that is far away. I have sometimes dreamed about going to England – by aeroplane.
‘Why?’
‘Pio, it is complicated, but he was not very happy here any more. He needed to make a fresh start.’
It feels like Dad does not want to say any more, and so I say something to stop Pio asking more questions,
‘One day perhaps we can all visit Uncle Leonard and Auntie Rose in England!’
Dad finishes his tea, gets up, kisses my head and grabs his machete from its place by the door.
‘It is time for me to go to work and you to go to school. Nice to see you again, Jeanette. Say hello to your mother and father for me tonight.’
‘I will!’
But as Dad walks out into the brightness, Mum hurries after him.
‘Finish your breakfast and prepare for school,’ she says over her shoulder. Then in her stern voice we hear, ‘Jean-Baptiste!’
Pio and I look at each other for a moment to see if the other is going to do as they were told or do what is more tempting. We quickly jump up and go to the doorway, being careful to stay just inside where it is dark, and we listen.
‘Jean-Baptiste, do you leave me to explain the truth to them when they see Rose is still in Nyamata?’
‘She rarely comes this way and it is not likely they will go that far if they think she has left too.’
‘Do not fool yourself; they will see her eventually and they will ask her where Leonard is if we have not told them the situation.’
‘I will explain later, darling.’ Dad sounds tired suddenly. ‘I will!’
‘You tell that story to Clem this morning to mock me then.’
‘No! Chantal, perhaps I tell that story to tell myself what an idiot Leonard has been. But he needs help too. He is my brother and I pray he will find the help he needs in England.’
‘You pray he will not bring shame on your family, so you help him to go as far away as possible.’
‘It is for the best. Especially now.’
Nobody is speaking. There is just the sound of the earth in our courtyard being scraped by a foot.
‘I must get to the field. I love you.’
I think I hear the sound of a kiss but Pio has run to our room so I follow before Mum returns. As she enters the house I hear her say,
‘Thank you, Jeanette, but you must leave for school now. I will clean things away.’
Lord, I bet Jeanette does not bother to help out so much at her house!
‘Clementine! Pio! Are you ready?’
We both shout out that we are as we gather our books, staring at each other – I think we are both trying to work out if we understood more than the other about what we just heard. But I think we are both still unsure of it all, except for the fact that Auntie Rose has not gone to England with Uncle Leonard.
We do not talk about it on the way to school much – I am not sure what there is to talk about. I do not feel so sad that Uncle Leonard has gone. For the last few months he always made it feel awkward or a bit frightening at home when he was there.
‘What is your Auntie Rose like?’ says Jeanette.
‘Haven’t you ever met her?’ says Pio.
‘Never.’
‘I am surprised, with the amount of time you spend at our house!’
‘Shut up!’
‘You shut up!’
‘Auntie Rose is lovely,’ I say before they start fighting in the road, ‘isn’t she, Pio?’ but he is marching off ahead.
‘Good!’ Jeanette says to his back. ‘I do not want to walk the next five miles with him. Is she as pretty as your mum though?’
‘Rose? No way. Mum is the most beautiful in our family. She is the tallest, the thinnest. It is because she is Tutsi.’
‘What is that?’
I was hoping she would not ask that.
‘I don’t know – beautiful, I suppose.’
Although Jeanette and I both speak Kinyarwanda and French, we do not know what the word ‘Tutsi’ means. Perhaps it is an English word. Or just a word in French or our own language that we have not learnt yet.
‘I’m nervous.’
I am surprised to hear Jeanette say this as we take our places in our new classroom. But I have not really thought about it, even on the long walk, a much longer walk to this school – the school for older children. All I have been thinking about is this new word. And Mum’s sternness this morning. And her conversation with Dad about Auntie Rose. I had almost forgotten my own nerves about starting at the big school today.
‘Hutus, stand up!’
The teacher’s voice makes me jump as he marches into the classroom. He looks as if he has no neck, as though his wide face is just stuck on the top of his enormous shoulders and, as three quarters of the class stand up, I can see that he is not really that tall either.
Jeanette is standing. I suppose I should too then. So I do. She gives me a quick, frightened look as my eyes rise to find hers – I am trying to find out why we are standing, searching for the answer in her face. ‘Hutu,’ he said, I think. He is taking each child’s name now and checking it against his list, and then he tells each of us to sit down afterwards. They say Dad’s Hutu blood makes him a great farmer. If he is Hutu, whatever that means, then I must be too.
‘Jeanette Mizinge.’
‘Sit!’
‘Clementine Habimana.’
The teacher takes a pause – he said ‘sit’ so quickly after everyone else said their names, but he does not do so after I speak. He looks hard at me, narrowing his eyes – I think he might need glasses.
‘Sit!’
I do quickly and search for Jeanette’s hand under the table. Her hand is damp, but I squeeze it anyway and she squeezes mine in return. This makes me feel better.
‘Twas, stand up!’
Only two boys stand – they look the same, perhaps they are brothers, but they look different from the rest of us. They are very short. I have never seen anyone else that looks like them before. Their names are unusual too – they sound almost as if they are speaking a different language when they answer the teacher. I feel nervous and strong all at once. Strong because I am glad it is not me standing up with just one other in front of everyone like that. Stronger because nearly everyone else is like me, a Hutu. But I feel nervous
