Read Online Baking Cakes in Kigali by Gaile Parkin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gaile Parkin
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said Angel, making notes on a Cake Order Form. “Will Emmanuel’s wife and children go with him to Belgium?”
“Unfortunately, the scholarship isn’t enough for that, so they’ll stay here. Actually, I live at their house, so while Emmanuel is away his wife isn’t going to be alone with the children.”
“You are not married yourself?”
“Not yet.” Odile gave a small, shy smile. “But perhaps one day soon, God will give me a husband.”
“Has He given you a fiancé at least?”
“Actually, not even a boyfriend! I like a man at my church, but it seems he doesn’t like me.”
“He’s a very foolish somebody not to like you!” declared Angel. Really, Odile was very pretty and she had such a good heart.
The front door flew open suddenly and Daniel and Moses, the two youngest boys, clattered noisily into the apartment, followed by Titi. Angel made introductions, during which Benedict appeared in the doorway of the children’s room with the thin and drawn look of a child who has at last stopped sweating and shivering in turn and will very soon—and very suddenly—demand a great deal of food.
Angel and Odile finished their business quickly and walked out into the street together to wait for a passing
pikipiki
to take Odile home. The motorbike-taxis were a relatively cheap form of public transport; bicycle-taxis were cheaper, of course, but this particular slope of the hill was too steep for the riders to climb and too nerve-racking for them to descend with their unreliable brakes.
As they waited, Ken Akimoto’s Pajero turned off the tarred road on to the dirt road and pulled up outside the compound: Bosco had come to fetch his sister’s christening cake. Angel introduced him to Odile, and amidst much shaking of hands, he insisted on driving her home himself.
THAT evening, as Grace and Faith helped Titi to prepare the evening meal and the boys sat on the sofa watching a video, Angel sat upstairs watching
Oprah
with Amina while Safiya read in her bedroom. Angel and Pius could receive only thenational station on their own TV. Satellite was too expensive, and in any case the enormous dish would have occupied the entire balcony of their apartment when space was already a problem. There was no dish on Amina’s balcony—but there was one on the Egyptian’s balcony immediately above hers. Amina’s husband Vincenzo liked to do the right thing, but his younger brother Kalif was more flexible. Once when Kalif had come to visit, Amina had persuaded him to wire their TV up to the Egyptian’s satellite dish. The operation had demanded a great deal of subterfuge, the ladder from the cash-power room downstairs, nerves of steel and—unfortunately—a level of expertise that Kalif simply did not possess. The result was a clear picture—with no sound.
“What do you think?” asked Angel, relaxing in a chair identical to those in her apartment downstairs, and fanning her face with Safiya’s French workbook from school.
“I think that lady is maybe taking drugs,” suggested Amina.
“No, it can’t be drugs,” asserted Angel. “Look, now she’s drinking from that bottle that she hid earlier. I think she’s an alcoholic.”
“Can a lady be an alcoholic?”
“In America a lady can be whatever she wants,” said Angel, who sometimes used to watch
Oprah
in Dar es Salaam. “And also in Europe. We both know Linda upstairs here.”
“
Eh
, that Linda can drink! You’re right, look, she’s drinking from a glass now—and trying to hide it from her children.”
“And now she’s in the studio with Oprah.
Eh
, she’s crying a lot! She’s a very unhappy somebody.”
“Do you think that man is her husband or a doctor?” asked Amina.
“If he’s the husband, he doesn’t love her,” declared Angel. “Look how he’s sitting. He doesn’t want to be near her.”
“Maybe he’s her brother,” suggested Amina. “Maybe she’s brought shame to the family.”
“Or maybe he’s the ex-husband.
“Unfortunately, the scholarship isn’t enough for that, so they’ll stay here. Actually, I live at their house, so while Emmanuel is away his wife isn’t going to be alone with the children.”
“You are not married yourself?”
“Not yet.” Odile gave a small, shy smile. “But perhaps one day soon, God will give me a husband.”
“Has He given you a fiancé at least?”
“Actually, not even a boyfriend! I like a man at my church, but it seems he doesn’t like me.”
“He’s a very foolish somebody not to like you!” declared Angel. Really, Odile was very pretty and she had such a good heart.
The front door flew open suddenly and Daniel and Moses, the two youngest boys, clattered noisily into the apartment, followed by Titi. Angel made introductions, during which Benedict appeared in the doorway of the children’s room with the thin and drawn look of a child who has at last stopped sweating and shivering in turn and will very soon—and very suddenly—demand a great deal of food.
Angel and Odile finished their business quickly and walked out into the street together to wait for a passing
pikipiki
to take Odile home. The motorbike-taxis were a relatively cheap form of public transport; bicycle-taxis were cheaper, of course, but this particular slope of the hill was too steep for the riders to climb and too nerve-racking for them to descend with their unreliable brakes.
As they waited, Ken Akimoto’s Pajero turned off the tarred road on to the dirt road and pulled up outside the compound: Bosco had come to fetch his sister’s christening cake. Angel introduced him to Odile, and amidst much shaking of hands, he insisted on driving her home himself.
THAT evening, as Grace and Faith helped Titi to prepare the evening meal and the boys sat on the sofa watching a video, Angel sat upstairs watching
Oprah
with Amina while Safiya read in her bedroom. Angel and Pius could receive only thenational station on their own TV. Satellite was too expensive, and in any case the enormous dish would have occupied the entire balcony of their apartment when space was already a problem. There was no dish on Amina’s balcony—but there was one on the Egyptian’s balcony immediately above hers. Amina’s husband Vincenzo liked to do the right thing, but his younger brother Kalif was more flexible. Once when Kalif had come to visit, Amina had persuaded him to wire their TV up to the Egyptian’s satellite dish. The operation had demanded a great deal of subterfuge, the ladder from the cash-power room downstairs, nerves of steel and—unfortunately—a level of expertise that Kalif simply did not possess. The result was a clear picture—with no sound.
“What do you think?” asked Angel, relaxing in a chair identical to those in her apartment downstairs, and fanning her face with Safiya’s French workbook from school.
“I think that lady is maybe taking drugs,” suggested Amina.
“No, it can’t be drugs,” asserted Angel. “Look, now she’s drinking from that bottle that she hid earlier. I think she’s an alcoholic.”
“Can a lady be an alcoholic?”
“In America a lady can be whatever she wants,” said Angel, who sometimes used to watch
Oprah
in Dar es Salaam. “And also in Europe. We both know Linda upstairs here.”
“
Eh
, that Linda can drink! You’re right, look, she’s drinking from a glass now—and trying to hide it from her children.”
“And now she’s in the studio with Oprah.
Eh
, she’s crying a lot! She’s a very unhappy somebody.”
“Do you think that man is her husband or a doctor?” asked Amina.
“If he’s the husband, he doesn’t love her,” declared Angel. “Look how he’s sitting. He doesn’t want to be near her.”
“Maybe he’s her brother,” suggested Amina. “Maybe she’s brought shame to the family.”
“Or maybe he’s the ex-husband.
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