Daata: The Writer Within #5

This short story comes from when I was taking a course in creative writing at college, and follows a father (I wrote a lot about fatherhood during that class). I have more to say about this story but will write it in a footnote. A warning: this may be disturbing so stop reading if it bothers you.

Daatâ

“Wake up, ikibondo! You are only dreaming, my child.”

Her bright green eyes open wide, shimmering.

“Daatâ! Oh, Daatâ, I was so scared!”

He wraps the small girl in his large, dark biceps and holds her. She sobs softly into his chest.

“What is wrong, my lovely daughter?”

“I saw the shadow again, Daatâ, it followed me into my dreams again. It won’t leave me alone, Daatâ, it won’t leave me alone.”

He waits for her sniffles to subside.

“Isabelle, there’s no reason to cry. It was only a nightmare, yes? So how about we head to the kitchen; Mama is almost finished with breakfast.”

Sniff.

“Okay, Daatâ, I’ll go, but only if you carry me.”

His deep chuckles calm her fears.

“Alright, I’ll carry you, my dear, yet again.”

She braces herself as his strong hands wrap under her back and lift her over his shoulder like a bag of onions. She giggles uncontrollably as he lugs her down the hall and into the small kitchen. With a groan, he drops her into her chair. The mother turns from the pot to roll her eyes at the two, then focuses back on the meal.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

The boy’s knife hits the board over and over as he slices more avocados and bananas for the breakfast. His father rushes over to check his progress.

“Well done, Nicolas, I shall make a chef out of you yet. However, try to make thinner slices, so there is more for everyone.”

“Yes, Daatâ, I’ll slice those thinner.”

The father smiles and heads towards the petite cook, still stirring the clay pot.

“Are we ready yet, Ghislaine? I think your daughter wants to fill her tummy with your delicious umutsima.”

“In a minute, dear, almost finished.”

The boy corrals all of his yellows and greens into a wooden bowl and carries it over to the table. The starchy smell of the cassava mixes with the sweetness of the fruits. Isabelle bounces in her seat, licking her lips at the scent.

“My love, grab those bowls on the counter and I’ll dish everyone’s food out. Say, what’s that buzzing sound? Is there a beetle in here?”

“No, I’m sure it’s nothing, dear. I’ll get those dishes.”

He brings the bowls over to her and hands her one by one, placing each filled bowl on the table. Wiping the sweat from her brow, Ghislaine removes her apron and sits down in the chair opposite her husband. The small wooden table holds the meal for four, and as they spread their hands to clasp in prayer, she looks over their faces.

Nicolas holds his head overly high, trying so hard to posture like his father next to him. His brown eyes blend in with his face, still a lighter shade than his father. Isabelle gazes at the food with an ear to ear grin, eyes dancing over the feast. Her tight, black curls and mulatto skin match her mother. Meanwhile, the head of the house bows his head solemnly, awaiting the blessing. His large structure dwarfs the others at the table, misplaced in humble accommodations. He raises his hands to clasp them, scars shining along his forearms, disappearing up his sleeves.

“My lovely wife, will you not bless the food?”

 “Yes, Habimana, I will now.”

Ahem.

“Our Father in Heaven,

hallowed be Your name.

Your kingdom come,

Your will be done,

on Earth, as it is in Heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread,

and forgive us our trespasses,

as we forgive those who trespass against us.

Lead us not into temptation,

and deliver us from Evil.

Amen.”

Murmured amens give way to a mad dash to fill mouths. The food disappears and a sated family begins to clear the table of the few dishes. After the children have brought theirs to the sink, Habimana quickly ushers them out of the kitchen, telling them to “go play, have fun, kubari!” He then continues to help his wife clean.

“Habi, have you heard what they have been doing to the women?”

He stays solemn as he dries the dishes that she hands to him.

“Well, have you? They are raping them, Habi, raping them right in the middle of the streets! I can’t even go out to get food anymore for fear that they’ll get ahold of me.”

