Baking Cakes in Kigali Read online

  “Oh, yes!” Angel agreed quickly. “It’s only that we won’t be able to provide for these children as well as we did for our first children. But we must try by all means to give them a good life. That’s why we decided to leave Tanzania and come here to Rwanda. There’s aid money for the university and they’re paying Pius so much more as a Special Consultant than he was getting at the university in Dar. Okay, Rwanda has suffered a terrible thing. Terrible, Mrs Ambassador; bad, bad, bad. Many of the hearts here are filled with pain. Many of the eyes here have seen terrible things. Terrible! But many of those same hearts are now brave enough to hope, and many of those same eyes have begun to look towards the future instead of the past. Life is going on, every day. And for us the pluses of coming here are many more than the minuses. And my cake business is doing well because there are almost no shops here that sell cakes. A cake business doesn’t do well in a place where people have nothing to celebrate.”

  “Oh, everybody talks about your cakes! You can go to any function and the cake is from Angel. Or if the cake is not from Angel, somebody there will be talking about another function where the cake was from Angel.”

  Angel smiled, patting her hair in a modestly proud gesture. One of the few luxuries that she allowed herself was regular trips to the hair salon to have her hair relaxed and kept trim in a style appropriate for her age.

  “Well, being so busy with my cake business keeps me young, Mrs Ambassador. And I must keep young for the children. You know, many people here don’t even know that I’m already a grandmother. Everybody just calls me Mama-Grace, as if Grace is my firstborn, not my grandchild.”

  “But you are Grace’s mother now, Angel. Who is Mama-Grace if it is not you? Who is Baba-Grace if it is not your husband?”

  Angel was about to agree when the front door opened and a short, plump young woman with the humble demeanour of a servant walked quietly into the room.

  “Ah, Titi,” said Angel, speaking to her in Swahili. “Are the girls not with you?”

  “No, Auntie,” Titi replied. “We met Auntie Sophie at the entrance to the compound. She invited us up to her apartment. She’s given me money to go and buy Fantas from Leocadie, but she said first I must come and tell Auntie that the girls are with her.”

  “Sawa. Okay,” said Angel. “Titi, greet the wife of our Ambassador from Tanzania, Mrs Wanyika.”

  Titi approached Mrs Wanyika and shook her hand with a small curtsy, respectfully not looking her in the eye. “Shikamoo.”

  “Marahaba, Titi,” said Mrs Wanyika, graciously acknowledging Titi’s respectful greeting, and submitting to the pressure to reply in her country’s first official language. “Habari? How are you?”

  “Nzuri, Bibi. I’m fine,” replied Titi, still not looking at Mrs Wanyika.

  “Sawa, Titi, go and buy the Fantas now for Auntie Sophie,” instructed Angel. “Greet Leocadie for me. Tell her I’ll come to buy eggs tomorrow.”

  “Sawa, Auntie,” said Titi, making for the door.

  “And leave the door open, Titi. Let us get some air in here.” Angel was suddenly feeling very hot. She fanned her face with the Cake Order Form that Mrs Wanyika had completed. “We brought Titi with us from home,” she explained, switching back to English in deference to her guest’s choice. “It was our son Joseph who first employed her, then when … when the children came to us, Titi came with them. She’s not an educated somebody, but she cleans and cooks well, and she’s very good with the children.”

  “I’m glad you have someone to help you, Angel,” said Mrs Wanyika, “but do you all manage to fit into this apartment?”

  “We fit, Mrs Ambassador! The children and Titi have the main bedroom. It’s big. A carpentry professor at KIST made three double bunks for them, and still there’s room in there for a cupboard. Pius and I are fine in the smaller bedroom. And the children aren’t always inside; the compound has a yard for them to play in when they’re not at school.”

  “And how is the school here?” asked Mrs Wanyika.

  “It’s a good school, but quite expensive for five children! Eh, but what can we do? The children don’t know French, so they have to go to an English school. But the school sends a minibus to fetch all the children from this neighbourhood, so we don’t have to worry about transport. The boys are visiting some friends from school who live down the road, otherwise you could meet them. Titi took the girls to the post office to post letters to their friends back in Dar, but now they’ve gone to visit Sophie. It’s a pity. I wish you could meet them, Mrs Ambassador.”

