The Flower Plantation (11 page)

Mother put down her soda and told me to stay in the truck. She opened her door and marched straight towards the boy.

“You! Little thief!” she shouted, then went right up to him and cuffed him round the ear. Zach, who was almost the same size as Mother, stumbled a little but recovered himself and squared up to her.

“Sebazungu!” called Mother – not that she needed to. Sebazungu, the fuel attendant and his son were already on their way to the scene. Even the fuel attendant's wife was hauling herself up from where she was seated.

Winding down my window I heard Mother say: “Ask this boy where he got that bike.”

Sebazungu translated.

The boy, now cowering in the presence of the adults, said he took it from the forest. But Sebazungu told Mother, “He says it was a present from his uncle,” and he motioned to the fuel attendant.

This confused me. I was certain about what the boy had said: my Kinyarwanda was getting much better.

Mother squinted at Sebazungu and then at Zach. She shook her head and muttered something before coming back to the truck. Zach shot a smug look in my direction.

“I thought it was yours,” she told me. “But Sebazungu tells me differently.”

I knew Mother wasn't certain. I wanted to tell her that Sebazungu hadn't told the truth, but I couldn't. I was angry with her for not learning Kinyarwanda and letting Sebazungu away with a lie, but I was even
angrier with myself for not being able to say what I knew to be true.

Sebazungu returned to the truck and told Mother that if there was a missing bike he would talk to every worker on the plantation to find out what had happened. I tried not to catch his eye. I didn't want him to find out that I knew he'd lied to Mother.

13

1990

As far as I could tell, Sebazungu made no effort to talk to the gardeners and Mother did nothing more about the theft of my bike herself. Regardless, life continued on the plantation in much the same way as it had before. Small things changed, such as Father increasingly becoming distracted by the radio and newspapers. Occasionally I'd pick up his paper and read of a murdered politician, dead journalist or student shot at a protest. Father was not the only one who listened more to the radio. It was on constantly in the kitchen, where Fabrice and Celeste could listen, and Sebazungu hooked up a radio to a loudspeaker outside his office, so that the gardeners could hear it from where they were working in the fields.

From time to time Father would lose his temper with me – something he'd never done before. He spent days away in the city – which Mother reassured me was to do with “being very busy at work”. But she told me in such a way that I felt she was hiding something or didn't know herself, which was worse than not being told at all.

With Father away for longer, Mother had more to do on the plantation and less time for my lessons, which meant
I had extra time to spend with Beni, who rarely went to school. Beni told me she missed her lessons with the schoolteacher; most days she worked in her family's field instead. When we could, we played in the garden with our butterfly, releasing it and catching it with the nets we made out of cane and old mosquito gauze. Beni often spoke about wanting to go back up the mountain again to release the butterfly; it frustrated me that I had no way of telling her that I was banned.

One Monday morning, when the sun was on the rise and the mist had cleared, Beni arrived at the back door. I was meant to be spending the day with the gardeners thinning saplings, but when Mother saw Beni she gave me permission to take the morning off, so long as I promised to play outside and keep out of her way. I fancied a game of hide-and-seek – a game much better suited to the outdoors than the confines of the house – so I was happy to oblige. The best place to play hide-and-seek wasn't in the yard or Mother's side garden, but out by the cutting shed, where there was much greater scope for places to hide.

Beni and I left the house and ran towards the shed; Romeo followed, and Monty stayed with Mother. Beni's cornrows bounced from side to side as she ran ahead of me. I figured that, wherever she chose to hide, I stood a good chance of finding her, given that the dress she was wearing was bright yellow.

At the cutting shed I indicated the game I wanted to play by covering my eyes and then revealing them again. Beni knew what I meant and quickly decided:

“You hide first.”