He sets down the towel and dish and stands behind her, placing his hands on her waist.

“You know that I would never let them do that, umukunzi. I’ll always take care of you.”

He plants a soft kiss at the base of her neck, but she is still not placated. Not so easily again.

“But, Habi, it’s getting worse. I haven’t been out of the house in two weeks!”

“It’s better this way for now, my dear, until I can get us and the children into France. We almost have enough money; then we can go live with your sister.”

“I know, darling, but… those two weeks ago, I found a baby. A baby! Right there, in the middle of the street. No mother anywhere, and the poor thing couldn’t even cry anymore because it had been out there so long. It was less than a day old! It just laid there in its blood and gâchis and no one even cared… I picked it up and embraced it, trying to will it to continue, but… it just stopped fighting and crying and… became completely quiet…”

She sets down the pot and lays her head onto his chest, letting the tears flow out. He shu-shushes her and strokes her hair.

“That happens now, my love. The women are raped, the men are uncaught, and the children are destroyed. No one wanted them; that’s just how it is, dear.”

“I-I know, but… I could just n-never do that. I could never leave my babies behind me to die, I c-could never just abandon them…”

“I know, umukunzi, I know. How about you just relax here in the kitchen, and I’ll go get Isabelle cleaned up from whatever dirt she’s gotten into, okay?”

“Okay, Habi, thank you.”

He smiles and kisses her forehead, then heads out of the room. She sits down in the chair again and places her head in her hands.

Habimana pops his head into each room.

“Isabelle! Nicolas! Where are you two?”

He finally finds them out in the street, playing football with the other children. A little boy kicks the football to Nicolas, who maneuvers it through the crowd of youth, shouting aloud.

“And Romário dodges the defenders and shoots for the goal!”

With a firm plant on his left leg, Nicolas kicks the ball towards a sideways trash can. The football clangs inside the makeshift goal.

“He scores! And Brazil has won the 1994 World Cup! Ahhhh!”

“Hey! Both you two, get back in the house! Merde! Kick that ball back to the others.”

Nicolas passes the football and runs inside with Isabelle, fearing a father’s wrath.

Knowing no such fear, Isabelle quickly interjects.

“Hey, what’s wrong? We didn’t do anything!”

Sigh.

“I know, Isabelle, I’m sorry for being so harsh with you. But it’s dangerous right now to be in the streets without me or your mother. So, please follow me to your room so I can clean you off. Nicolas, since you think Brazil will win the Cup this year instead of Argentina, why don’t you go ask your mother how you can help her.”

“But, Daatâ, I want to help you with the cooking for today.”

“I don’t have much to do today, son, but as soon as I am finished with your sister, I’ll come get you, okay?”

Nicolas’ frown reveals his displeasure at being sentenced to women’s labor, but he nods and walks briskly towards the kitchen. Habimana takes Isabelle to the small room that she shares with Nicolas. He stands in front of the single window while he helps her change out of her now-dirty dress. She slips into a comfortable outfit of shirt and pants, since she has no more dresses and is “glad to have no more to have to wear.” He smiles and kisses her forehead.

“I’m tired now, Daatâ. I dunno why; I haven’t even been up very long.”

“Haha! That’s because you have a belly full of that yummy umutsima, and you probably wore yourself out with all that running around with the big boys!”

“Hey, that’s not fair! There were plenty of small boys too. And I was doing really good!”

Her pretty little voice tugs at his heart, creasing his face along those worn crow wrinkles.

“I’m sure you were, ikibondo.”

“Oh, Daatâ? Is there thunder outside?”

“Well, there could be a storm coming, Isabelle.”

“Really? I don’t see any clouds.”

She runs over and looks out the window at the sky.

“Sometimes there doesn’t have to be clouds for a storm to be on the way, Isabelle. Say, before you crash into your bed again, would you care for a treat?”

Her eyes light up. “Ooh, what treat, Daatâ?”

