Though I’m a girl, Papa says that the crucifix will be mine when he dies, because I’m the firstborn of the family. I will carry it till I give it to my child. Some people laugh at Papa for saying that it’ll come to me, a girl. Others shrug and agree with Papa, because he went to university and works in a government ministry. Sometimes when Tonton André and his wife, Tantine Annette, visit us, they praise Papa for this decision. Tantine Annette is pregnant, and I know that they would do the same if God gave them a girl first.
Without his ID, you’d never know that Tonton André is Papa’s brother. He’s a cross between Papa and Maman—as tall as Maman but not quite as dark as Papa. He’s got a tiny beard. Tantine Annette is Maman’s best friend. Though she’s Tutsi, like Maman, she’s as dark as Papa. Sometimes on the road, the police ask for her ID, to be sure of her roots. These days, my parents tease her that she’ll give birth to six babies, because her stomach is very big. Each time she becomes pregnant, she miscarries, and everybody knows that it’s the Wizard’s spell. But the couple have been strong in their faith. Sometimes they kiss in public, like Belgians do on TV, and our people don’t like this very much. But they don’t care. Tonton André takes her to a good hospital in Kigali for checkups, and Papa and our other relatives contribute money to help them, because both of them are only poor primary school teachers. The Wizard offered to give his money too, but we don’t allow him to. If he gave even one franc, his bad money would swallow all the good contributions like the sickly, hungry cows in Pharaoh’s dream.
Maman stands up suddenly. “Monique, remember to lock the door behind me! Your papa will be back soon.” I hear her going into the kitchen. She opens the back door and stops for a moment. Then the door slams. She’s gone.
I LIGHT THE CANDLE again and go into the kitchen and lock the door. We eat rice and fish and return to our room. I dress Jean in his flannel pajamas and sing him to sleep. I change into my nightie and lie down beside him.
In a dream, I hear Tonton André’s voice. He sounds as anxious as he did yesterday afternoon, when he came to call Papa away. “Shenge, Shenge, you must open the door for me!” Tonton André shouts.
“Wait, I’m coming,” I try to tell him, but in my dream I have no voice, and my legs have melted like butter in the sun. There’s a lot of commotion and gunshots that sound like bombs.
“Come to the front door, quick!” he shouts again.
I wake up. Tonton André is actually yelling outside our house.
I go into the parlor and turn on the fluorescent lights. My eyes hurt. People are banging on our front door. I see the blades of machetes and axes stabbing through the door, making holes in the plywood. Two windows are smashed, and rifle butts and udufuni are poking in. I don’t know what’s going on. The attackers can’t get in through the windows with their guns and small hoes, because the windows are covered with metal bars. Afraid, I squat on the floor, with my hands covering my head, until the people outside stop and pull back.
I hear Tonton André’s voice again, but this time it’s calm and deep, as usual, and everything is quiet outside.
“Poor, sweet thing, don’t be afraid,” he says, now laughing confidently, like Jean. “They’re gone. Your papa is here with me.”
I pick my way through the broken glass and open the door. But Tonton André comes in with a group. Men and women, all armed.
“Where’s Maman?” he asks me.
“Maman went out.”
He looks like a madman. His hair is rough, as if he had not combed it for a year. His green shirt is unbuttoned and he’s without shoes.
“Yagiye hehe?” someone from the mob asks, disappointed. “Where’s she gone?”
“She didn’t say,” I answer.
“Have you seen your papa this evening?” Tonton André asks.
“Oya.”
“No? I’ll kill you,” he says, his face swollen with seriousness.
I scan the mob. “You told me Papa was with you. . . . Papa! Papa!”
“The coward has escaped,” someone in the crowd says.
“Nta butungane burimo!” others shout. “Unfair!”
They look victorious, like soccer champions. I know some of them. Our church usher, Monsieur Paschal, is humming and chanting and wears a bandanna. Mademoiselle Angeline, my teacher’s daughter, is dancing to the chants, as if to reggae beats. She gives a thumbs-up to Monsieur François, who is the preacher at the nearby Adventist church.
Some of them brandish their IDs, as if they were conducting a census. Others are now searching our home. Sniffing around like dogs, they’ve traced Maman’s Amour Bruxelles to Jean and are bothering him, so he begins to cry. I run to our room and carry him back to the parlor. I can hear them all over the place, overturning beds and breaking down closets.
Suddenly, I see the Wizard by the altar. He turns and winks at me. Then he swings his stick at the crucifix, once, twice, and Christ’s body breaks from the cross, crashing to the floor. Limbless, it rolls to my feet. Only bits of his hands and legs are still hanging on the cross, hollow and jagged. The cross has fallen off the altar too. The Wizard smiles at me, enjoying my frustration. When he’s distracted for a moment, I grab Jesus’s broken body and hide it under Jean’s pajama top. I sit down on the sofa and put Jean on my lap. The Wizard now searches excitedly for the body of Jesus. He is like an overgrown kid looking for a toy.
He turns to me. “Shenge, do you have it?”
I look away. “No.”
“Look at me, girl.”
“I don’t have it.”
I hold on tighter to Jean.
The Wizard switches off the lights. Jean bursts into laughter, because now his stomach glows like Jesus. The Wizard turns the lights on again and comes toward us, smiling a bad smile. Jean is not afraid of the old man. When the Wizard reaches for Jesus, Jean fights him, bending almost double to protect his treasure. The Wizard is laughing, but Jean bites the man’s fingers with his eight teeth. I wish he had iron teeth and could bite off the Wizard’s whole hand, because it’s not funny. But the old man teases us, dangling his tongue and making stupid faces. When he laughs, you can see his gums and all the pits left by his missing teeth. Now wheezing from too much laughter, he snatches Christ’s body from Jean and puts it in his pagan pocket.
Tonton André is bitter and restless. Since I told him that my parents have gone out, he hasn’t spoken to me. I’m angry at him too, because he lied to get in, and now the Wizard has destroyed my crucifix and stolen Christ’s body.
When I hear noises in my parents’ room, I run in there with Jean, because my parents never allow visitors in their bedroom. There are two men rummaging through their closet. One man is bald and wearing stained yellow trousers, the bottoms rolled up—no shirt, no shoes. He has a few strands of hair on his chest, and his belly is huge and firm. The other man is young, secondary-school age. His hair and beard are very neat, as if he had just come from the barber. He’s bug-eyed and tall and is wearing jean overalls, a T-shirt, and dirty blue tennis shoes.