Baking Cakes in Kigali Hardback - 2009

Excerpt

1
An Anniversary


In the same way that a bucket of water reduces a cooking fire to ashes–a few splutters of shocked disbelief, a hiss of anger, and then a chill all the more penetrating for having so abruptly supplanted intense heat–in just that way, the photograph that she now surveyed extinguished all her excitement.

“Exactly like this?” she asked her guest, trying to keep any hint of regret or condemnation out of her voice.

“Exactly like that,” came the reply, and the damp chill of disappointment seeped into her heart.


Angel had dressed smartly for the occasion, in a state of great anticipation of the benefits that it might bring. Completing her ensemble by pushing a pair of small gold hoops through her earlobes, she had stepped out of her bedroom and into the living room, scanning the room again to check that it was ready for her special guest. The children’s clutter had all been put away in their bedroom, and the tiled floor had been scrubbed to a shine. The wooden frames of the three-seater sofa and its two matching chairs had been polished, and each of their cushions–encased in a sturdy fabric patterned in brown and orange–had been plumped to the full extent capable of a square of foam rubber. On the coffee table she had placed a gleaming white plate of chocolate cupcakes, each iced in one of four colours: blue, green, black and yellow.

Then the shout had come through the open doorway that led off the living room on to the small balcony: the signal that she had been waiting for from her neighbour, Amina, who had been standing on the balcony directly above her own, on the look-out for the expensive vehicle making its way up the hill towards their compound.

With a renewed surge of excitement, she had slipped back into the bedroom and, concealing herself behind the curtain to the left of the window, she had watched through the ill-fitting louvers as the smart black Range Rover with its tinted windows had turned right on to the dirt road and pulled up outside the first of the building’s two entrances. A smartly-uniformed chauffeur had stepped out from behind the wheel and, holding the passenger door open, had called to the two security guards lounging beneath a shady mimosa tree on the other side of the road. The taller of the two had shouted a reply and had stood up slowly, dusting the red earth from his trousers.

Mrs Margaret Wanyika had emerged from the vehicle looking every inch the wife of an ambassador: elegant and well-groomed, her tall, thin body sporting a Western-style navy-blue suit with a knee-length skirt and a silky white blouse, her straightened hair caressing the back of her head in a perfect chignon. As she had stood beside the vehicle talking into her cell-phone, her eyes had swept over the building in front of her.

Angel had ducked away from the window and moved back into the living room, imagining, as she did so, the view that her visitor was taking in. The block of apartments, on the corner of a tarred road and a dirt road in one of the city’s more affluent areas, was something of a landmark, its four storeys dominating the neighbourhood of large houses and high-walled gardens, where drivers hooted outside fortified gates for servants to open up and admit their expensive vehicles. People knew that it was a brand-new building only because it had not been there at all a year before: it had been constructed in the fashionable style that suggests–without any need of time or wear–the verge of decay and collapse.

With mounting excitement, Angel had awaited the security guard’s familiar knock at the door of her apartment, and when it had come, she had opened the door, beaming with delight and effusively declaring it a very great honour indeed to welcome such an important guest into her home.

But now, sitting in her living room and staring at the photograph that she held in her hand, all of her excitement fizzled suddenly, and died.

“As you know, Angel,” the Ambassador’s wife was saying, “it’s traditional to celebrate a silver wedding anniversary with a cake just like the original wedding cake. Amos and I feel it’s so important to follow our traditions, especially when we’re away from home.”

“That is true, Mrs Ambassador,” agreed Angel, who was herself away from home. But as she examined the photograph, she was doubtful of the couple’s claim to the traditions that they had embraced when choosing this cake twenty-five years ago. It was not like any traditional wedding cake she had seen in her home town of Bukoba in the west of Tanzania or in Dar es Salaam in the east. No, this cake was traditional to Wazungu–white people. It was completely white: white with white patterns decorating the white. Small white flowers with white leaves encircled the outer edges of the upper surface, and three white pillars on top of the cake held aloft another white cake that was a smaller replica of the one below. It was, quite simply, the most unattractive cake that she had ever seen. Of course, Mr and Mrs Wanyika had married at a time when the style of Wazungu was still thought to be fashionable–prestigious, even. But by now, in the year 2000, surely everybody had come to recognise that Wazungu were not the authorities on style and taste that they were once thought to be? Perhaps if she showed Mrs Wanyika the pictures of the wedding cakes that she had made for other people, she would be able to convince the Ambassador’s wife of the beauty that colours could bring to a cake.