“Only the best for my little girl: papaya!”

She claps her hands and jumps.

“Hourra, hourra, hourra! I love papaya, Daatâ!”

“I know you do, baby. Here, I’ll go get it and bring it in here for you, okay?”

She nods vigorously as he heads over to his room to find her papaya. He walks around the small bed that he shares with his wife and finds his beaten leather bag in the corner. He reaches in and finds a small brown bag with a drawstring. His smile fades away as he pulls it out and lays it on the bed next to him. He stares at it for a minute, far gone in thought.

Reaching back into the bag, he grabs the papaya and pulls it out. He gazes and studies it while he dips back into his bag and grabs his large machete. He eyes the machete, turning it in his hand. Nodding abruptly, jaw set, he stands up and carries the bag, fruit, and machete back into her room. Her eyes brighten at the sight of the papaya.

“Here you go, baby. I’ll cut it open for you.”

With a sudden slash, he slices the papaya in half. She applauds as he hands her the two halves. Setting the machete down, he sits at her bedside and grasps the small bag.

“Hey, want to try something new? I brought you this new spice from the shop. It’s supposed to be really good on papaya fruit.”

Her mouth drips as she attempts to eat the fruit in her mouth and speak.

“Weely? Lemme trit, Daatâ!”

He nods grimly and opens up the bag. He empties the spice bag onto her fruit and then pulls the drawstring shut quickly. She eagerly takes another bite.

“Eh, I think they lied, Daatâ. It tastes too bitter for papaya!”

He forces out another chuckle. “I agree with you, Isabelle, but I thought that you might like it better than I had.”

“Well, you shoulda known better!”

Another laugh. He helps clean off her face then lies her down on her side. Having nestled her into the bed, he kisses her once more before beginning to walk towards the door.

“Daatâ?”

“Yes, Isabelle?”

“You aren’t gonna send me and Nicolas away, are you? ‘Cuz I don’t want to be anywhere that isn’t with you! Or Mama.”

Sigh.

He walks back over to her.

“I might have to, baby. It’s getting very dangerous here. You’d be much safer far, far away, like in those fairy tales that you read. Maybe you’ll even find a Prince Charming!”

“Well, I don’t want a Prince Charming, Daatâ. All I need is you, and I’m happy.”

Tears flood his eyes as he embraces her tightly.

“All I need is you too, ikibondo.”

“I love you, Daatâ.”

“I love you too, Isabelle.”

He blesses her forehead one more time with his lips.

“Now get some sleep, my child.”

She nods and lies down in her bed. He knows that once he walks out the door, she’ll already be asleep. He heaves himself off of her tiny bed and heads back towards the kitchen.

Nicolas stands abruptly as soon as Habimana enters the room.

“Daatâ! Can we go cook now?”

“Yes, son, we can go cook now. Grab the wires and some wood. I’ll get the food and tools. Meet me on the roof so we can smoke some chicken.”

Nicolas races off to find his items as Habimana collects his own. They reconvene on top of the small house. Nicolas notices his father’s materials spread across the roof next to a large iron pot.

“Whoa! I haven’t seen that pot before! Why do we need it?”

“Oh, this? I use it at the shop. I brought it so we could better contain the fire and better smoke the meat.”

“Oh, okay. Hey, what’s that sound? Keeps getting louder, now.”

“Probably just those kids still playing football farther down the street. So, you want to get cooking or what?”

Habimana lays a cloth down on the roof and spreads out the cassava, peanuts, chili peppers, and plantains. He places the pot away from the vegetables and dumps the wood in. Nicolas grabs his father’s machete and begins chopping the vegetables. Habimana starts a fire inside the pot and places the wires across it for a grill to place his large skillet onto.

“Now, this time you want to cut them bigger, so we can mix it in with the chicken.”

“I know, Daatâ. So, do you think I’ll ever be as good a cook as you are?”

