Little did we know that even here fear sat beside us. Félicien was one of those strict teachers. Suddenly, his needle-thin pointer flew from the blackboard to lash our fingers, we – the dreamers, chatterboxes. ‘After me, all together now, repeat after me,’ we swayed like a herd of cattle, belting out French words he’d scribbled on the board before we sat down. ‘Open your mouths, wider, that’s better.’ We had to prove ourselves, our determination to learn and then he’d strike the wasters, the sleepwalkers, not us though with his bamboo-like pointer. From the dais Félicien reigned us in, owls and lambs, calling us to attention, the most serious, gentle pupils a master could wish for. ‘Now, please focus on the blackboard, I want you to decipher this so it sticks to your brains. No use staring out of that window, you can’t catch them, they’ve disappeared: French words are useless in Nyamata, they’re for you to store in your birdbrains, you heard me, yes, for most of you’ve been dealt hollow drums instead of brains (leaky barrels, he adds in French). Maybe one day, a couple of you here will put them to use but for most of you, well …’
We keep an eye on Félicien, a discrete eye because you’re not supposed to look straight at Teacher and we know that as soon as he thinks we’re not watching, he’ll scan the mission’s huge orchard, anxious, the thick scrub that hides attackers from view. Félicien’s main target? The comings and goings along the church path, school buildings, all the way to the market square, the screen of eucalyptus trees. We copy him, staring like cats through the window – all those French words we rehearse like donkeys just evaporate, you can feel the tension in class. Félicien is right about one thing: our brains are just leaky oil drums.
Now, he turns to face us almost guiltily, trundles to the board, continues with the lesson. But his heart’s no longer in it, his pointer resting by his thigh. The window acts like a magnet: he strides between the desks, his back to us and then forgets us, pauses to survey the playground, orange and papaya trees, the missionaries’ orchard, groups of dusty men carrying bananas, machetes in hand, dense scrub and thickets blocking the horizon. And just as Félicien twists towards his perch, it seems as if for a moment fear has replaced him.
Fear chased us outside more times than I can remember and then, amid whispers and teacher chit-chat, have you heard anything, what shall we do, what’s the plan, any sign of danger today? – Félicien kept his eyes peeled. We felt bereft sitting there on benches so we too rushed to the window to guess which direction our killers would spring from. Is that a shudder in the orchard? There, under the fruit trees? A quiver in the bush? There, in the shrubs? Scary, that deserted path, where is everyone? And then: ‘Let’s go, children, time to pray,’ Félicien cries. Out we trot, quiet as hares, tip-toe, tip-toe. The church is close by but we don’t go in through the portico, we step into the sacristy and squash together behind the altar. There’s no lock in the back door. Teachers lean against it, try to jam it. A delaying tactic to keep fear at bay just that bit longer. Of course, we believe we’re safe, out of reach, in church. I can’t remember how long we stay there packed like mice in the stillness; it’s as if time stands still – somewhere between life and death. One of the missionaries enters, he’s surprised to see us crouching near the apse. He spends ages chatting to Félicien, trying to convince the teachers that the danger’s passed, that we just imagined things. In the end he persuades them, Félicien and his colleagues. Mr Umupadri is the first to exit through the low door with all of us in tow shrouded beneath his white cassock, the rosary draping his chest. Once we realise we’re alone outside with no prowlers in sight, Félicien says: ‘Listen children, run along now, it’s time to go home. Don’t stop along the way. Run, run home to your villages! Why do you think I harp on about it in P.E. so much? run! Forget high jumps, catching a ball, what really matters is running to save your skin. And you, my dears with fleshy cheeks, I want you to dance like gazelles, fly my girls, fly. You know, you’re running to save your lives.’ So we ran faster than lightning, speeding to stop fear from overtaking us.
How often did we hide in the church? Mainly, when the luminaries hadn’t quite recovered from those days of trauma when fear held us prisoner. Days when fear clenched us tight in his grip! You never know why, but all of a sudden the whole village is paralysed. ‘They’re on their way, they’re coming!’ Military men, young party hacks, gangs of looters, thugs at the ready to assail us, tumbling from their hives and nearby villages where Hutus mostly lived. Then, everyone relives the 1959, 1963 massacres, images floating up: of land burned, cattle butchered, Tutsi giants ’cut down to size, their tendons sliced before machetes finish them off, women and children murdered to wipe out ‘the serpent race,’ rivers ferrying corpses … The slightest rumour forcasts a flood of violence: the only teacher with a radio recounts a politician’s speech, party cell leaders report to the local authorities, militants hold a secret meeting at midnight, a military convoy trickles down the Gako road, market traders get arrested in town, students released from the university are mugged, soldiers swarm through huts of displaced people, horror in their wake …
The trick was not to let the gossip stun you: the smallest incident could for-shadow the massacre we all dreaded, the slightest word from a politician’s mouth could be a coded signal to start the slaughter.