Setting down the photograph, Angel removed her spectacles and, delving into the neckline of her smart blouse to retrieve one of the tissues that she kept tucked into her brassiere, began to give the lenses a good polish. It was something that she found herself doing without thinking whenever she felt that someone could benefit from looking at things a little more clearly.

“Mrs Ambassador, no words can describe the beauty of this cake . . .” she began.

“Yes, indeed!” declared the Ambassador’s wife, leaving no space for what Angel was going to say next. “And at the party, right next to our anniversary cake, we’re going to have a big photo of me and Amos cutting our wedding cake twenty-five years ago. So it’s very important for the two cakes to be exactly identical.”

Angel put her glasses back on. There was clearly nothing to be gained from helping Mrs Wanyika to see that her wedding cake had been ugly and plain.

“Don’t worry, Mrs Ambassador, I’ll make your anniversary cake exactly the same,” she said, smiling widely to disguise the sigh of regret that she could not entirely prevent from escaping. “It will be just as beautiful as your wedding cake.”

Mrs Wanyika clapped her meticulously-manicured hands together in glee. “I knew I could depend on a fellow Tanzanian, Angel! People in Kigali speak very highly of your baking.”

“Thank you, Mrs Ambassador. Now, perhaps I could ask you to start filling in an order form while I put milk on the stove for another cup of tea?”

She handed her guest a sheet headed “Cake Order Form” that her friend Sophie had designed on her computer, and her husband Pius had photocopied at the university. It asked for details of how to contact the client, the date and time that the cake would be needed, and whether Angel was to deliver it or the client would collect it. There was a large space to write in everything that had been agreed about the design of the cake, and a box for the total price and the deposit. At the bottom of the form was a dotted line where the client was to sign to agree that the balance of the price was to be paid on delivery or collection, and that the deposit was not going to be refunded if the order was cancelled. Angel was very proud that her Cake Order Form spoke four languages–Swahili, English, French and Kinyarwanda–though less proud that, of these, she herself spoke only the first two with any degree of competence.

Their business concluded, the two women sat back to enjoy their tea, made the Tanzanian way with boiled milk and plenty of sugar and cardamom.

“So how is life for you here compared to home?” asked Mrs Wanyika, sipping delicately from one of Angel’s best cups, and continuing to speak English–their country’s second official language–in defiance of Angel’s initial attempts to steer the conversation in Swahili.

“Oh, it’s not too different, Mrs Ambassador, but of course it’s not home. As you know, some of the customs here in Central Africa are a little different from our East African customs, even though Rwanda and Tanzania are neighbours. And of course French is difficult, but at least many people here also know Swahili. And we’re lucky that here in this compound most people know English. Eh, but you’re too thin, Mrs Ambassador, please have another one.”

Angel pushed the plate of cupcakes towards her guest, who had failed to comment on the colours–which were the colours of the Tanzanian flag–and had so far eaten only one: one of those iced in the yellow that, on the flag, represented Tanzania’s mineral wealth.

“No, thank you, Angel. They’re delicious, really, but I’m trying to reduce. Youssou has made a dress for me for the anniversary party and it’s a little bit tight.”

“Eh, that Youssou!” commiserated Angel, shaking her head. She had had a couple of unfortunate experiences of her own with the acclaimed Senegalese tailor of La Couture Universelle d’Afrique in Nyamirambo, the Muslim quarter. “He can copy any dress from any picture in a magazine and his embroidery is very fine, but eh! I think the women back in Senegal must all be thin like a pencil. It doesn’t matter how many times Youssou measures your body, the dress that he makes will always be for a thinner somebody.”

This was a rather sore point for Angel, who used to be a thinner somebody herself. She had never been thin like a pencil, not even as a girl, but in the last couple of years she had begun to expand steadily–particularly in the region of her buttocks and thighs–so that more and more of her clothes felt like they had been fashioned by the miscalculating Youssou. Dr Rejoice had told her that gaining weight was only to be expected in a woman who was experiencing the Change, but this had not made her feel any better about it. Still, running her business in her own home meant that she was able to spend most of her time wearing a loose T-shirt over a skirt fashioned from a kanga tied around her waist–an ensemble that could accommodate any size comfortably.