“Well, if you keep practicing like you do now, you should easily pass me. Especially once we get you guys to France, where you can train with experts! Les chefs d'élite!”

Nicolas carries the vegetables over and dumps them on a cloth next to the heated pot. He hands the machete back to his father, who places it down his belt then throws a few ingredients into the skillet to flavor the chicken.

“I don’t really want to train with chefs, though. You do just good enough for me here.”

“Even if that were true, you and your sister deserve better than this. We could have done so much more for you, had we only acted earlier…”

“Aww, don’t be like that, Daatâ. You and Mama have done great for us. Especially Isabelle. She gets pretty much everything she wants. I’m not complaining, though. I do fine with what you and Mama decide to give me.”

Sigh.

He grabs a poker and prods the burning cinders.

“I guess you feel unimportant sometimes, huh?”

Nicolas nods silently, still staring into the embers.

Habimana turns his attention away from the chicken engulfed in a small pillar of smoke. He pulls a root from the pile of vegetables.

“Do you know what this is?”

“Yeah, that’s a cassava.”

“What’s it for?”

“I dunno… To add extra body? It doesn’t have much flavor.”

“This, Nicolas, is much more than that. We use the cassava root in just about every dish. We make bread, cook umutsima, mix it into stews, and create gravies with it. The cassava is one of the most important plants in our country because we substitute for wheat with it. We choose the cassava because it is strong: it holds the food together and bonds incompatible flavors with each other. We build almost our entire diet on the cornerstone of the cassava.”

He lays the root back on the cloth.

“Nicolas… you are our cornerstone. We could never get by without you. Who takes care of Isabelle when we aren’t here? Who would I rely on to take care of our family if something were to happen to me? You, Nicolas. You’re the most important person in our family. When I’m old and grey, you’ll have to take up the family business and take care of us.

You’re becoming a man, Nicolas. A man I very much wish I could see right now. I regret never sending you two away… Then you might have already learned enough to be a man. Then you both might never have had to be here during this time in our country…”

He stares into the fire.

“Daatâ, what do you mean? Is there something big going on? My friends keep saying ‘It’s coming’, but I don’t know what ‘it’ is.”

“Don’t worry about that, mwene banjye. Just know that I love you, and I am so proud of you.”

“What’s that, Daatâ? Sorry, I can’t hear you well. It’s getting so loud!”

Habimana leans over and hugs Nicolas closely.

“I said: I love you, and I’m proud of you, son.”

Nicolas pulls his arms tighter around Habimana.

“I love you too, Daatâ.”

He leaves his father’s embrace to turn around.

“Is that shouting?”

He peers over the edge of the roof, looking in the distance. Habimana walks slowly behind Nicolas and places his hands on his son’s shoulders.

“Daatâ, I think I see—”

Habimana shoves hard into Nicolas’ shoulders, sending him careening towards the ground. Nicolas yells before his back slams to the ground, sending dirt up into the air. The powdery earth softens and mutes his landing, but his head cracks onto a stone. He lays still, groaning and eyes dancing.

Habimana walks back to the pot and sniffs as he removes the skillet and wires, tossing them aside. He strains to push the large, heavy cauldron to the end of the house. Nicolas starts to move again, focusing his eyes on the top of the building beside him.

With one final heave, Habimana pushes the cauldron over the side.

A sickening crunch signals its landing. Trembling, he peeks over the edge, tears pouring down his cheeks.

The black iron sits at the top of the slender body. A bawl echoes from inside the house.

Ghislaine.

He runs back over to the trapdoor and drops in. Screaming comes from the far side of the house. The agonized, piteous wailing of a small girl pierces his heart. He sprints into Isabelle’s room.

She lies on the bed, contorting horribly. Her possessed state writhes and wriggles as she shrieks, eyes glued open. He runs over to her and grabs her head, holding her close and sobbing.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry, oh, my umumarayika. They told me it would be quick and painless, they never said you would do this, oh, my ikibondo…”

Her eyes stare straight into nothing, strained with immense fear.

