A new book is underway!Set in a village three hours south of Kigali, Rwanda, Jubliee tells the story of Evariste and Gaeton.In April 1994, Evariste is a fourteen-year-old reveling in young love.She is the daughter of cattle herders: they have 12 head of cattle, making them both legally Tutsi and also wealthy. She loves to dance, she’s inquisitive, and she is smart. Gaeton is three years older than Evariste and the son of a farmer. He is a Hutu. He dreams of being treated fairly;of earning respect. Most of all,he loves Evariste. This is how their love is tested when the One Hundred Day massacre breaks out, and how to forgive a betrayal that destroys innocence.

“True forgiveness is when you can say, ‘Thank you for the experience.'”
 

– Oprah Winfrey

Imana is the Supreme One, the creator of all things, including the heavens and the earth. The earth, though, was barren and hard. Imana allowed all living things, including humans, to live in the heavens with him; this provided an easier, more abundant life. He shared everything with his creation: his food, his prosperity, his eternalness. If someone died in heaven, Imana restored that person to life in three days. In the beginning, then, life was rich, beautiful and everlasting. The fall came because of a woman: this woman was married and barren. A child to love as her own was her dream, and she pleaded with Imana to help her fulfill this wish so that she might be found a worthy wife. Imana agreed, but set forth a condition: he’d grant her children, but she was not to disclose to anyone that he had done so. The origins of her children were to remain a secret. The childless mother agreed, and Imana kept his word: he provided two sons and a daughter to the barren couple. The woman was overjoyed; she lived in peace with her family.

However, a dear friend of the woman was also childless, and felt stigmatized by her inability to conceive. She was jealous of the childless couple who were now parents, and she relentlessly bothered her friend for details on the origins of the children. Eventually, tired of being asked, the new mother explained how the children came to be. Her friend went straight to Imana and begged for the same favor to be bestowed upon her. Imana was angered because the new mother disobeyed him. Ashamed for going against Imana, the new mother turned against her children in a spate of anger, and murdered them. When they died, the sky split open, and the children tumbled to Earth.

Earth was not the same as life in the heavens: it was ripe with struggle and pain. The mother wept with guilt for causing her children such pain. She and her friend begged Imana’s forgiveness: he granted it, and promised that the children would be able to rejoin the heavenly home one day.

*** *** ***

February
1992

The warm pink hue of the sunrise is her favorite color. She stands at the door of the small hut, listening to the singing of the morning birds and looking out as far as she can see: past the cows, past the red dirt lane that leads to the market, to gaze instead at the hills. Some of them, anyway. This is the land of a thousand hills; they are Evariste’s favorite part of Rwanda. The hills, and mizuzu with honey. She’s the first to rise every day; the first to greet the morning… but usually the last to finish chores. Ema’ma says she’s a fille du soleil: she loves being in the sun and soaks in every last minute of the day. She doesn’t linger at the door of the hut; she doesn’t meander anywhere. No: Evariste dances; the early morning chirping of the birds her music. Her feet are bare as she skips across the red dirt to the cow field, looking for Charlotte. A sixth sense tells her today is the day.

She opens the wood fence, steps onto the damp grass, her wide, chocolate eyes scanning the misty field for the brown and white spotted heifer. Evariste loves all twelve of their cows, but six-year-old Charlotte most of all. On a cool morning not unlike today four years ago, Ema’ma lay in the throes of birthing a stillborn, six-year-old Mamree played at a friends’ hut, Papi herded cattle, and then there was Charlotte. Ten-year-old Evariste, escaping the sadness of her mother’s room, found herself watching the cow from her seat atop the fence. Its big brown eyes seemed worried as she lay at the far south side of the field, alone. Though she wasn’t sure how to help, Evariste recognized Charlotte was in distress, and mimicked what she’d seen her father do to assist other cows: she grabbed the unborn calf’s pastern and pulled. Charlotte’s first calf lived that day, and it was Evariste who used her fingers to clear the mucus from the calf’s mouth and face. Love burst in the girl’s heart when the calf’s dark eyes focused on her. The sadness bought by the stillborn inside the house felt tempered by the tiny calf who wobbled around the field on brown and white spotted, skinny legs. Since then, Evariste assisted Charlotte in delivering a calf each year, usually, like now, in late February.

Having delivered three times already, this would likely be Charlotte’s last calf. Excitement flows through Evariste at the chance to witness another calf’s birth. A child of cattle herders, new life isn’t unusual to see; still, each live birth leaves her in awe, for she knows breath is not guraranteed. As often as she’s seen new life born, she’s seen death, too. She won’t have long to sit with Charlotte: everyone else soon will rise; the sun will get higher, the mist will clear, there will be chores to complete. For now, though, it’s still. Evariste runs her hand over Charlotte’s head, pats her. “Good morning, there, going to have another calf today?”