“And how is life in this compound?” asked the Ambassador’s wife.

“We’re secure here,” said Angel. “And even though all of us in the compound are from outside Rwanda, we’re a good community. Eh! We’re from all over the world! Somalia, England, America, Egypt, Japan–”

“Are they all working at KIST?” Mrs Wanyika interrupted Angel before she could complete the entire atlas of expatriates. The Kigali Institute of Science and Technology–a new university that had recently been established in the capital–was attracting a great number of expatriate academics.

“No, it’s only my husband who is there. KIST doesn’t accommodate the ordinary staff, but Pius is a Special consultant, so his contract says they must give him accommodation. The others here are mostly from aid agencies and non-governmental organisations. You know how it is when a war is over, Mrs Ambassador: dollars begin to fall like rain from the sky and everybody from outside rushes in to collect them.” Angel paused for a moment before adding, “And to help with reconstruction, of course.”

“Of course,” agreed the Ambassador’s wife, shifting rather uncomfortably on the orange and brown cushions of the wooden sofa.

Angel knew that Ambassador Wanyika’s salary would have been boosted dramatically by an additional bonus to compensate him for the dangers and hardships of being stationed in a country so recently torn apart by conflict. She observed Mrs Wanyika casting about for a change of subject, and saw discomfort giving way to relief when her guest’s eyes found the four framed photographs hanging high up on the wall next to the sofa.

“Who are these, Angel?” She stood up to get a better look.

Angel put down her cup and stood to join her. “This is Grace,” she said, indicating the first photograph. “She’s the eldest, from our son Joseph. She has eleven years now. Then these two here are Benedict and Moses, also from Joseph. Moses is the youngest, with just six years.” She moved on to the third photograph while Mrs Wanyika produced well-rehearsed exclamations of admiration. “These are Faith and Daniel. They’re both from our daughter Vinas.” Then Angel touched the fourth and final photograph. “These are Joseph and Vinas,” she said. “Joseph has been late for nearly three years now, and we lost Vinas last year.” She sat down again rather heavily, the wood beneath the cushions of her chair creaking perilously, and knotted her hands in her lap.

“Eh, Angel!” said Mrs Wanyika softly, sitting down and reaching across the coffee table to put a comforting, well-moisturised hand on Angel’s knee. “It’s a terrible thing to bury your own children.”

Angel’s sigh was deep. “Terrible, Mrs Ambassador. And such a shock to lose both. Joseph was shot by robbers at his home in Mwanza . . .”

“Uh-uh-uh!” Mrs Wanyika shut her eyes and shook her head, giving Angel’s knee a squeeze.

“And Vinas . . . ” Angel put her hand on top of her guest’s where it rested on her knee. “Vinas worked herself too hard after her husband left her. It stressed her to the extent that her blood pressure took her.”

“Ooh, that can happen, Angel.” Releasing her grip on Angel’s knee, Mrs Wanyika turned her hand over to meet Angel’s hand palm to palm, and held it tightly. “My own uncle, after he lost his wife, he devoted himself to his business to such an extent that a heart attack took him. Eh! Stress? Uh-uh.” Shaking her head, she clicked her tongue against the back of her neat upper row of glistening teeth.

“Uh-uh,” agreed Angel. “But Pius and I are not alone in such a situation, Mrs Ambassador. It’s how it is for so many grandparents these days. Our children are taken and we’re made parents all over again to our grandchildren.” Angel gave a small shrug. “It can be a bullet. It can be blood pressure. But in most cases it’s the virus.”

Mrs Wanyika let go of Angel’s hand and reached for her tea. “But of course, as Tanzanians,” she said, her tone suddenly official, drained of compassion, “that is a problem that we don’t have.”

Angel’s eyebrows rushed to consult with each other across the bridge of her nose. “I’m sorry, Mrs Ambassador, but you’re confusing me. It sounds to me like you’re saying that we don’t have the virus at home in Tanzania. But everybody knows . . .”

“Angel!” Mrs Wanyika’s voice, now a stern whisper, interrupted. “Let us not let people believe that we have that problem in our country. Please!”

