The Cinnamon Tree (5 page)

Days passed, the Landcruiser ground up the hill each
morning
and did not stop. Mr Hans had forgotten about her; she couldn’t go to school; she had lost her books and Gabbin swore that he had not touched them. There didn’t seem to be anything to look forward to. She had a party to mark her
fourteenth
birthday, but it was a gloomy affair.

It was the time of year for planting maize, when the ground was still moist after the rains. The seed corn had been taken from the granary, and the back-breaking job of planting the maize was about to begin. Yola wasn’t surprised when Sindu volunteered to look after the children, leaving Yola the even less enjoyable task of picking stones out of the millet for the midday meal. The millet grains were tiny and so were the stones, which had been picked up during thrashing. In the end, it really meant hand-picking each millet grain from one pile and placing it on a clean pile on a separate cloth. Yola had learned long ago to put herself into a sort of trance when doing boring jobs like this. In her imagination she would travel the world … who could have taken her geography book? she
wondered
. She didn’t mind so much about the others, but the
geography
book, with its photographs of the world, was where she got her ideas for her imaginary journeys – it was her passport to the world – and she needed it now! The pile of picked grains grew from a mound to a cone. She looked up and found Hans smiling down at her.

‘Where were you? I could have shouted and you wouldn’t have heard me?’ he said.

‘I didn’t hear your car.’ She was surprised into resentment – why hadn’t he come before?

‘I walked down from the hill.’

‘Oh, I didn’t think …’

‘… that Europeans walked anywhere,’ he laughed. ‘Why
aren’t
you at school?’

Yola shrugged and nodded towards her stump. ‘It’s too far to walk.’

‘But you
must
go to school!’ He seemed quite shocked. ‘We
need
you to go to school!’

Yola shrugged. She wasn’t sure of her English. Why would
he
need
her
to go to school? Hans squatted down awkwardly. She’d heard that Europeans couldn’t squat properly, with feet flat on the ground.

‘Look, Yola,’ he said, ‘I want to ask you again. We would like you to help us with our mines awareness programme,
remember
? People, kids particularly, will listen to you.’

‘Because of this?’ and she tipped her chin towards her stump.

‘No! Because you’re bright, and you’re pretty, and you know what it’s like to suffer. Please Yola, I didn’t like to ask you last time. Remember, you’d been upset?’

She looked down at her cone of millet seeds and shook her head.

‘Was that yes, or no?’ he asked.

She looked him directly in the face, flaring bitterly. ‘I’d like to help you. I’d like to go back to school. I’d like to visit the
Eskimos
, perhaps even visit the moon, but I have work to do.’ She gestured towards the growing pile of millet seeds. Her lower lip was beginning to tremble. ‘For maths I can count seeds, for English I can make up stories, for mines awareness I can look after babies.’ She resumed her sorting, biting her treacherous lip. It was all right for him with his big car and his complicated-looking watch. She felt a tear on her cheek, but she didn’t want to draw attention to it by wiping it away.

Perhaps the man hadn’t understood her. He squatted there uncomfortably, watching the seeds falling on the pile, saltating down the slopes. A small landslide would change the profile of the cone from time to time. Then he did a surprising thing: he reached out and touched the tear that was progressing slowly down her cheek.

‘We must do something about this, Yola,’ he said and
clambered
to his feet, his knees emitting some alarming snaps. He turned then and strode out of the compound.

Next day, the older children walking back from school
reported
that the deminers’ car had called at the school, and that Sister Martha had spent a whole hour talking to the man with blue eyes.

‘Sindu?’ Yola called. ‘Sindu mother?’

No answer. She’d been there a moment ago. Yola’s mother wanted to borrow an extra pot; Yola ducked her head and went into Sindu’s hut. It was sparsely furnished. A curtain hung across the room to one side, concealing the bed.

‘Sindu?’ Yola called again.

Against the back wall was a table with a coloured cloth over it and a mirror. On the right of this was a radio, on the left was … Yola’s tin-box. Yola froze. Her first reaction was to back out, forget it, avoid confrontation, but her feet didn’t move. Then she tried making excuses – perhaps Sindu had rescued them for her? The books had after all been left out in the open. But Sindu didn’t know about her secret place.

