Running the Rift (4 page)

Olivette's mother came into the yard. “Ego ko Mana!” she said. “Look at these skinny boys!” She set her basket on the ground. Inside, Jean Patrick saw brilliant blue eggs, a small pale pumpkin, and a giant papaya. She embraced Roger and Jean Patrick. “I've brought some food to fatten you up.” Cupping her hands to her mouth, she called after her son. “Simon! Come and meet these boys properly, eh? Don't act like the muturage you are.”

Simon scowled and pushed himself up from the tree where he had been leaning. His hand in Jean Patrick's felt cold and limp, like one of Uncle's fish.

“Mukabera,” Aunt Esther said, “these are smart schoolboys—no husband for your daughter here.” She kissed Mukabera's cheeks—right side, left side, right again.

Mukabera laughed, showing a mouth full of large teeth stained brown from chewing sugarcane. She bent down to Jean Patrick. “Have you ever seen a blue duck egg before?”

Jean Patrick shook his head and took it from her extended hand.

“When you need to be strong, come see Mukabera, and I'll cook one for you,” she said, and she pinched his shoulder. “Now you need to rest, and I need to get back to my fields.” She placed the basket in Jean Patrick's arms and strode up the hill. Simon set off after her. He said something under his breath that Jean Patrick didn't catch.

S
TANDING OUTSIDE THE DOORWAY
of Uncle's house, Jean Patrick felt woozy from the odor of the kerosene lanterns. Dusk painted the lake aubergine; mist blurred the horizon. Enormous bats glided between the trees. The air held an unfamiliar, wild smell, and he missed his home, bright and cheerful with electric light.

Uncle Emmanuel sat in the yard in a plastic chair. He was mending a net, a bottle of urwagwa by his side. The needle wove in and out like a darting insect. He sang a song, and when he forgot the words, he looked toward the lake, hummed and smiled. His rubber-booted foot kept time. He took a sip of his banana beer. “I made a new pirogue,” he said. “Now that I have you and Roger to help me, we can catch more fish.”

Roger gave Jean Patrick a look. Jean Patrick stared at the ground.

“We'll lash two pirogues together and drag the nets between them,” Uncle said. “And I'm fixing up a house for you. See that corrugated metal? That's the roof.”

“Aye, Emmanuel, so much money—you didn't have to,” Mama said. Tears turned her eyes bright. Jean Patrick couldn't understand why such a dusty shack made her proud.

Mathilde called to Jean Patrick from the house. In her hands was Papa's folktale book. “Will you read me the one about Rutegaminsi and the mole?”

He settled beside her on the couch. “Ko Mana! You always want to know about love. But you're a big girl now. Can't you read it for yourself?”

Her mouth tried out the letters. “It's hard. “I'm only first year.”

Roger looked up again from his homework. “Do you like school?”

“A lot. But when I get older I might not be able to go.”

“Why?” With a snap that made Jean Patrick blink, Roger closed his book.

“Papa said Tutsi have to be first in the class and maybe even then they won't get in.”

Roger frowned. “That's not true. Anyone can—Hutu or Tutsi. You just have to pay, that's all.
Our
papa said that.”

Uncle Emmanuel set down his net and stepped inside. “Is that what he taught you? You think Hutu and Tutsi are the same in Rwanda?”

“Papa was the préfet in charge of teachers at Gihundwe,” Roger said. “He told us President Habyarimana wants equality.”

“How old are you, Jean Patrick?” Uncle Emmanuel asked.

“Almost ten.”

“And you, Roger?”

“Twelve. Thirteen next month. And
I
got into secondary school even though I'm Tutsi.”

Jean Patrick winced as their mother crossed the room. “Be respectful in your uncle's home.” She slapped Roger hard above his ear.

Uncle Emmanuel held up a hand as if silencing an audience before a speech. “So. Do you boys know about the last massacre?” He glared at Mama.

“What massacre?”

“Nineteen seventy-three, the year Habyarimana overthrew Kayibanda. All over the country, Hutu rose up to murder Tutsi. They burned down our house, killed your grandparents and your uncle, our youngest brother.” He turned to Jean Patrick. “You were named for him. No one told you?”