The cow’s tail swings, her ears twitching. She stands, walks away, her head turning one way and then the other. Twisting her body to lean to the side, Evariste glances behind her. “I see it, Char, I do. I see your calf.” Evariste’s smile stretches across her face, a dimple creasing her left cheek. Her charcoal-ashy colored hair is cut short, the curls forced to lie tight against her head. Without hair to hide it, her oval-shaped face gives away every emotion. When she tires, her flattened nose scrunches. When happy, her bronzed caramel skin glows, as it does now. High on her tip toes, Evariste shifts her weight back and forth, dancing in place. Charlotte’s nasally bellow arches Evariste’s brows, but when she stomps her back leg, concern takes over. Fifteen minutes, Papi says, you wait fifteen minutes to see if the heifer makes any progress. If the calf does not come further out within fifteen minutes, go ahead and get to helping it along.

Waiting tests Evariste; being still, especially in the mornings, challenges her. A nosy fly buzzes near her ear; she swats it away and spies a pile of dung; she scoops it up with her hand and drops it into the bag hanging on the fence. Mamree will use it for her Imigonga. There are three small ones by the hut that were left there to dry, and should be ready for painting. Would Gaeton like one? It might make a special gift for St. Valentine’s Day. The dung on her hands smells like rotten eggs; Evariste tells Charlotte, “Push that calf out by the time I get back over here now,” and hurries across the field. She pushes her hands into the white bucket with the muddied water, rubbing her palms together. The water is grimy but cool. It’s fresh water day; she can’t wait around for this calf long. The warm pink of the sunrise looks golden now as more of the Sun’s rays streak across the horizon. The mist nearly cleared, colors seem more vibrant now. A glance toward the hut tells her Ema’ma and Mamree are up; Mamree’s walking with a milk bucket to the pasture.

“Mwaramutse, Mamree.”

“Mwaramutse. How’s Charlotte?”

Ten-year-old Mamree would rather swing from the highest branch of a banana tree than do chores. Turning things into a risky adventure keeps her happy and everyone else holding their breath.

Evariste says, “I’m going to check now. Probably going to need some help. Going to milk?”

“Yes. I bet it’s a boy. Ema’ma says we have to get back with the water before sundown.”

“I know, I know. Also, I bet it’s a girl.”

Mamree goes to the left to milk; Evariste walks to the right to check on Charlotte. The calf still seems in the same place; Charlotte bellows. “Okay, okay,” Evariste grabs the old rope, cautiously moves forward. Charlotte takes a step away, but Evariste still gets close enough to throw the rope over the calf’s pastern. When the heifer pushes, the girl pulls; working in tandem, soon, more of the new calf is seen. When it drops finally to the ground, lying in a pile of knobbly knees and fluid, Evariste is the first to touch it. She swipes the muscus away, then pushes Charlotte, turning her so she can see her newest daughter.

For a moment, Evariste stands watching the mother prod her new calf, lick her clean. The world, now brighter and clearer than when she first rose, waits for her. She has until Mamree finishes milking to watch after new life, and to feel proud for helping. When, long minutes later, the calf tries to stand, falls, and tries again, Evariste laughs. It takes the calf four tries to get upright, and to stay up. She wobbles around, searching for Charlotte, and begins to nurse.

“Ready to go?” Mamree asks, then shakes her head. “That old girl needs to have a son.”

Charlotte births only daughters; Papi thinks she’s cursed. Evariste thinks she’s magical.

*** ***

The water source is the springs. The springs are near the swamps; nearly an hour’s walk there, and an hour’s walk back. When they start out, the sun is still early in the sky. Golden streams blend with the fading pink. The air is balmy and cool, but the comfortable sixty degrees will soon rise. The sandy dirt road attracts the ocassional fly that they swat away. Mamree finds curiosities everywhere: a sturdy branch lying on the side of the road becomes a magic wand to ward off evil spirits, a particularly large and smooth stone becomes the inspiration for a painting project, an overripe banana fallen no doubt from the basket of someone traveling to the market becomes an early snack.

“Evariste, Mamree, mwaramutse.” The deep voice from the gangly sixteen-year-old boy with the big Adam’s apple doesn’t surprise either of the girls. Brothers Shema and Ntwali are their closest neighbors. Papi treats the Hutu cautiously, but Ema’ma and the girls are fond of them.

“Going for water?” Shema asks, his skin darker than the girls’, his build stockier.