  “I’ll meet them one day, Angel,” said Mrs Wanyika. “Who is this Sophie that they’re visiting?”

  “A neighbour upstairs in this compound. She’s a good friend to our family. She shares her apartment with another lady called Catherine. Both of them are volunteers.”

  “Volunteers?” queried Mrs Wanyika, raising a carefully-pencilled eyebrow.

  “Yes. There are some few people here who have come to help Rwanda without demanding many dollars.” Angel gave a slightly embarrassed smile, knowing that neither her husband nor her guest’s husband fell into that category.

  Again Mrs Wanyika shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. “And what do these volunteers do?”

  “They’re both teachers. Catherine’s a trainer for the Ministry for Gender and Women, and Sophie teaches English at that secondary school that’s for girls only.”

  “I see,” said Mrs Wanyika. “So these two volunteers are helping women and girls. That is very good.”

  “Yes,” agreed Angel. “Actually, they told me that they’re both feminists.”

  “Feminists?” Mrs Wanyika’s other eyebrow shot up to join the one that had still not quite recovered from the idea of volunteers. “Feminists?” she repeated.

  Angel was confused by her guest’s reaction. “Mrs Ambassador, is there something wrong with a feminist?”

  “Angel, are you not afraid that they’ll convert your daughters?”

  “Convert? Mrs Ambassador, you’re speaking of feminists as if they’re some kind of … of missionaries.”

  “Angel, do you not know what feminists are? They don’t like men. They … er …” here Mrs Wanyika dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper and leaned closer to Angel, “they do sex with other ladies!”

  Angel once more removed her glasses and polished the lenses with her tissue. She took a deep breath before speaking. “Oh, Mrs Ambassador, I can see that somebody has confused you on this matter, and, indeed, it is very easy to become confused, because, of course, it is a very confusing matter. I believe that a lady who does sex with other ladies is not called a feminist. I believe she is called a lesbian.”

  “Oh,” said Mrs Wanyika, registering both relief and embarrassment at the same time. “Right. Yes, I’ve heard of a lesbian.”

  “It’s very easy for us to get confused because these ideas are so modern for us in Africa,” said Angel, mindful of her guest’s embarrassment and anxious to smooth over her mistake.

  “Indeed,” agreed Mrs Wanyika. “These ideas are too modern here. Amos has always been stationed in Africa, except for when we were in Malaysia. But such ideas are also too modern for Malaysia.”

  “I only know about these ideas myself because I spent some time in Germany with my husband when he was there for his studies,” confided Angel. “The women in Europe have many modern ideas.”

  “I believe so. And is it not true that too many ideas drive wisdom away? Angel, I’m relieved that no harm will be done to your girls! I was confused to think that your neighbours are lesbians. They’re simply volunteers.”

  It was clear to Angel that Mrs Wanyika found the idea of volunteers—disconcerting to her as that was—less alarming than the idea of feminists. She looked for a fresh direction for their conversation, and, glancing at the coffee table between them, cried, “Eh! What am I thinking, Mrs Ambassador! Your cup is empty and cold! Let me make some more tea!”

  Mrs Wanyika began to protest as Angel collected up t
heir cups and saucers. But just as she did so, somebody called from the open doorway.

  “Hodi! May we come in?”

  “Karibuni! Welcome!” greeted Angel as a young woman and a girl entered the apartment. The woman’s beautiful bright kangas, patterned in orange, deep yellow and turquoise, swathed her entire body, including her head, so that only her face, hands and feet were visible. The girl, lighter-skinned than the woman, wore a red and yellow short-sleeved dress that ended half-way down her calves, while a bright orange scarf swirled over her head and throat. Angel had always thought that both mother and daughter were thin enough to make a pencil look overweight. She introduced her guests to one another in Swahili.

  “Mrs Ambassador, these are my friends from the apartment above. Amina and Safiya, this is Mrs Wanyika, wife of the Tanzanian Ambassador here.”

  All the guests shook hands and exchanged greetings. Then Mrs Wanyika said, “Amina, you’re speaking Swahili, but I don’t think you’re from any country that I know. Where is your home?”