I liked hiding much more than seeking, so with Beni counting in the corner I left the shed and headed into the field of golden alstroemeria, where the gardeners were thinning plants and listening to the radio. The voices from the radio carried to the back of the field and farther still; I found it hard to follow, such was the speed at which they spoke. Whatever was being said, it seemed to animate the gardeners, who were so busy bantering they did very little work. I hunkered down among the flower rows and shooed Romeo, so he wouldn't give my hiding place away. The pollen tickled my nose, and I tried hard not to sneeze. With my head peeking above the flowers, I watched Beni come round the side of the cutting shed and search the fields. She was like a bright dahlia with her dark limbs and yellow dress.

“Thomas,” called Sebazungu. He was sitting on an upturned bucket chewing on sugar cane. Simon sat beside him, sharpening his machete.

Thomas looked up from where he was stooped over the saplings.

“Did you hear the President's speech?” Sebazungu asked in Kinyarwanda.

Thomas nodded and continued with his work.

“What did you think?”

Thomas shrugged his shoulders.

“Democracy,” said Sebazungu, shaking his head and spitting out the sugar cane. “Habyarimana pleases no one in Rwanda.” Simon nodded in agreement.

“M-m-maybe some,” said Thomas, more to the flowers than to Sebazungu.

“
Quoi?”
Sebazungu sounded irritated. Thomas spat out his tobacco and repeated himself a little louder.

“Who?” Sebazungu laughed, and Simon did too. “You?”

“And others.” Thomas looked at the gardeners around him. They were wearing different-coloured caps I hadn't noticed before. I liked the way they looked, bobbing brightly among the flowers.

Thomas reached into the pocket of his shabby blazer and produced a cap of his own. He pulled it on proudly. Sebazungu threw his sugar cane on the ground and got up, knocking over his bucket.

“Found you!” called Beni, crouching down beside me. I was so caught up in listening to what was going on that I'd completely forgotten about our game. I placed my finger to my lips, telling her to be quiet.

“Why?” she asked.

I pointed at Sebazungu, who was walking towards Thomas, ranting about something. Beni and I kept a lookout from between the flower stems.

“You understand what he say?” she asked.

I shook my head.

Beni listened and said:

“He is cross with President.”

I furrowed my brow, uncertain why Sebazungu should be cross with someone he didn't know.

“He say: President pleases the West. President doesn't believe what he says.”

Soon Sebazungu was standing next to Thomas attempting to snatch his cap, but Thomas stood perfectly upright so his cap was out of reach. Sebazungu continued to rant. Beni whispered:

“He say: you think President wants to share power? And Thomas say: President wants best for everyone.”

Sebazungu laughed and laughed at Thomas. It didn't seem like nice laughter. I suspected he was laughing at Thomas the same way he'd laughed at me for being mute or falling off my bike. Thomas tried to talk back, but his stutter stopped him. Words stuck in the back of his throat. I knew exactly how that felt.

As Thomas choked on his words and Sebazungu goaded him, the radio suddenly cut off. Everyone stopped talking and turned to see what had happened.

Mother was striding through the field.

“No more radio,” she shouted at the gardeners. “Back to work.”

“No,” Sebazungu protested. Simon looked pleased with himself, as if it were he who had refused Mother.

“I beg your pardon?” said Mother.

“These men must know what is happening to Rwanda.”

“These men are paid to work!” At that moment no one was working, everyone was listening to Sebazungu and Mother arguing.

Sebazungu said: “You tell these men, ‘Take off your caps or lose your jobs,' and I will turn off the radio.”

“I'm not bargaining with you.”

Sebazungu shrugged his shoulders casually and said, “Then the radio stays on.”

Simon smirked, but stopped when Mother caught him.

After that Sebazungu and Mother stared at each other for what felt like a very long time. It was Mother who gave in first. She closed her eyes and released a long, slow breath that gave her the appearance of a wilting flower. Opening her eyes she told him, “Very well.”

She turned to the gardeners and said, “Take off your caps,” motioning what to do. “Those of you who don't needn't come back to work.”

One by one the gardeners took off their caps and slipped them into their pockets. When every cap was removed and Sebazungu had gone back to work, Mother called briskly, “Arthur,” and she looked around as if she was playing hide-and-seek too. I stood up from my place among the flowers. “That's enough for today. Time for Beni to go home.” I didn't want her to go, and Beni's scrunched-up nose told me she didn't want to go either. But Mother would be in
a bad mood if she didn't, so we walked through the field towards the house and garden. I had a sudden urge to hold Beni's hand.