As if drawn by a magnet, Yola crossed the room and lifted the lid. The shock was electric. The books were gone, no
rubber
, no pencil, nothing but someone else’s knick-knacks! This was
her
box, home for
her
treasured things. This was a violation, like finding something crawly in your clothes. In one
compulsive movement she spilled the contents out,
recognising
a string of beads that Sindu had worn when she had first
arrived
, some seashells from the coast and a man’s watch, obviously not working. They all scattered on the floor. Yola clutched the tin to her, swivelling awkwardly on her crutches.
Where were her books
?

There wasn’t much light in the hut. Yola squinted. On the opposite side of the room was the corner where Sindu parked the babies when she had charge of them. There were the books! Yola pounced, dropping the tin-box with a clang. They were already torn and crumpled, two – no – three. But no geography book! Hope. Where was her geography book, her passport, it must be somewhere here? She searched frantically, poking with her crutches, churning through broken toys. Unless … unless … she swivelled around, lurched across the hut and pulled at the curtain shielding the bed. It came away in her hand and billowed about her, clinging to her leg and her crutches. There, decorating the walls above the bed, was page after page of her precious book. There were her Eskimos! Rage blazed behind her eyes. She tried to reach across the bed but she couldn’t. Perhaps she screamed, perhaps it was Sindu’s scream from the door that rang through the compound, but suddenly they were facing each other across the crumpled
curtain
like rival leopards.

‘What are you doing in here!’ Sindu yelled. ‘Look at my bed, look at what you have done!’ She rushed at Yola, but Sindu did not know the extent of Yola’s fury. They met in a tangle of
curtain
. Yola managed to push the older girl back and put all of her energy into shouting.

‘How dare you take my books! I’ve lost my leg, I’ve lost my freedom, I’ve lost any chance of being married like you, I can’t even go to school, and you’ve torn them up.’

She was aware of shouts from outside. Sindu obviously heard these too and put her head back and screamed – no words – just screaming. This was too much for Yola, all her
restraint
blew away. She freed one of her crutches and hit Sindu as hard as she could, first on the shoulder and then, when she was turning, across the back. Her crutch broke with a snap and Yola was helpless.

The door darkened as people came crowding in. Sindu was helped out of range and Uncle Banda edged around to get
behind
Yola, afraid of a belt from a crutch himself. Before she
realised
what was happening, Yola’s arms were pinned to her sides and she was lifted up bodily and carried out the door. Sindu made a rush at her, but someone held her back. This time, Yola had gone too far.

F
or two days, Yola was confined to her mother’s hut. No one came near her. Her food was brought to her on a
banana
leaf, as if they thought she would throw her plate at
someone
. Mother came and went, slept and was silent. Yola realised she was in deep trouble. She followed the activity in the
compound
by the sounds she heard. Her hopes lifted when she heard the deminers’ car. She even heard Mr Hans’s voice in the distance, but hoped he wouldn’t try to see her. She was also sure that she had heard the putter of Sister Martha’s moped, but that was unlikely.

On the third day her mother, her own precious mother, came to talk to her. She asked Yola to tell her everything – about her books, about how Sindu had been treating her. When Yola was hoarse from talking she asked, why all these questions? That afternoon, she was told, Father would sit in judgement and Mother, as Yola’s true mother, would have to make Yola’s case.

‘Why not me?’ Yola asked.

‘It is better this way,’ was all her mother would say.

Yola washed and dressed with care, not that she had many clothes to choose from. The solemnity of the occasion became clear when her friends were allowed in to help her with her
hair, parting it, plaiting it, even working in some modest beads.

‘What’s going to happen?’ she wanted to know, but they kept quiet, as if they’d been told to say nothing. Uncle Banda came in with a pair of new crutches that he had made for her. They were a bit long, but there would be no time to shorten them.

‘I’ve made them extra strong,’ he said, as she tried them.

‘Why strong? Have I put on weight since I’ve been locked away in here?’ Yola asked.