  Amina’s smile was beautiful, a flash of bright white against the darkness of her skin. “I’m Somali, Bibi, from Mogadishu.”

  “Ah, Mogadishu!” declared Mrs Wanyika. “That’s where those American helicopters were shot down, isn’t it? How many Americans died, Amina? Eighteen?”

  “Something like that, Bibi. And a thousand Somalis were killed, too. But I don’t tell many people here that I’m from there. There are people who say that the Americans refused to come here to help Rwanda because of what had happened to them in Mogadishu. It could happen that Rwandans could blame me for the Americans not coming here, or it could happen that Americans could hate me for their soldiers dying in my country.”

  “These things are very complicated,” said Mrs Wanyika, and the way that she said it—without seeming to give it any thought or inviting any further discussion—made Angel suspect that it was her standard diplomatic response in conversations concerning political matters.

  Amina smiled. “Yes, Bibi. But in fact I have two nationalities. My husband has Italian citizenship because his father was Italian. So I’m Somali and Italian. I like to tell Wazungu that I’m an Italian. They don’t know how to arrange their faces when I tell them that!”

  The three women laughed, and Safiya smiled shyly at the adults’ laughter.

  “Let me guess. Is your husband here with the Italians who are building the roads?”

  “Yes, Bibi, he’s in charge.”

  “And Safiya goes to the same school as the children,” said Angel.

  Safiya’s smile was as bright as her mother’s. “Grace and Faith are my best friends,” she declared.

  “Eh, but why are we just standing here? Let me make tea for us all!”

  “Oh, Angel, I’m sorry, we cannot stay for tea,” said Amina. “We’re on our way to Electrogaz to buy power. We just came here to tell you that when we looked at our meter downstairs, we saw that your power is almost finished also. Shall we buy some more for you while we’re there?”

  “Thank you, Amina, that’s very kind! But Baba-Grace has already planned to buy power after he’s finished at KIST this afternoon.”

  “Sawa, Angel. Mrs Wanyika, I’ve enjoyed meeting you.” “Amina, I’m leaving now myself,” said Mrs Wanyika. “Unfortunately I can’t stay for more tea, Angel. Amos and I have been invited for cocktails at the Swedish Embassy this evening, and I must go and get myself ready. My driver is waiting outside. Can we give you two a lift to Electrogaz?”

  Amina clapped her hands together. “Thank you, Bibi.”

  “Angel, I’ll send my driver for the cake next Friday afternoon. I’ve enjoyed my tea with you so much. Thank you.”

  “It’s a pleasure, Mrs Ambassador. Please come to see me any time. In my house it’s tea time all the time.”

  “Thank you, Angel. And once or twice a year we have parties for Tanzanians and friends of Tanzania at the embassy. I’ll make sure that you get an invitation.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Ambassador. I’ll look forward to that.”

  Alone in the apartment, Angel discarded her tight, smart outfit in favour of a comfortable T-shirt and kanga before gathering up her good china from the coffee table and taking it through to the kitchen. She filled the sink with warm soapy water, thinking as she did so about the deeply disappointing cake that she would have to bake for the Ambassador’s wife. It was not going to be a cake that would inspire people to come and order their own cakes from her—unless, of course, there were some Wazungu at Mrs Wanyika’s party who did not know any better. No, it was going to be a cake that would try to hide its face in shame. The best that she could hope for was that nobody would ask who had made it. Or, if they did feel inspired to ask, perhaps they would see from the Wanyikas’ wedding photo—the one of the couple cutting their wedding cake—that Angel had been obliged simply to copy the original cake, no matter how unsightly that had been.

  Having washed the cups and saucers, she set about scrubbing the milk saucepan, finding it rather satisfying to take her disappointment out on it. Pius had warned her that morning that she was expecting way too much from the visit, but she had assured him that he was wrong: Mrs Wanyika might not be a big person in the way that Ambassador Wanyika was, but she was a woman who entertained; and, as a woman who entertained, she had the power to tuck a great deal of money into Angel’s brassiere. The afternoon could have gone quite differently: Mrs Wanyika could have ordered a beautiful cake with an intricate design or an original shape and lots of colours; it would have taken centre stage at the Ambassador’s party, and nobody there—surely almost all of them big people—would have left without knowing that Angel Tungaraza was the only person in Kigali to go to for a cake for a special occasion.