Rumours spread from house to house. ‘Brace yourselves, they’re on their way!’ No one knows who or what has sounded the alert – Anselm returning from Nyamata market, Mr Primary School Teacher relaying a radio bulletin and discussing the news later that evening with the men, or children who glimpse soldiers in camouflage shuffling on patrol in the scrub. We’re primed, no need to confer, this isn’t the first alarm. Watchmen steal along to take up positions at convened spots, wait for tell-tale signs of their attackers on the move while other villagers erect impromptu barriers – fast, flimsy barricades they hope will delay their assailants long enough for women and children to flee even if their menfolk have to sacrifice their own lives.
As soon as the alert sounds, women and children gather at Athanasius’. His hut is the last one before Lake Cyohoha. We pray that the killers will arrive from the far side of the village, up Nyamata Road, giving us time to hide in the thorn bushes or the papyrus marsh. For us, these terrible days are tremendously exciting, our world turned upside down! Here we are all tangled in Athanasius’ hut! No school, no domestic chores for the girls, no trips to the stream to fetch water (look at those men balancing gourds from the lake). We’re one big family with zillions of munchkins and millions of mamans!
Every single maman stands there huddled in Athanasius’ yard, yes, even pagan Mukanyonga, who normally we all ignore. They’ve all brought provisions. You should see how much food they’ve found in Gitagata even though it’s hard for anyone here to remember the last time they felt full, such divine delicacies, plenty of beans, igisukari bananas, sweet gahungezi potatoes so floury, fluffy, you know, the ones we usually set aside in Rwanda to savour with milk and even peanuts! These tastiest morsels our mothers put by to sell at market because as Maman says, we still need to buy salt, and petrol for the lamp and cloth for your school uniform and we need some savings in case there’s a drought. Look at all these treats we’re allowed in Athanasius’ kraal, our mamans have turned it into a kitchen and the meals they cook are spilling out of calabash shells. Look who’s here! It’s Margarita – don’t go begging her for water – the ‘poisoner’ who’s guarding the pot of simmering beans! ‘Eat up now, eat up,’ the cooks cajole; ‘lick the gourds clean, you mustn’t leave them a drop. You never know how soon we’ll be carting our empty stomachs on the road again.’ But our bellies are programmed to digest a more meagre diet, they can’t cope with this feast.
Our maman peahens are clucking to us chicks, sheltering us under their wings as soon as they get a whiff of Raptor Sakabaka. We can’t all cower beneath their wrappers but they’re rusing all they can to shoo fear away. Devising ingenious schemes, concocting tasks to distract us because we can’t run or juggle on the t
rack, they won’t let us play hide-and-seek in the sorghum. ‘Go over your lessons,’ they nag. We flip open our notebooks, this is our treasure. But our hearts aren’t in it. We hate those foreign words, it’s their fault – I’m not exactly sure how – but I know they’re responsible for this sad mess. The older girls are taking a break from basket-weaving, they look grumpy, fed up. The mamans are busy inventing toddler games: let’s make dolls and sorghum men, let’s shape mini-plates and bowls for the straw dik-dik. We’re playing guessing games, swapping riddles and secrets, whispering; and that’s what’s so terrfying, we’re not allowed to speak, we’ve become deaf-mutes, our mothers forbid us to talk in a normal voice, and if there’s a tiny crackle, everything stops, all our games and twiggy figures – frozen forever.
Dusk was descending. Watchmen, villagers holding flares sent ahead on reconnaissance hadn’t noticed anything suspect. But they had to man the lookout posts, turning back was a no-no. Our enemies were probably awaiting nightfall before launching their offensive. The men became ever more vigilant, they assembled in Athanasius’ kraal to rest and restore themselves before setting off again on their night rounds.
We’re piled high in the hut, there’s not much room for sleeping. We flop in heaps, we feel safer that way. There aren’t enough grassmats to go around, so the older children just stretch on the floor. The strangest thing is we’re lying fully dressed: ‘You’re not to take your clothes off!’ our mamans remind us. This morning, they made us wear our Sunday best as if we were going to church. ‘You’re wearing your uniforms!’ they cry and then slip on their finest wrapper, the one they’ve scrimped for and parade in when someone gets married. That way the women can rescue their prized possessions, their precious fabrics. They’re so elegant, so stylish in their wrappers! Looking back, I realise this was all about defying death and their murderers.
It was a struggle to fall asleep. Every noise, every trespass, every breath kept us awake. ‘Do you think they’re on their way?’ our neighbour wondered all night. Eventually, sleep carried us off into her arms, only to plunge us into a cauldron of nightmares: we had to wait for dawn to feel refreshed, reborn.