Jean Patrick knew the shocked expression on Roger's face mirrored his own. Whenever they had asked about their grandparents, Mama had said, “When you're older, you'll know.” Suddenly the month's events fell into place: her terror when the boys smashed the window, the hastily packed boxes, the puzzling comments about changing and staying the same.

Mama stepped in front of Emmanuel. “Why are you frightening them? The past is the past; leave it be.”

“It's dangerous to sleepwalk, Jurida. You've come back to Gashirabwoba now. Here, we live up to our village name:
Fear Nothing.
You don't need
to keep secrets anymore.” He swept his arm across the hillside. “Do you think it won't happen again?”

“It can't,” Mama said. “Habyarimana won't allow it.”

“Look what happened to you—on school grounds.”

Zachary careened across the room with his wire imodoka, Clémentine and Clarisse close at his heels. Uncle watched him and shook his head. “The hate runs too deep. Sooner or later the government will find it convenient to let it boil to the surface again.” He held out a closed fist to Jean Patrick and Roger. “Here is our president's hand. Do you know where the Tutsi are?” Uncurling his fingers, he jabbed at his upturned palm. “Right here where Habyarimana wants us. To him, we're nothing but inyenzi.”

Roger tapped the invisible bug. “But Uncle, a cockroach can't be crushed.”

The light disappeared, taking the lake with it. Uncle left to fish with his neighbor, Fulgence. Jean Patrick walked out into the grass to look for the dog. The forest came alive with the animals' night songs, their musky scents. Emmanuel's words crashed through his head. He wondered how old his unknown uncle had been when he died. As old as he was now? As old as Roger? How strange that Mama had named him for his uncle yet never mentioned him. Jean Patrick envisioned boys sneaking through the bush, hurling torches instead of rocks. He had to blink his eyes to clear the image.

Whistling after dark was bad luck—country people said it called evil spirits—so he made hissing sounds and called out, “Puppy!”

The red puppy barked at him from a scooped-out patch of earth. Jean Patrick pulled the fried sardine he had saved from his pocket and held it out. The puppy sniffed the air and crawled forward. Before the fish hit the ground, it was firmly in her jaws. He moved to stroke her head, but once more she skittered away.

A
T FIRST LIGHT
, Jean Patrick creaked open the door of the shack that was to be his and Roger's home. Mouse droppings and insect shells speckled the floor. He picked up an old broom from the corner and swatted at spiderwebs. Twigs from the broom rained down on him.

“That's for girls to do. Let me help you.” Mathilde stood behind him,
the red dog by her feet. The puppy slunk closer, but when Jean Patrick crouched to pet her, she jumped back.

“What's her name?”

Mathilde giggled. “Dogs don't have names.” She took a bite from the piece of boiled cassava she held in her hand.

“This one will. I'm going to call her Pili, like pilipili.”

Mathilde burst into a fit of laughter. “She's not a hot pepper; she's a dog.”

“But I gave her fish with pilipili, and she loved it.”

Mathilde broke off a piece of cassava. “Here. Some for you and some for Pili. If you feed her this, she'll like you.”

He reached too quickly, and the dog scooted away across the yard.

“Don't worry. She'll come back.” Mathilde ducked through the low doorway. “When Dadi fixes this up, it will be fancy. Luxury hotel.” She wiped her hands on her skirt. Her skin had a golden color, and her hair crowned her high forehead with a feathery, red-dusted cap. “I'm going to study here, too,” she said. “Dadi can build you and Roger desks.”

“I don't think he wants us here. He got so mad at us last night.”

“Eh! Do you have eyes in your head? It's all he's talked about since we knew you were coming.” She leaned closer. “Every night when he goes fishing, he says it's to pay for your roof. He says corrugated metal costs like gold.”

“He did that just for us?” Jean Patrick suddenly felt mean for all his negative thoughts.

“Dadi says we are finally going to have brothers. He calls you his sons.” She touched his finger. “So now you have to call me Sister—promise?”

“I promise.” Jean Patrick passed his hand across her hair. It was as soft as feathers.

W
HEN
J
EAN
P
ATRICK'S FATHER WAS ALIVE,
the path to secondary school had seemed easy. If you did well, you succeeded. After all, Roger had done well, and now he was in school in Kigali. Mama and Auntie had made a big celebration for him the day he left, everyone from the hillside coming to talk and eat. Jean Patrick could have burst from pride for his brother, but watching Roger's face in the bus window, his waving hand getting smaller and smaller, he had wanted only to run after him, to catch hold of his arm and beg him not to go.