“
Data
say President is good man,” Beni said as we neared the road. “He say, life be better when changes come.”

I wanted to hear about what the President was going to do, but before Beni could tell me more Mother called from the house: “Arthur, hurry up, it's time you did some school work.”

Closing the gate, I watched Beni walk towards home and wondered about the changes to come.

14

“Gather round,” said Father to the gardeners after church, which had been particularly dull that Sunday. I'd passed the time trying to memorize who was sitting where, like a giant version of Kim's Game. It was complicated by the fact that many of the people who usually sat next to each other had switched places.

In the side garden the gardeners were having lunch provided by Mother and Father, something that happened each week. In return for food, the children danced the
intore
or played traditional drums, but this Sunday Father had set up his projection screen in the gazebo.

Beni and I put down our butterfly nets and ran to take our seats.

I sat next to Mother on her bench, with Romeo at my feet. I turned to watch the workers saunter over and take their places. Beni, her
mama
and her
data
sat behind us quietly – she in her Sunday best and he reading from his leatherbound Bible. Beni played with the beads at the ends of her braids.

Sebazungu sat on the bench next to ours. Mother avoided his gaze. His wife, Mama Ruku, sat on a mat at his feet, their baby son tied to her back. Mama Ruku wasn't one
of the wives who came to the back door for medicine on a Thursday; Mama Ruku had a job of her own selling bananas at the market in town. When Fabrice passed round the chicken and sweet potato Sebazungu ate his food before his wife ate hers. He then supped from a calabash of banana beer before offering any to her.

With everything ready, Father sat down and brought up the first slide. It was of a tall, good-looking man in a golden headdress like a lion's mane – the gardeners gasped at the giant black-and-white image on the screen.

“Some of them haven't seen photos this big before,” explained Mother, though she didn't need to: I knew not everyone had a father with a projection screen, not even in England.

“Can you guess who it is?” Mother asked me.

From Father's stories I assumed it was one of the old kings.

“Rwabugiri,” announced Father to the gathering, and a general murmur could be heard as the gardeners talked about the photo. It wasn't clear if they were discussing the dead king or the projected image that was to them quite real – as if the King might be alive again and standing in our garden. Several people gathered round the screen to touch the image; others examined the projection unit suspiciously.

Next came a picture of the villainous Queen Mother, Kanjogera, who looked nothing like the black-robed,
toothless queen of my imagination. She was an odd-looking woman with a long oval face and droopy eyes. Glancing around I saw Fabrice tut and cast his eyes down.

Then Father showed a picture of King Musinga – the king who was naughty and wouldn't go to church. He had the same long face as his mother, but his eyes bulged and his receding hair was styled in such a way that gave the impression of horns. One woman found this image so disturbing that she screamed and only calmed down when her husband led her away.

After a while, when the cartridge needed changing, everyone got up to stretch their legs, sip banana beer through straws or reposition their babies. Mother went inside, Sebazungu went off to the yard and only returned when Father was showing pictures of the uprising. Sebazungu smiled broadly at the pictures. I thought it was odd that he should find images of burnt houses and slaughtered cattle so pleasing, but he wasn't alone: others at the gathering seemed to like them too. They lifted their beers in celebration. But not everyone was pleased. Celeste sucked her teeth, her large family sitting quietly beside her, their heads bowed. Her eye wept, and she rubbed her bad leg. It was hard to imagine that, if it hadn't been for Papa, Celeste would be dead.

And then came the image of Kayibanda, who Celeste had told me was Rwanda's first President after Independence. I thought he looked a bit like an American boxer. This
photograph caused the biggest reaction of all. People got up, whooped and cheered and put on their coloured caps. Sebazungu supped his beer and said, “This was a good president.”

At this point Joseph came running through the gate with a worried expression. Romeo cocked his head and lifted an ear.