Daybreak and imagine our shock, lying there, crumpled as dried banana leaves, fully clothed, the women bustling already in the kraal. No one, no one can stop us racing to the dust track. Yes, the village huts are still standing, just as they were last night. Is this another trick? A new kind of persecution? Wait, be careful, don’t go too far, stay away from the abandoned huts. Did you hear the news? Did you hear? Yes, that’s right. A few men ventured as far as Nyamata. No, they didn’t meet any soldiers or militia men en route. In Nyamata, the market’s in full swing just as you’d expect. At noon, they give the all-clear. Tough days lie ahead for us because fear, that monster, has licked our cupboards clean. Life will go on now that we’ve had this reprieve, and tomorrow means just more regular routine fear. The hunters hadn’t come but we knew they’d flush us out one day.
bruid in die water met swaeltjies
wanneer dit lig word
dryf ek op my rug in die see
tussen opdrifsels plastiek en papier
al die ou gedagtes
aan die een kant het die maan gaan lê
in die gevlekte lakens van ’n sterwende nag
ver oorkant ’n ander land
van woude en woestyne
gaan die son opstaan uit wolke
soos komberse oor die see
al die ou gedagtes
bo draai swaeltjies die tydwiel se ratte
eers net twee want so was die teken
van paring en verbintenis
BREYTEN BREYTENBACH
BREYTEN BREYTENBACH is a poet, painter, memoirist, essayist and novelist. His works include Mouroir, A Season in Paradise, The True Confessions of an Albino Terrorist, Dog Heart, The Memory of Birds in Times of Revolution, All One Horse and Windcatcher. Breytenbach received the Alan Paton Award for Return to Paradise in 1994 and the Hertzog Prize for Poetry in 1999 and again in 2008.
fiancée dans l’eau avec hirondelles
bride in the water with swallows
quand pointe la lumière
sur le dos je dérive dans l’océan
parmi sacs plastiques et papiers flottants
toutes ces vieilles pensées
à bâbord la lune est partie se coucher
dans le drap piqueté d’une nuit expirante
et loin derrière une terre
de forêts et de déserts
le soleil songe à se lever à travers les nuages
comme des couvertures jetées
sur la mer
when it becomes light
I drift on my back in the sea
tussled among plastic driftage and paper
all the turgid thoughts
right on the edge the moon lay down
in the stained sheets of a dying night
from far beyond a dormant land
of forests and sand
the sun will rise from clouds
as blankets over water
all the flotsam thoughts
en dan ’n dartelende en uitrygende swerm
vliegwieletjies
soos gate in die huweliksrok
motte se ou-onrus gedagtes vertel
hierdie rots gaan swart gloei
die stank van bokbloed weggesyg in die sand
sal mettertyd uitspel
in sillabes vlieë van die eindelose taal
wanneer die begrawe derms vervel
en die bruid se hemelruim word ’n slaapvertrek
waar die woorde van die moskeeroeper
al die ou gedagtes bring en laat kring
tot bid in die gebede bed
au firmament les hirondelles débrayent le temps
deux volatiles d’abord car telle
est la figure d’alliance amoureuse
ensuite une nuée espiègle et louvoyante
des roulettes volantes
comme les trous dans la robe de mariée
racontent les pensées dérangées des mites
above swallows wheel time’s cogs
just two at first for such was the token
of pairing and junction
and then the dateline of an unravelling flock
of flywheels
the way holes in the bridal gown
tell of old turbulent thoughts
ce rocher va luire noir
la pestilence du sang de chèvre
s’estompe dans le sable
se déchiffre avec le temps
en syllabes de mouches dans la langue sans fin
où desquament les viscères enterrés
la nef céleste de la fiancée devient chambre nuptiale
où les paroles du muezzin
virevoltent et portent
toutes les vieilles pensées
en une prière dans le lit supplié
this rock will darkly glow
the reek of goat blood burbled away in dust
with time be spelled
in the infinite tongue’s syllabus of flies
as buried guts shed their skins
and the bride’s celestial space become a boudoir
where the muezzin’s call will bring and string
the debris of thoughts to the prayed-for bed
translated by Georges Lory
hangmaan helder verdwaal
hangmaan helder verdwaal in die indigo hemel
bo hierdie stad waar honderdduisende mense
deur die strate stroom asof hulle nooit gaan sterf
en ek vra my af
dit kan nou nie meer ver wees nie
waar my sterwe met die geritsel van ’n gerf lig
aan die beurt gaan kom
in hierdie ontheemde metropool van kwetterende selfoonbabbelaars
en weggooimense in openbare tuine
of iewers in die behoortegrond onder ’n boom vol voëls
of tussen lakens soos ’n mes in die bed
of op ’n balkon wanneer die roep van ’n skaapwagter
oor nabye heuwels soek?
en wat die laaste gesig sal wees
(ek vra uit blote nuuskierigheid)
en of ek my hand se hitte nog sal voel
en die holte waar woorde was
en of ek dan hierdie vers in die stonde van skielike donkerte
sal herroep, onthou hoe liggewig dit is
soos die lewe
soos ’n sny sonder brood
soos bloed in die geheue
lune suspendue clairement perdue