Jean Patrick remembered that first night in Gashirabwoba, when Roger had boldly contradicted Uncle's views. He hated to admit it, but Uncle had been right. With the quotas for Tutsi, he would have to come in first in his class to get a financial award. If he didn't, there would be no secondary school for him. Now that he had taken both the national exam and the exam at Gihundwe, staying up nights, studying until his chin dropped to his chest, his future was in Imana's hands. All he could do was wait. And wait some more.

It was always on his mind, the first of August, the date they would start announcing exam results. That morning, he awoke early, moving carefully to keep from waking Zachary, who slept beside him now that Roger was gone. He felt in the darkness for the lantern. His hand brushed Pili's fur, and he cupped her warm, wet muzzle. Lantern in hand, he walked out into a stillness as dark as the bottom of Lake Kivu. Now that it was school vacation, Jean Patrick spent his days fishing with Uncle. Fulgence and a few cousins were working for him, so Uncle could stay home nights while his crew fished.

Just before daybreak, Uncle and Jean Patrick paddled their pirogues out to help with the last loads of sardines and take them to market. Then the
two of them checked their lines and trolled for tilapia. Jean Patrick was strong enough now to keep the canoe steady in the fast-moving current that flowed from Lake Kivu into the Rusizi River and on to Burundi.

There were three large capitaine fish waiting for them when Jean Patrick and Uncle reached the green plastic bottles that marked their lines. They lashed their pirogues together, and Jean Patrick held them steady in the swiftly flowing water.

“God is good,” Uncle Emmanuel said. He slid the hook from the first fish's mouth and wound the line on its spindle. A kingfisher, harassed by pied crows, darted across the water and disappeared into the trees. Uncle hauled in the other two fish and dropped them into the bilge. “If the fishing stays like this, we can buy a motorboat by Christmas.”

“I should hear about school soon,” Jean Patrick said. “Maybe even today.”

He thought of the shops and cabarets where radios blasted from sunrise to sundown. Exam results were announced on Radio Rwanda, but his radio, with its useless plug, remained silent on his shelf, and Uncle's transistor had broken last month and had not been replaced. Unless he was lucky, hearing his name by chance on the street, Jean Patrick would have to wait to see the results posted in town.

Uncle stripped to his shorts, dove into the current, and came up grinning. “Did you say something about school?” He disappeared, resurfacing with a rusted axle. Dropping the prize into the bilge, he said, “That's worth a few hundred francs.” He went under again and brought up a bent rim. “Sorry. You were speaking to me. What was it?”

“It's not important, Uncle,” Jean Patrick said.

I
N THE AFTERNOON
, when Jean Patrick came home, there was a large box on the table. “Open it,” Mama said. She slid her iron over a pair of trousers, and the scent of Omo soap rose from the fabric. She added charcoal to the iron with a tong. The inside glowed, a field of tiny suns. With so little money for all of them, Mama spent mornings cleaning houses, washing and ironing for the rich people by the lake. Afternoons, she pressed the families' clothes with an old-fashioned iron, no magic switch to keep the bottom hot.

Inside the box was a transistor radio the color of a lemon. Carefully,
Jean Patrick lifted it out and set it on the table. “I want to hear your name announced when you win a scholarship,” Mama said, as if success were already written in the sky.

Jean Patrick turned on the radio and twisted the dial until Radio Rwanda crackled through the speakers. He felt his father's presence close beside him.
Ntawiha icyo Imana itamuhaye,
Papa whispered. Nobody can give himself what Imana has not given him.

“There's something else,” Mama said. “Didn't you see?”

Behind the box was a package tied with string. Unwrapping it, Jean Patrick found a pair of new shoes and a note in Uncle's careful hand.
Me, I am certain your news will be good. You have made me very proud.
He held them to the light and saw his face reflected back at him.

O
N THE SECOND
Wednesday of August, Jean Patrick opened his eyes with the thought firmly in his head: Today the results will be announced. He threw on his clothes and went straight to the house. Only spits and crackles came from the radio when he turned it on.