– so soft and gentle, but so scared of everything. I dream about stroking their red fur and the white spots on their cheeks, but you can never get that close to one in real life. The river bursts behind me and Jeanette gasps for air, but I do not move. I’m trying to keep the antelope in my sight for as long as possible.
‘Who is that?’
‘Where?’ I say, still looking at the marsh, but I am only imagining the antelope now, following the swaying tops of papyrus and telling myself that it is the antelope that is making them move.
‘Behind your mum. Look! Over there!’ Jeanette grabs my chin and moves my head in the right direction. She does that a lot, probably because I daydream a lot, but I like the feeling of her hands on my face – it is a nice way to come back to real life.
I look back to the bank and my heart jumps, just like when the pig ran over Jeanette. A dark figure is coming round the edge of the papyrus and creeping towards Mum as she starts filling the last can. It spreads its arms wide as it gets close to her and just as it is ready to pounce I see a flash of white teeth and eyes as it smiles towards us. Then the man jabs his fingers into my mum’s sides and she screeches and drops the can into the water as she jumps up to see who is attacking her.
My dad lets out a huge, deep laugh as he hugs Mum close to stop her from slapping him. My heart is light again and excited at the new task we girls have – to catch the empty can floating off down the river. I swim as hard as I am able because I know Mum and Dad will be watching me and proud if I save the can for them. But I was never as strong as Jeanette in the water and she reaches it first and holds it up as she runs along the bank towards my parents, as if she has won the soccer championship.
I run from the river, but I stop by the edge for just a second to catch my breath – and to look at the picture of my dad greeting Jeanette and my mum cheering her for saving the can. All at once I am jealous of her and happy that she is treated as part of our family – she is like my sister. I do not have any real sisters, only a brother. These feelings are quite confusing so I run on again and concentrate on the mud oozing between my toes – that is a feeling that makes sense.
I throw my clothes on over my wet body and shout: ‘Daddy! Daddy!’ as I jump into the air towards him, and he catches me like I knew he would – he always does. ‘I saw a sitatunga over there just now, before you came. It was beautiful, all red, and it came so close I could see its white cheeks.’
‘That close, eh?’
‘So close. I think it knew that it did not have to be scared of me.’
‘I am sure it knew. I am sure.’
Mum is back, crouching by the water, filling the last can. When she finishes she gives one to Jeanette, places one at Dad’s feet – for me, picks up the other two herself and marches off up the hill towards home. I stand on Dad’s arms as if they are the branches of a tree – they are as thick and as strong – and clamber up from his chest to his shoulders, as far from the heavy water can as I can go! He does not complain, he just bends his knees, scoops up the can and follows the others, with his free hand wrapped warmly all the way around my little, cold ankle – his one hand goes easily round it, but my two arms just about reach around his neck. I have to hold on tight as I bounce around high above the sloping path on the side of the hill. So my voice wobbles when I say,
‘Tell me a story! Tell me a story, Daddy!’
‘Mmm…’
His voice vibrates against my hands wrapped round his throat. It is such a big voice that it vibrates all around his head and so my tummy buzzes with it. Because I am so high up on his shoulders, all I can see ahead of me are the sky and the many hills in the distance that still look blue at this time of day. It is like a fresh blue piece of paper that I can paint onto, paint the picture of the things that the voice tells me about. Dad’s voice. But I can’t see Dad from here, I just hear his voice, like a magic voice bringing characters to life in my mind and on the paper in front of me. That is why I always ask for a story when we are walking like this. I think Dad expects me to ask too, because he only hums for a second before he starts.
‘Many years ago, a man called Sebwgugu married a young and very beautiful woman. The day after they were married there was a severe, terrible drought. Food and water became very scarce.’
I paint the hills a hot, dry red – the colour of the main road to Kigali.
‘One day,’ Dad’s voice warms my belly, ‘Sebwgugu’s wife set out to collect firewood. And, while walking the forest floor, she came to a clearing and happened upon a thriving pumpkin patch…’
Trees cover the red hills and there is Sebwgugu’s wife clapping her hands,
‘…pleased with such a rare and lucky find, under the dry conditions. Carrying as many pumpkins as she could possibly manage, she returned home. That evening she and Sebwgugu had a delicious pumpkin meal. The newlyweds were very happy.’
I dare to lift my hands up from Dad’s neck and hold onto the top of his round head instead – still looking ahead at the scene, I can feel a big round pumpkin beneath my hands.
‘Miam, miam! Pumpkin!’ I giggle, and bounce my teeth carefully off Dad’s short hair – carefully because we are still wobbling on up the hill and I do not want to knock my teeth out on his hard head, or hurt his head, because then the fun would really be over. My giggle sounds funny and muffled when my mouth touches his hair so I want to do it again, but suddenly I feel Dad’s hard hands on mine. He scrunches up my hands like they were just leaves – he does not hurt me, he just slaps my hands back around his throat and the voice comes back. He has not finished.
‘One morning, Sebwgugu’s wife noticed their supply of pumpkins was running low. She decided to walk back to the patch and collect more. Out of curiosity, Sebwgugu followed his wife. He simply wanted to see from where the pumpkins were coming. When Sebwgugu arrived he suggested to his wife that the pumpkin patch be weeded in hopes of growing bigger pumpkins. She disagreed and kindly asked that he leave the patch be and let it grow naturally. The next day, without his wife’s knowledge, Sebwgugu returned to the patch and weeded the entire area.’
I hear a sharp click – as if it is the sound of my painting snapping in two because it falls away from my eyes now and I see real life again all around. The dusty path ahead, the banana plantation now very close by, Jeanette down below and the back of Mum’s head, where the click came from. She is unhappy about something and I think that it is either Dad or Sebwgugu himself. As Dad continues the story quickly, I put my picture back together, but I have a good look at the banana trees first. Just hundreds of bunches of smooth green bananas under the shade of big shiny leaves. I can see each one clearly, just trying to grow. The giant scary creatures that I thought I saw from a distance are not here.
‘Soon after,’ booms the voice, ‘the pumpkin supply at home was again low. Sebwgugu’s wife returned to the patch and found it dry. There were no more pumpkins. Although very upset that he had weeded the patch after she had asked him not to, she said nothing to her husband. The pumpkins stored at home were quickly finished. The morning after the last pumpkin was consumed, Sebwgugu’s wife told him that she was going to search for water. She lied. Still upset that he had weeded the pumpkin patch, their only source of food during the continued drought, she decided to run away.
‘Later that evening, Sebwgugu’s wife stumbled upon a splendid house. She knocked on the door but nobody answered. Surprised to find the door unlocked and needing a place to sleep for the night, she entered the house. Although there was nobody home the house was filled with food. She cooked herself a nice dinner and went to bed. The next morning,
