One hour later, the meal of ubugari (cassava flour posho) and sombe, which Angela was struggling to get accustomed to was eaten. As they left, Uwase kissed them both thrice on their cheeks and retired to the bedroom as they left.
One hour later, the meal of ubugari (cassava flour posho) and sombe, which Angela was struggling to get accustomed to was eaten. As they left, Uwase kissed them both thrice on their cheeks and retired to the bedroom as they left.
On the way home, Angela told Kyeto that Uwase had sought refuge in that church with her family and other Tutsis during the Genocide, where a Hutu soldier had defiled her. They held hands all the way and talked freely.
It dawned on them that their lives had not been as bad as they thought. Angela reminded Kyeto of a saying an Adventist college mate used to make. Count yourself lucky if you do not have new shoes because some people do not have legs.
That night they talked late into the night. She cried and asked for forgiveness for abandoning him when he had needed her most. She narrated to him how she had heard that he had moved to Rwanda from his auntie in Nairobi who had given her his phone number.
She added that nobody knew where she was. She had taken some money from her husband’s coat while he had gone on a ‘meet the people tour’ in his constituency and boarded the Kigali-bound bus determined to call only him as soon as she arrived in Rwanda.
Kyeto had intended to take out Anatola, a lady accountant, on that same Friday. As he left his house at seven pm, Angela had called and said she was waiting for him at Nyabugogo, just like that.
"Angela. Which Angela?” He asked. "Your Angela.” The voice on the phone had said.
He found her standing alone, piles of luggage from the bus’ belly around her, rain drizzling. She was hard to recognize, hair wrapped in leso, body wrapped in a blood red Maasai shuka with thin yellow and white stripes punctuating the flood of bold red colour.
Under the shuka she wore an expensive Kitenge dress, like a politician’s wife. Kyeto stood and looked at her, wondering what to say. He picked her bag after shaking her hand and led her home.
Every morning, Kyeto greeted everyone at his workplace in Kinyarwanda. "Amakuru yawe?” (How are you?) he would then recluse himself into his office where he took his coffee and took note of the things he wanted to accomplish that day.
If he needed to call the company creditors he would schedule a brief meeting with Mr. Umuneza to bring him on board first. In one of these meetings after Angela’s coming, the boss asked Kyeto if he missed home, out of the blue.
"Yes, but I am happy.” He said. "You know if you have problem, I help you all the time.” He paused "I want to meet my niece, Michelle. Good girl finish economics degree in Butare. Bo, you need beautiful Munyarwanda woman, I give you good girl, nice wife, we become good friends.”
"But sir, you know...” Kyeto tried to speak. "Nothing hard, Bo, I ask her to see you, talk on how to get job, no worry about language, she know little English and very good French, she teach you French I sure.”
The next evening, Kyeto went home with Mr. Umuneza to meet Michelle. "Bonjour Monsieur!” A tall petit lady received them and was promptly corrected that Kyeto did not speak French. "Aaah, sorry, I speak little English, I try but I not good.”
"That’s fine really.” The boss who apparently stayed alone in Kigali invited Kyeto to Café Bonjour where they had four sticks each of brochette, roasted meat on sticks, flavoured with hot pepper and glasses of purely organic marakuja juice. They chatted about economics, about Kenya and Rwanda.
Kyeto knew that he had to find a way of keeping the boss happy but Michelle turned out to be a good proposition. She was intelligent and had that kind of beauty that stuck in a man’s mind for a while.
She sounded more mature for her age, but was worried that her opportunities were limited to the small francophone world which was itself first retreating because of the growing Anglophone influence.
"I want to go to Kampala or Nairobi and compete for same job with Ugandans or Kenyans, but I don’t know…I don’t know if am good in Anglophone community, francophone are much slower, enjoy good life.”
Kyeto was perturbed by this branding of people francophone or Anglophone, after all these are just two foreign languages, which have no particular bearing on Banyarwanda people.
That night he told Angela, he had attended a late night meeting with his boss about work and conveniently forgot to mention about Michelle, the boss’ niece. (To be continued)