“Yes. You?” Mamree queries, swatting at her bald head. Evariste keeps her curls short and on top of her head; Ema’ma shaves Mamree’s. She’s very stubborn, Ema’ma explains, She don’t need no distraction yet. Shema, the same age as Mamree, alternately teases and praises her for her lack of hair.

“Yes.”

“I’m going to market, but I can walk with you some,” Ntwali offers.

“Let’s race!” Mamree suggests. Ntwali dramatically skids to a stop, taking a stick and drawing a line across the dirt road. “This is the starting line. The top of the next hill is the finish. One, two, three – go!” The four take off, the boys starting out in the lead. Mamree is young, but fast, though, and she hates losing. She quickly catches up to Shema. Evariste runs on her toes, alternately trailing behind and overtaking Shema. Ntwali breaches the top of the hill first, pumping a fist in the air. “Ntwali, the hero!” He proclaims. He likes to remind people what his name means.

“I’m the real hero because it was my idea.” Mamree insists.

“Your name means rebellious,” Ntwali counters. Shema and Evariste laugh because it’s true.

“Mine means ‘well-pleasing,'” Evariste remembers and places her palms under her cheeks as if she’s modeling. Shema rolls his eyes. “Is that what Gaeton tells you?”

Mamree nudges her sister, laughing at the blush stealing across Evariste’s face. She spies one of her mother’s friends walking ahead, and calls out to her, running ahead. Mamree admonishes Shema, “You embarrassed her,” as they run to catch up. The woman carries a woven basket on her head; Ntwali offers to carry it for her. When she thanks him, he says, “Hero; see, I am a hero,” and Mutesi tells him he should dance then in the Intore, the Heroes Dance. As the night’s chill gives way, Shema wishes for water to drink.

“It’s hard to find these days, I don’t know how long this shortage is going to last,” Mutesi says, moving her hands. “My sister, she’s going into labor any day now, and we have to make multiple trips to the springs for water to have on hand for that.”

Tucked into the hillside, surrounded by thick grasses, we see yellow cloth strung up between two poles. He sells the best stew at the small restaurant there, but it’s only for special ocassions. Shema continues walking with the group, but Ntwali and Mutesi break away, turning down the path towards the market. The young water gatherers coninue on, passing a potato field and a cow pasture. A cyclist passes them carrying a basket of green bananas, also on the way to the market to sell. Mamree yells she wants one, and the boy tosses her a small treat.

“Murakoze cyane!” Mamree thanks him, stripping the banana from its peel.

Soon after passing the potato field, Evariste’s eyes spy the large eucalyptus tree standing proudly in the middle of a grassy plain. Her dusty fingers steal into the pocket of her faded dress and wrap around the small piece of wood carved into the shape of a heart. “There”, Gaeton said, his midnight black eyes serious, but a small smile playing on his well-defined lips. His heart shaped lips, “No matter where you go, you can remember now that you have my heart.” Under the shade of that eucalyptus tree, Evariste tasted her first kiss.

“The springs aren’t far now,” Mamree says, and pulls her sister from Gaeton’s memory. Does he have water?

The dirt road changes to damp; mud slips between her toes. They are getting closer to the springs, and more friends and neighbors join them on the walk. There’s a crowd around the springs when they arrive; mostly women and girls take turns filling dairy cans. Mamree and Evariste chat with others as they wait, petting one of the village’s many dogs. Once they fill their cans, the girls sit in the grass, make up stories about Imana and the feared Ryangombe. Others hear, and join in, until the stories take on a life of their own, becoming more and more implausible until laughter spoils the fearsome stories. Evariste mentions they should head back so they return in time to finish chores; before Mamree protests as expected, they hear shouting from near the springs. Two men stand nose to nose shouting; others start to gather round, anticipating the coming fight.

Mamree leaps up to join, but Evariste grips her arm. “Time to go,” she says. At fourteen, Evariste knows not to encourage or interfere with fights, especially ones that are between a Hutu and a Tutsi. Gaeton. His name wafts through her thoughts at the word Hutu. Now is not the time, she sternly reminds herself. Now is the time to get her sister back home.

By the time they crest the top of the last hill, the Sun is center stage; its heat bearing down on them. Mamree wraps a scarf around her head to protect the bare skin; Evariste carries her full dairy can on her head. Beads of sweat stroke both their faces. On the return walk, they see people congregating in chairs outside small homes that, like their own, are made out of mud and water. Sitting outside is cooler than being in the unpowered huts. They wave; the girls say hello. It is lunchtime when their thatched roof, mud brick hut comes into view. Mamree runs on ahead; Evariste’s eyes roam the field. There-now in the West end of the pasture-stands Charlotte and her calf.

Evariste smiles.