‘No, it’s so that next time you take a swipe at Sindu, the crutch won’t break.’

Yola couldn’t believe it; she was quite shocked. She had come to accept her guilt and shame and here was Uncle Banda … she could feel a laugh – no, worse, a giggle rising. She must not giggle! If she giggled in front of everybody it would be
terrible
. This was so like Uncle Banda. Just when you thought you knew where you were with him, he did something
surprising
. Like siding with the rebels when everyone else was against them. Footsteps were approaching. Uncle Banda’s voice changed.

‘I hope you’re thoroughly ashamed of yourself!’ he said, loud enough for anyone to hear.

Yola didn’t dare look at him. But it was just one of her friends; she poked her head through the doorway. ‘Sindu’s gone in,’ she said, and Yola was left on her own again. Why is it taking so long? she wondered.

Yola halted at the doorway to Father’s house. She was propped between her too-long crutches, head bent forward. On her way down she had passed Sindu, who was leaving. If Sindu looked as if she had received a life sentence, what was going to happen
to Yola? Sindu had muttered spitefully, ‘Now you’re for it!’ but it was a half-hearted effort.

Why had Father elected to use his house, rather than the big tree, to sit in judgement? Yola wondered. She blinked in the dim light as she stepped in through the door. Then she blinked again: Sister Martha and – of all people – Hans were there!
Uncle
Banda was part of the semicircle around Father’s chair,
together
with several elders from the neighbourhood; she’d expected that, but not the white people. Oh God! Yola’s mother was standing back; she’d had her say. Senior Mother was there, not part of the circle, but a source of invisible power in the gloom. All eyes were on Father.

As Yola walked forward they all looked around at her, but she could glean nothing from their expressions. She had been rehearsing all the things she would say against Sindu; suddenly they no longer seemed so important. Father sat, not saying a word, just looking at Yola steadily, as if his face were carved from ebony. The last of her truculence ebbed away. The biting things and pert comments soaked out through the soles of her feet into the polished earth of the floor. Why were Sister Martha and Mr Hans here to see her shame? She had so wanted to please them, and now …

Father began to speak. His voice came deep from his chest as if rising up through him from the earth. Yola struggled to
understand
because he was not using their everyday language: he spoke the language of their people when they talk of sacred things – matters of the tribe, matters of law and the spirit – a ritual language that flows like a deep river. To Yola’s surprise, he was not speaking about her but seemed to be telling a story. It was a story about a girl who had nothing, no education, little food, no possessions, and whose family had fallen on hard times. After a little, Yola found she was no longer listening
with the top of her mind, but was letting his words sink in like water on dry soil, penetrating into parts of her she did not even know existed. Images began to rise in her mind, unbidden. She saw the face of a girl, only a little older than herself, vaguely
familiar
, a stupid face, but tear-stained and miserable. It dawned on her that it was Sindu’s face, but from some time ago.

A man’s voice rasped. ‘You
will
do as I say!’ Then, rising to a scream, ‘You are
mine
to give away! I’ll never get a better offer for you. Just look at your snivelling face!’

‘But Juvimba?’ the girl sobs.

‘That rebel! He couldn’t even pick the winning side! He’s still mixed up with them, I hear. All he’d give me for you would be a stick of dynamite. Probably all you’re worth! Don’t talk to me about him ever again!’

‘But I’ll be lonely.’

‘Of course you won’t. No third wife is ever lonely.’

The weak, feckless voice raved on. But Yola was seeing
Sindu’s
meagre possessions again: some cheap beads, seashells – her one visit to the sea probably – and a man’s watch that did not work – Juvimba’s? Suddenly they were scattered on the floor.

‘No!’ she exclaimed, jolting as if waking from a dream.

Father’s face materialised. Had she exclaimed aloud? As if he understood, his voice changed. The ritual chanting was gone and she realised he was speaking in English, slowly and clearly so that Sister Martha and Mr Hans could understand.

‘Now we come to your punishment, Yola my daughter, and this is how it must be understood by everyone outside these walls. I have decided that you are to be banished from this compound for striking your mother, Sindu. Do you accept my decision?’

