot up to join the one that had still not quite recovered from the idea of volunteers.
“Feminists?”
she repeated.

Angel was confused by her guest’s reaction. “Mrs Ambassador, is there something wrong with a feminist?”

“Angel, are you not afraid that they’ll convert your daughters?”

“
Convert?
Mrs Ambassador, you’re speaking of feminists as if they’re some kind of … of
missionaries.”

“Angel, do you not know what feminists are? They don’t
like men. They … er …” here Mrs Wanyika dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper and leaned closer to Angel, “they do sex with other ladies!”

Angel once more removed her glasses and polished the lenses with her tissue. She took a deep breath before speaking. “Oh, Mrs Ambassador, I can see that somebody has confused you on this matter, and, indeed, it is very easy to become confused, because, of course, it is a very confusing matter. I believe that a lady who does sex with other ladies is not called a feminist. I believe she is called a lesbian.”

“Oh,” said Mrs Wanyika, registering both relief and embarrassment at the same time. “Right. Yes, I’ve heard of a lesbian.”

“It’s very easy for us to get confused because these ideas are so modern for us in Africa,” said Angel, mindful of her guest’s embarrassment and anxious to smooth over her mistake.

“Indeed,” agreed Mrs Wanyika. “These ideas are too modern here. Amos has always been stationed in Africa, except for when we were in Malaysia. But such ideas are also too modern for Malaysia.”