The Flower Plantation (21 page)

Epilogue

Twenty years have passed since I left Rwanda. I was taken into Goma and flown to London, where my uncle and his family met me. They were just as they appeared in their Christmas photos – denim jeans, Mickey Mouse sweatshirts and grimacing smiles. I was immediately sent to boarding school, which was every bit as dreadful as Father made it out to be.

I thought of my parents every day, searching news reports for any scrap of evidence that they were still alive. There was nothing. Only images of men loading rotting bodies into garbage trucks. Rwanda and its people had been torn apart.

And I thought of Beni. With every breath I thought of Beni. I wondered if she had made it to the cave, if she had managed to outrun the gang and find her way to safety. It was impossible to think of anything else.

Three months passed without any communication from Mother: no letters, telegrams or phone calls. It was almost autumn in England when I finally received a letter. The news was both good and bad.

She told me that the postmaster and his family had been killed, even though they were Hutus. He was drowned in the cesspool behind his home for allowing his neighbours to hide in one of his cupboards.

The schoolteacher flushed his Tutsi pupils out of their homes. They were lined up and killed by the
interahamwe
one by one.

Mr Umuhoza was spared, due to his ability to supply drink and accommodate prostitutes for the extremists. As a result he was able to shelter thousands of Tutsis in the hotel. They survived on water from the pool and what goods he was able to bring in from Goma.

The priest, who helped slaughter hundreds with hand grenades in the church, escaped and was rumoured to be living comfortably abroad.

Celeste survived the injuries that Fabrice had inflicted on her to save her life. She and her family remained in Mother's attic for many weeks. A Hutu neighbour risked his own life by sneaking in to provide them with food rations and water – which were increasingly scarce. They were eventually rescued and taken to the refugee camp in Goma.

As for Fabrice and his family – well, that news I read with the greatest interest of all. Mother told me how Fabrice had thought up the idea of dousing the dead on the plantation in petrol and passing them off as his family. They then hid in the cave for three months and wouldn't have survived if it weren't for Sammy, who left provisions for them in the tunnel. He had never intended to hurt Beni that night at the hotel – it was all a ruse. He knew if he was seen as a moderate Hutu he'd be killed.

Sammy was Beni's saviour, and he was not alone. Among all the butchery, savagery and loss of life were a million acts of compassion and bravery. Sammy's kindness and Beni's survival were rays of hope in a country enveloped in gloom.

As the years passed, Mother continued to send letters telling me what news she had. She wrote when Simon was put on trial by the
gacaca
court and imprisoned. He had killed scores at the roadblock and many on the plantation too, including Thomas. Mother said he no longer wore blue dungarees: instead, he could be seen ploughing at the roadside in pink uniform – the colour worn by the genocide prisoners. Zach was imprisoned too for killing Joseph, among others.

Sebazungu avoided prison – even though, or perhaps because he was one of the principal organizers of the massacres in the area. He continues to live near the plantation, side by side with the Tutsi family members of those he ordered to be killed.

Throughout the massacres Dr Sadler remained in the country, one of only thirty whites who did. He kept his promise and treated the killers as well as their victims. Though I didn't realize it at the time, Dr Sadler played a crucial role more than once in my life. It was he who was present at my birth, introduced me to lepidopterology and saved me from certain death that day.

Mother confessed to me years later that Dr Sadler was in love with her. Though she was fond of him, and always
tried to keep up appearances, she wouldn't allow herself to dishonour Father, despite his transgressions. She stayed with the doctor during the worst of the troubles, but returned to the plantation after the fighting died down. She waited by the phone for months for any news of Father, but no news ever came. Dr Sadler died five years after the genocide, leaving Mother, once again, alone.

To this day neither Mother nor I know what happened to Father. He was a scientist, working on the earliest research into AIDS, which in the 1980s was already growing out of control in Rwanda. The Hutu extremists were suspicious of intellectuals: they believed they “thought too much” and were therefore prone to liberal views. Even if Father had managed to escape Sebazungu that day at the border, we can only assume that, as a known half-Tutsi, he was one of the million victims of the war. I still cling to the hope that he managed to escape and might now be living in exile with a new family.

But of course the news I relished most was that of Beni. Whenever a letter arrived I'd skim-read it to see if there was any mention of her name. All too often there was not. And then one day, many years ago, a letter came telling me that Beni had married a Hutu – one with lots of cows! I didn't know how I felt. All I could think of was something Mother once said: “Catching them's the easy part: it's releasing them that's hard. You never know which way they're going to fly.”

The flower plantation, much like Rwanda, slowly began to blossom. With half the population gone, Mother found it difficult to recruit new staff – and those she did had to be trained from scratch. Thanks to her determination it is now a flourishing business again, in which Hutus and Tutsis work side by side.

As for me, I chose to dedicate my life to butterflies, working as a lepidopterist. Though I found my voice that day at the border, I never grew socially confident. I exist between work and home, where I sit most nights alone in my study, staring at the most perfect find of my life:

Charaxes acræoides
Rwanda
6th April 1994

African Butterflies
is now as treasured as the butterfly – my memory of Beni, complete.

Acknowledgements

I wish to thank:

Louisa and Reuben Culpin for introducing me to Rwanda, everyone at the Imababazi Orphanage for their kindness and hospitality, and those in Gisenyi who welcomed me.

My husband Peter for giving me the time and freedom to write this book and for understanding when either I or my mind was far from home.

Simon Kerr and the Lightship judges: Alessandro Gallenzi, Simon Trewin and Tibor Fischer for seeing the potential in my work and for their guidance, straight-talking encouragement and support.

My tutors at Bath Spa: Richard Kerridge, Andrew Miller and Tricia Wastvedt for noticing the things I didn't.

Those far more qualified to write about Rwanda than me: Dallaire, Gourevitch, Keane, Carr and Prunier, all of whose work informed my own.

The dedicated, meticulous and hard-working team at Alma, but in particular Alessandro, who steered me with a gentle hand through the editing process.

My Mum and Dad for looking after our newborn son so that I might stare bleary-eyed at my computer.

And finally, Rwanda – a place forever in my heart.