Paul tells me he has flown to England, is this true?’
‘Mmm.’ Dad pays Joseph for a bottle of urwagwa and nods his head as he takes a sip through the reed straw.
‘Lucky bastard! I wish I could get that far away from my wife sometimes!’
Everyone laughs at once and it sounds like the roar of the beast that killed Sebwgugu – it makes my heart leap and I sink my nails into the grass and the old newspaper that is lying there.
‘So, Jean-Baptiste, did he take that sexy little whore with him to England?’ That is Paul speaking. He is sitting in the middle of the sofa with his arms spread out along the back of it and his legs spread wide so that there is hardly any room for the others to sit. I think he thinks that the old sofa is his very own throne. I do not understand who he is talking about – I have never thought that Auntie Rose could be sexy and I know that Dad would not allow anyone to call her a whore. I do not like the way Paul speaks. I do not think Dad does either.
‘Now, Paul, I think that is enough on that subject, don’t you?’ Dad takes another sip and passes his bottle to Augustine sitting next to him.
But Paul goes on. ‘I just wanted to know if she was still around here, so I could go and take my turn.’
Most of the men are smiling, some of them are also making sounds like they have been punched in the stomach, but they are clearly enjoying themselves. Dad is saying nothing, but staring straight at Paul.
‘Hey, hey!’ says Augustine. ‘Leonard is a—’
‘An alcoholic fool? A coward?’
‘A brother of Jean-Baptiste. He is his family, so respect that. You know that family is everything – even you, Paul. Or should we start talking about your family?’
Augustine passes Dad’s bottle to the man next to Paul, but keeps his eyes on Paul. Paul looks as if he is searching for a piece of food stuck between his teeth, then eventually he jumps up and shouts, ‘Another beer! My round, I think,’ and he marches to the counter. ‘Please, Joseph…’ and Joseph prepares another bottle.
‘Not joining us tonight, Adalbert?’ Paul is talking to the only other man at the counter, who is sitting at the end of it on a high stool, but he is making sure everyone can hear what he is saying.
‘No thank you, Paul.’ Adalbert is looking embarrassed. ‘I am still temporarily strapped. I must watch my money carefully for now.’
‘What happened, my friend?’ says Paul, but I do not think he sounds like a friend to Adalbert.
‘You know, my field just seems to be failing again this year.’
‘Bloody Tutsi cattle trampled your crops, I suppose.’ Paul says this more to everyone else than to Adalbert – half of them laugh. Dad smiles to the ground and shakes his head.
‘No, no. Just one of those things. But I’ll have to ease up on the urwagwa for a while, that’s all.’
‘Then how do you manage to still look so bloody drunk, my friend?’ Paul slaps Adalbert’s back as he says this to his audience and everyone laughs, even Augustine and Dad.
I know what Paul is talking about, because from where I hide I can see behind the counter and there, by Adalbert’s feet, Joseph has placed a huge water can full of homebrew. Homebrew is another kind of beer I think, but it is very, very cheap. Many of the men say that it tastes awful. I do not know why they have to keep it hidden behind the counter. Every time Adalbert wants to take a mouthful he has to ask Joseph’s permission, then suck through the very long reed that stretches from the can, up behind the counter. And after all that, he makes a face that says it was horrible, as if he has just taken medicine from Ruzi, the healer. Poor Adalbert! Even without the funny face, he always seems to look ill – he is very thin – too thin – and his short hair has patches missing at the back.
At least the atmosphere in the cabaret is happy again. I look down at my hand, stroking the rough newspaper beneath it. There’s a cartoon. Perhaps a good story too. I fold it up slowly and quietly – I can read it in bed tonight. Paul sits back in his throne and passes his bottle to the man next to him, who has to shuffle to the end of the sofa as Paul spreads his legs again. The squashed man says,
‘Did you hear Kantano Habimana tonight – he was funny, no?’
There is a mess of sound as all the men answer at once and all seem to have different answers. Paul’s answer is,
‘Yes, put the radio on, Joseph! Let us see if there are any more good things on.’
Some of the men groan, but Joseph disappears into the house. I suppose he is going to get the radio. The men start to talk in smaller groups. Augustine is asking Dad how Mum is. Paul is trying to get the other men on the sofa to sing a song. It is no good when they start doing this – it is so difficult to hear what is going on when there are too many conversations. I think about slipping away home when a great Hiss! is spat out of the darkness behind me. I become still as stone. And although I fear for my life, I’m not sure what would be worse – to be killed alone here in the dark by a snake, or to cry to my dad for help so that he would know I was here and know I had disobeyed him.
But as the hiss turns into a long crackle and the smell of cooking goat meat fills my nose, I realize that Joseph has just thrown the meat en brochette onto the grill at the back of his house, ready for the men when they are hungry later. It is a wonderful smell. I stay still in the grass a moment longer – to make sure that Joseph has gone and to enjoy the smell a little more. Even though it is not long since we had our isombe, my stomach starts to grumble. We do not eat meat very often at home, so before my stomach gets too excited, I start to slither away through the grass back to the road – now I am the snake!
Joseph must have found the radio because I recognize the voice of Kantano Habimana, as if he has joined the men in the cabaret for a drink.
‘We began by saying that a cockroach cannot give birth to a butterfly. It is true. A cockroach gives birth to another cockroach…The history of Rwanda shows us clearly that a Tutsi stays always exactly the same; that he has never changed. The malice, the evil are just as we knew them in the history of our country. We are not wrong in saying that a cockroach gives birth to another cockroach. Who could tell the difference between the Inyenzi who attacked in October 1990 and those of the 1960s? They are all linked,’ his voice does not sound as if he is looking for laughs any more, ‘their evilness is the same. The unspeakable crimes of the Inyenzi of today recall those of their elders: killing, pillaging, raping girls and women…’
I do not understand what he means. What attacks? What cockroaches? Why is he talking about Tutsis too? I feel scared and, as if it is reading my mind, the radio starts spitting out some scary, noisy music. The singer is Simon Bikindi again.
‘I hate Hutus, I hate Hutus…’
Lord, now it seems like there is something wrong with the Hutu also!
‘…I hate Hutus that do not think that Tutsis are snakes.’
I stop sliding through the grass. It is as if Bikindi is singing straight to me. I was being a snake! I am Hutu! I am Tutsi! What have I done? What should I do? I run to the road and I keep running towards home. The lovely smell of cooking meat that filled my nose and lungs before soon changes – it is replaced by the feeling that Joseph has thrown my lungs onto his grill instead of the meat. I am not halfway home yet, but I have to walk the rest. I walk fast. Taking big gulps of air, squeezing the newspaper in my hand with each gulp because I need to hold on to something, my chest swells in front of me and I remember Pio at the table as I left the house. I wish I had stayed with him and Mum tonight.
The sun was out and it even felt like I might be a bit overdressed with this coat on. I could just hear Dad, ordering everyone about