  She set the pot on the draining board to dry and looked at her watch. Pius would be home from work before too long, and it would soon be time to start preparing the family’s evening meal. In a short while she would go upstairs to fetch the girls from Sophie’s apartment, and she would send Titi to fetch the boys from their friends’ house down the road. But before all of that, she had some time alone to enjoy one of her greatest pleasures, something that would surely go a long way to undoing the terrible disappointment that the afternoon had brought.

  Drying her hands on a tea towel, she went into her bedroom and took from a shelf in the wardrobe a white plastic bag, inside which lay a bundle tightly encased in bubble-wrap. Back in the kitchen, she placed the bundle on the counter, and her fingers began to search for, and unpeel, the strips of sticky-tape that bound it. She did this slowly, prolonging the pleasure, building the anticipation.

  The parcel had come to her all the way from Washington, DC, via a neighbour in the compound who returned there regularly to see his wife and children. Ken Akimoto was happy to act as a courier for Angel, and his wife never seemed to object to being sent to the shops on Angel’s behalf. In fact, June Akimoto regularly enclosed a card for Angel, usually to thank her for being a friend to Ken or for baking such beautiful cakes for him. And here was one of those cards now.

  Snatching it quickly from inside the bundle, Angel spun around and leaned back against the counter to read it. She had managed to take it without yet seeing what was in the bundle: her pleasure would be all the greater for the delay. This time, June was writing to express her admiration for the cake that Angel had made for Ken’s fiftieth birthday party, a party that had been especially loud, Angel remembered, on account of its disco theme. What a great idea it had been—June wrote, having seen Ken’s photos—to make, for a man who so loved karaoke, a cake in the shape of a microphone. Angel remembered the cake with pride. It had not been one of her most colourful cakes, of course, although a cake for a disco party should really have had swirls of many different bright colours; after all, nobody had been afraid of colours back in the era of disco, not even Wazungu. But more than just a disco party, it had been a party to celebrate Ken’s birthday—and it was difficult for anybody who knew Ken to think of him withou
t a microphone in his hand, occasionally singing into it himself, but mostly pressing it on one or another of his guests. So Angel had made the cake in the shape of a microphone lying on the cake-board, in black and grey with a small box positioned on it to make it look like it belonged to a particular TV station, like those microphones that were always being pushed towards the faces of big people at important events. The box on this microphone—red on one side, green on the other, blue on top—carried on all three sides the word KEN in white above a large number 50, also in white. Ken had reported afterwards that everybody at the party had praised it; and now here was praise from Washington, too.

  After reading June’s card twice, Angel knew that the moment had come for her to turn around and savour—slowly—the contents of the bundle. Ken had delivered it to her earlier that afternoon, on his way home from the airport, and she had resisted opening it immediately, because Mrs Wanyika would be arriving soon. As she had put it away in her cupboard, she had thought that perhaps she would delay opening it until the following day, because—surely—the commission of a beautiful cake from the wife of her country’s Ambassador to Rwanda was going to provide more than enough pleasure for one day. But now she was very grateful that she had the bundle to lift her mood this afternoon.

  She turned around. Gently, carefully, lest any of the contents should fall from the counter and spill over the kitchen floor, she peeled back the folds of bubble-wrap. What treasures lay inside! Yes, here were the colours that she had asked for: red, pink, yellow, blue, green, black—all in powder form, of course, not like the one or two bottles of liquid food colour that were available at the Lebanese supermarket in town; those were not at all modern—some big blocks of marzipan, and, as always, June had included some new things for Angel to try. This time there were three tubes that looked rather like thick pens. She picked one up and examined it: written along its length were the words Gateau Graffito, and underneath, written in uppercase letters, was the word red. Reaching for the other two pens—one marked green and the other black—she saw a small printed sheet lying at the bottom of the bubble-wrap nest. It explained that these pens were filled with food colour, and offered a picture showing how they could be used to write fine lines or thick lines, depending on how you held them. It also guaranteed that the contents were kosher. Eh, now her cakes were going to be more beautiful than ever!