“
Bwana, bwana
,” he said to Father, trying to catch his breath. “Monty,” he gasped, and pointed towards the flower fields.

“What is it, Joseph?”

Joseph motioned for Father to follow him, quickly.

“Come on, Arthur,” said Father, turning off the projector. A groan of disappointment came from the crowd. “We'd better see what all this is about.”

Father strode through the yard following Joseph, and I followed Father, taking two steps to his one. Romeo scattered the chickens. We walked past the cabbage patch, rhubarb and artichokes until we reached the cutting shed and the fields that stretched up into the mountains. Over the drainage ditch we went, and into the field of golden alstroemeria.

We crossed the field of spotted foxgloves – which reached to my waist and to Father's knees. As we broke out on the other side of the steep field we saw, a little farther on at the clearing where I was born, Simon and Thomas shouting at each other. Not just shouting:
fighting. Simon pushed Thomas, knocking off his cap, then Thomas pushed Simon, who fell to the ground.

“Stop,” ordered Father.

Thomas backed off and Simon got up.

“What's going on?”

It was Joseph who pointed at the hut. Father went to it, and I followed with Romeo.

Monty lay gasping for breath on the floor. He was foaming at the mouth. Romeo sat down and guarded him. Monty's eyes looked like old scratched marbles and reflected no light. I stood in the entrance of the hut stock-still and watched Father press his head to Monty's heart. Anger seethed within me: I was convinced the witch was to blame.

“What happened here?” Father asked Simon.

Simon shrugged his square shoulders. Thomas looked at the ground. Father lifted Monty and pushed past them both.

* * *

“Blankets,” said Father when we reached the house. I grabbed some from the pile in the corner and placed them on the floor for Monty, who lay like a heavy sack in Father's arms. Father laid him down and asked me to get Mother. I ran to her bedroom and dragged her by her hand through the house.

When Mother saw Monty almost lifeless on the floor, she knelt down and leant over him, covering him with her cardigan. Father moved aside and rubbed her back.

“There, there, Martha,” he said.

“Can't you do something?” sobbed Mother. Her hair looked like tumbleweed, and tears poured down her face.

“There's nothing to be done. We just have to wait. It won't be long now.”

Monty's breathing was laboured, but he looked to me as if he was fighting sleep, not dying.

Mother slumped beside Monty and stroked his brow. Tears fell from her eyes and onto Monty's face: it looked like he was crying too.

I wanted to tell Mother and Father about the witch. I wanted to say something so badly it felt as if my throat might burst. In the end all that came out were a few strained grunts that nobody understood but me.

* * *

Monty died just before sunset. By the time it was dark and everyone had gone home, Joseph had dug a grave in the front garden. He chose a spot next to Monty's favourite bush.

Mother, Fabrice, Joseph, Romeo and I stood over the dark hole, and Father knelt to lay Monty down. He was wrapped in his favourite blanket. Fabrice gave me a
bone to bury beside him. I held my book; Mother held chrysanthemums.

Father said what a good dog he'd been, Mother sobbed quietly, and then, under the pale light of the moon, Joseph scattered soil over him, a gentle smattering at first and then great shovelfuls that thudded onto the tarpaulin.

As Joseph was filling the grave, an unfamiliar sound – a kind of pounding, came from up the road. I ran to the gate and saw a troop of about fifty soldiers, with boots and big guns, marching down the road. They passed the garden without looking in. I might well have dreamt it, had it not been for the fact I dropped my book in the mud, which left a permanent stain. Joseph picked it up, wiped it down and handed it to me. He gave me the thumbs up and led me back to the house before setting off on the first of his nightly rounds.

I sat on the front steps staring at Monty's grave. I thought about the soldiers and wondered where they were going and if they had anything to do with the changes the President was going to make. And I wondered how I could ever take my revenge on the witch for poisoning Monty.

Beyond the hydrangea bushes and the orange road, Nyiragongo glowed red in the moonlight. As I stood to go inside for the night, a gigantic boom sounded from the volcano, and the earth beneath me shook.