Yola felt herself swaying on her crutches. Was this it, was she too to be married off? What did banished mean? She searched
Father’s face but there was no answer there. Then she stood up as straight as she could and said, ‘Yes, Father.’

A ripple of movement, like wind in the grass, spread through the people in the room. Yola knew that it wasn’t her place to speak but she had to.

‘Father, I am sorry–’ she began, but immediately Father stiffened.

‘Quiet girl! Do you think that I have been talking to you for all this time without knowing your mind? Do you think I am a mask that you can look at without it knowing you? You and I have been on a journey together, now we must see if you are
capable
of learning from it. I have spoken. Now, Sister Martha and Mr Eriksen will tell you about our plans for you.’

Yola sat in her secret place – not so secret now, but still a place to come. Gabbin came in and sat for a little while, hoping for information, but she wasn’t giving any. She sent him away while she tried to absorb what they had said. Sister Martha had looked like a little grey parrot, while Mr Hans tried to look
serious
. She went over her sentence again, this time pretending she was on trial in a real court.

‘Criminal Yola Abonda, this is your sentence,’ they might have said. ‘You are banished from this compound, banished from the city of Nopani, banished even from Kasemba, your country. You will be taken from here (in chains, perhaps), and despite your protests you will be given some beautiful new clothes. You will then be put on an aeroplane and flown to your place of exile – a small island off the coast of Western Europe.’

At first, Yola thought that he had said Iceland rather than Ireland. ‘Eskimos?’ she had asked. But Mr Hans explained that even in Iceland she mightn’t see Eskimos. What she would see
in Ireland, however, was lots of rain. Sister Martha had been quite indignant and said it was the island of a thousand greens and everyone had laughed.

‘Silence! Criminal Yola,’ the judge would have continued, ‘there you will be taken to a place of correction where the leg you so carelessly lost will be replaced and made as good as new. After that you are sentenced to school with extra geography lessons because you don’t know the difference between Iceland and Ireland!’

Yola would be away for nearly a year. She would spend two or three weeks in hospital while she was given her new leg, and then a whole year at a convent school belonging to Sister Martha’s order.

She leant back and looked up at the little patch of blue through the leaves above her and felt that she already had wings. She wanted to shout and tell her friends and to laugh and sing, but she wouldn’t. Father had taken her on a journey and trusted her. She decided that, when the time was right, she would give Sindu the remains of her geography book, all that is but one picture – her picture of the Eskimos, that she would probably keep forever.

Yola began to lead a double life. Inside the compound she was palpably in disgrace. Senior Mother seemed to be everywhere, like a watchful vulture ready to hop in at the slightest sign of trouble. Yola wanted to see Shimima, but she had always been busy when the girl had passed by. Then, a couple of days after her ‘trial’, she heard a voice calling.

‘Eheeeh? … Yola Abonda, I hear great things of you!’

Yola emerged from her hut, where she’d been bruising
herself
trying to sweep with one hand. Shimima, on her way to the well this time, had placed her great water jar beside the gate.
Kasembi is a language meant for calling out, and Shimima had a fine, strong voice.

‘Ehee …!’ Yola called in return, but snipped it short; Senior Mother had appeared at the door of Father’s house and was glaring at the unfortunate Shimima. Yola abandoned her sweeping brush and swung her way down towards her friend, anxious to head off trouble and trying to force her face into some semblance of seriousness. She had to pass Senior Mother on the way; bright eyes watched from under hooded lids. Yola prayed that she would be allowed to pass when, in little more than a whisper, Senior Mother spoke.

‘I’m glad for you Yola, Shimima is a good girl. Go with her, but keep your laughter till later. Remember, here you are in disgrace.’

For a second the lowered lids lifted – a suggestion of a smile, but a warning glance as well. Yola knew better than to turn to see if Sindu was watching. She hung her head and allowed her crutches to drag in the dust like the wings of a wounded bird.

‘Heyee, Yola? Was she casting a spell on me?’

‘No, you are safe for now Shimima, but you will be turned into a toad if you make me laugh,’ said Yola, keeping her head down. ‘I’m in disgrace. Let’s go.’