“It’s here! The shadow’s here! Daatâ, it’s staring right at me! It can see me! It knows who I am! It knows my name! It knows me! Daatâ, save me! Save me!”

He rocks her back and forth, cursing those men who sold it to him in every language he knows. She finally stops speaking, then moving, then breathing. He rocks her a little longer, her body with the eyes still staring.

Another shriek from outside. Footsteps as she runs back into the house. He wipes his tears as best as he can and lifts the blanket over Isabelle. Running back into the kitchen, he finds Ghislaine in a panic.

“Oh mon dieu, there’s screaming and shouting! I can hear them coming! They’re already on the roof, I think, because… Oh, Nicolas…”

She collapses. He catches her. She struggles to regain her breath as he stands her back up.

“Where’s Isabelle? We need to… hide her. Somewhere. There’s… nowhere to go out there. They’ve blocked… all the streets, that’s what people are saying… the ones fleeing…”

“Ghislaine… we’re in the middle of the city. Where can we go?”

“I don’t know, anywhere… Wait, where’s Isabelle?”

“She’s asleep in her room.”

“Asleep?! How can she be sleeping with all of this noise? Let me get her…”

She runs drunkenly through the house, bumping into every other corner. He follows her every step with wandering eyes, slowly pulling his machete out of his belt. She reaches the bedroom and shakes Isabelle’s body.

“Isabelle, wake up. Baby, we’ve got to go…”

He slowly approaches her from behind, eyes already beginning to water.

Forgive me…

She gasps.

He pulls the blade slowly out of her back from between her ribs. She collapses immediately to the floor. He drops the machete and falls to join her, caressing her head against his neck. She closes her eyes slowly.

“Merci, mon amour.”

“W-whatever for?”

“For… not leaving… my babies… behind me… I… love you.”

“I-I love you too, umukunzi.”

Exhale.

His bitter cry pierces the empty house.

“Mon amour…”

He strokes her hair softly while the tears continue to fall.

But the sound of angry men soon drowns his sorrow. They storm the house and find Habimana, loosing war cries as they grab ahold of him. He shouts and protests as they break him away from Ghislaine’s body.

“No! Mon amour! NO!”

They drag him out into the street, whooping and jeering. A massive mob begins to surround him. A large man dressed in a military uniform walks over with his rifle, preparing to speak.

“Today, inshuti, we continue our purge of the filth of Kigali, with this intati! Our people will always remember this day; this glorious sixth day of April!”

They cheer his words. Someone spits in Habimana’s face.

“We will execute this Tutsi-lover here in the street! Then we will rape his Tutsi bitch, and then kill her and their little half-breed ikinyendaro! First, let’s teach this con what happens when you betray your country! When you betray the Hutu tribe for the Tutsi shit!”

The crowd lets loose a cry.

“For Rwanda!”

A man comes out of the house, yelling about the whole family being already dead. The officer turns to stare at Habimana in disgust.

“You murdered your own umuryango?! Bâtard!”

The officer smashes the butt of his rifle against Habimana’s face. Habimana spits up blood as the soldier nods to the men holding Habimana, who release him. One man runs over and hacks at Habimana’s shoulder with his blade. He cries out in pain and falls to the ground. The rest of the crowd closes in and attacks Habimana with all of their machetes.

His screams join the cacophony of the city, lost amidst the cries of men, women, and children alike.

Footnote

Now that you've finished my story, I want to take this opportunity to remember the men, women and children who were slaughtered during the Rwandan Genocide of 1994. It lasted from April 7th to July 15th, decreasing the population by 20% and nearly driving the Tutsis into extinction. Although I am posting this on July 4th, when we typically celebrate the United States' freedom with fireworks and food, I want you to realize that there are still places in the world where the color of your skin or a difference in belief can mean death, not just bias and unfairness.

In memory of the dead, fallen twenty-one years ago and still falling.