Angel stared hard at her guest. Then she removed her glasses and again polished the lenses with her tissue. “Mrs Ambassador,” she began, “do you think that the virus is in Uganda?”

“In Uganda? Well, yes, of course. Even the government of Uganda has said that it’s there.”

“And in Kenya?” continued Angel. “Do you think that it’s in Kenya?”

“Well, yes, I’ve heard that it’s there.”

“And in Zambia? Malawi? Mozambique?” Angel put her glasses and her tissue down on the coffee table and began counting the countries off on her fingers.

“Yes,” admitted Mrs Wanyika, “it’s in those countries, too.”

“And what about the Democratic Republic of Congo?”

“Oh, it’s very well known that it’s in DRC.”

“And surely you’ve heard that it’s in Burundi, and here in Rwanda?”

“Well, yes . . .”

“Then, Mrs Ambassador, if you know that the virus is in every country that is our neighbour, then there are others who already know that too; it cannot be a secret. And if people know that all of Tanzania’s neighbours have it, why will they think that Tanzania doesn’t have it? Will they think that there’s something special about our borders, that our borders don’t let it in?” Angel stopped, anxious that she had gone too far and that she might have offended her important guest. She put her glasses back on and looked at her. To her relief, Mrs Wanyika appeared more contrite than angry.

“No, you’re right, Angel. It’s only that Amos is always very careful not to admit that we have the problem of that disease in Tanzania. It’s his job.”

“That’s easy to understand,” assured Angel, “and, of course, as the Ambassador’s wife you must do the same, especially when you’re talking to people from outside our country. But we’re both from there, and we both know that it can come to any family there and take away somebody close.”

“Yes, of course. Although . . . not every family,” Mrs Wanyika countered. “Not ours. And not yours, Angel, I’m sure.”

But the Ambassador’s wife was wrong. Had the robber’s bullet not found Joseph’s head when he returned home that night from visiting his wife as she lay dying in Bugando Hospital, Angel would be telling a very different story about his death. Though perhaps not yet: he had been keeping himself fit and healthy, continuing to jog every evening and to play soccer every weekend; he could still–possibly–have been alive today. But Angel recognised that it was best not to say any of this to her guest, who would not be comfortable with the idea and might even feel moved to tear up her Cake Order Form. She decided to move away from the subject.

“You know, Pius and I were careful to have just two children so that we could afford to educate them well. Back in those days, family planning was still very modern. We were pioneers. Our lives should be growing more peaceful now. Pius should be relaxing more as he works the last few years to his retirement, but instead he has to work even harder. Our children should be preparing themselves to take care of us now, but instead we find ourselves taking care of their five children. Five! Grace and Faith are good girls, they’re serious. But the boys? Uh-uh.” Angel shook her head.

“Ooh! Boys? Uh-uh,” agreed Mrs Wanyika, who–Angel knew–had herself raised three sons, and she also shook her head.

“Uh-uh,” said Angel again.

“Ooh, uh-uh-uh. Boys?” Mrs Wanyika concurred.

Both women were silent for a while as they contemplated the problems of boys.

Then Mrs Wanyika said, “God has indeed given you a cross to bear, Angel. But has He not also given you a blessing? Is a child’s laughter not the roof of a house?”

“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 their 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, lighterskinned 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 without 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 bubblewrap 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!

This conviction made her feel emotional, and tears began to well in her eyes. Pulling at the neck of her T-shirt with her left hand, she reached with her right hand for the tissue that was tucked inside her brassiere–next to the deposit for Mrs Wanyika’s cake–and dabbed at her eyes. Then she became aware that her face was beginning to feel extremely hot, and she extended the dabbing to her forehead and cheeks before picking up the card from June and using it as a fan.

Really, this Change business was not dignified at all.

Media reviews

“A colorful debut novel.... Parkin offers a fascinating personal glimpse into a culture unfamiliar to most Americans.”
— Kirkus Reviews

"With a lightness of touch, Gaile Parkin's Baking Cakes in Kigali deftly uncovers the joys (and there are many) and sorrows of the survivors. Fans of Precious Ramotswe from Alexander McCall Smith's No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency will adore this too."
— Daily Mail

"A charming, uplifting work of fiction. It is a story of hope, often told with subtle humour."
— Winnipeg Free Press

"An irresistible story of laughter and hope."
— The Bookseller