She stood engrossed by the closed classroom door while her fingers clutched a pile of books. Immaculee, the Rwandan college girl’s pencil skirt and tight-fit blouse gave her the looks of a mature woman rather than an adolescent.
It was not a usual sight at the Kibeho College of Arts in southern Rwanda when the college was closed for the 1991 Christmas holidays. In the past couple of years, a college girl had passed through the school but none that Fabrice could remember had stood alone on a deserted hallway, early on a Friday morning. But then again, he had been gone from the college campus for a while and things might have changed.
He glanced up and down the recognizable corridor with the same classroom doors that he had known for the past five years. Nothing had changed though. The recognition both bothered and appeased him. He looked again, gaping, attempting to find other students.
Not a single one.
In his mid-thirties, he was no longer used to anomalies after a short stint in his home town of Ruhengeri where a student standing alone on a school hallway during Christmas holidays would be a surprise. But in Kibeho it was usual. The college girl stood still like a deity. As he was totally charmed, his intense desire to know her heightened. That was where he ought to have ended it. But he did not. He moved closer to the girl in a couple of quick strides, with the heat of the air permeating his sweater. He kicked himself mentally for not having dressed casually.
“Are you looking for the library?” Fabrice stretched out his arm showing the way. “It’s next to the assembly hall.”
Fabrice was at home with bug-eyed responses from college girls, usually followed by a flirtatious sly smile.
“I know. I’m a student in this college. Aren’t you a teacher?”
“Ah! So, you’re no stranger.”
“Thanks for the direction anyway,” she said, looking doubtful of what next to do or say.
“What’s your name?” He beamed, agreeing that the girl’s glowing gaze hit him like a ton of bricks.
“My name’s Immaculee.”
“Immaculee, hmmm . . . Call me Fabrice.”
“Mr. Habimana,” she said.
“Fabrice,” he insisted, “Do you live in this area?”
“Yes, across the road. I live with my mother, Severine.”
“I live in the adjoining neighbourhood next to yours. Can I invite you for some snacks?”
She hesitated briefly and gave him a positive nod.
***
The next day, dressed in turtle green miniskirt with a rainbow-coloured blouse, Immaculee met Fabrice at Chez mama Razaro restaurant. He wore a simple yellow T-shirt and white pants. After having some snacks and drinks, he asked her to accompany him to a friend’s home. He claimed his friend, Laurent, should have brought a gift he had for her. However, he wasn’t sure why he didn’t do so.
Once at Laurent’s, she glanced uneasily at him.
“Relax, my dear, you look so lovely,” he said.
She thawed at his compliments.
“Are you married?”
“I’m separated,” he replied licking his lips.
Fabrice couldn’t wait any longer. He started to caress Immaculee.
“No! Stop it!” she cried, as her heart fluttered with fear. The spark died out of her eyes.
Fabrice couldn’t resist his feelings as Immaculee kept fighting back. He could feel the sweat dripping from his armpits, and in a short while, his T-shirt became sodden and clogged against his back. In less than ten minutes, he had sown the seed of disruption. He put on a penitent smile, and both of them felt as if they had just finished triathlons in a row. She tried to check her sobs and began to dress up. They left Laurent’s home, shuffling homewards in different directions.
***
Several weeks later, Immaculee was in an early morning deep sleep, fully clothed, when Severine woke her up. She reacted sluggishly, looking worn out.
“Are you alright?” Severine asked.
Immaculee just shrugged.
“Is something the matter?”
She shook her head and began to hiccup.
At age forty-five, Severine, of average height, was almost a complete replica of her daughter. Her hair, done in an afro-cut was as black as an Egyptian night.
Severine sat down on the bed, drew Immaculee to her. In her arms she began to sob.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” she said, trying to comfort her.
As if in response to her mother, Immaculee grabbed the bed sheet and vomited onto it. She felt breathless, like someone having a hangover, a mild headache. She was sweating excessively, feeling too hot. She made an attempt to stand up but her knees were weak. Panic-stricken,
Severine guided her daughter to the bathroom where an attempt to brush her teeth brought more vomit.
“I hope it’s not what I’m suspecting,” said Severine.
“Mama, I’m sick.”
“Dress up and let’s go see Dr. Munyaneza.”
***
Dr. Munyaneza was a cheerful man in his sixties. Sturdy of bone, heavy of feature, many considered him as the most well-known gynecologist in Rwanda. Others saw him as the devilish chief of abortion. He preferred speaking Kinyarwanda rather than French or English. Dr. Munyaneza was always fuming over the colonization of Rwanda. He thought the German and Belgian colonialists did more harm than good. Dr. Munyaneza wasted no time in performing a pregnancy test on Immaculee. The result showed positive.
“Impossible!” Severine cried out, placing her arms on her head. She jumped around the consulting room wailing and stamping her feet on the floor as tears ran down her cheek. Once she regained her composure, Severine turned toward Dr. Munyaneza.
“Doctor, this pregnancy must be aborted!”
The doctor gave her a stern look.
“Go and think about it and give me a call later,” he said.
Severine started to protest but the doctor dismissed her.
Once they returned home, she breathed fire and brimstone on her daughter. She asked her to spill the beans.
“Who’s the two-left-footed monster that did this to you?”
The words were lost on Immaculee’s ears. She stood absent-minded unable to reply until her mother shouted at her.
“Immaculee!”
“Yes, mama,” she said, trembling like someone with high fever.
“I’m asking you. Who’s he?”
Without any further hesitation, she replied, “Mr. Habimana.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s one of our teachers at the college.”
“A teacher?”
Mother and daughter embraced each other and wept. They wept and wept until their eyes were swollen like river Akanyaru about to burst its banks. Severine looked at her daughter closely. Her eyes glinted resentfully.
“Do you realize that you’re a Kibeho College of Arts student and not one from those riff-raff colleges?”
Immaculee nodded speechlessly.
“Do you know how many francs I spend on your schooling as a single mother?”
“Mama, I do.”
“Immaculee, my only child, are we living in a slum?”
“No, Mama, we’re not.”
“Am I not feeding and clothing you?”
“Yes, Mama, you’re.”
“Do you want to become a prostitute in Kigali’s Bannyahe-Kangondo slum?”
“No, Mama, I don’t want to.”
Unable to contain her frustration any longer, Immaculee’s distraught mother approached the college authorities to report Fabrice Habimana’s sordid sexual relationship with Immaculee. Fabrice was summoned by Mr. Mugisha, the college’s principal. He didn’t honour the summon but instead flee to his home town of Ruhengeri. The news about Fabrice Habimana and the college girl spread like wild fire among teachers and students.
***
It was not long before the police got information about Fabrice Habimana’s attempt to find employment in his hideout. On that fateful morning, it rained buckets when they came for him. He felt a burst of hot air that smelled like wet soil and mulch as they seized him by the collar of his threadbare shirt and flung him into the police van. A forest of eager eyes followed him as people watched. During the hearing at which the case was set for trial Judge Nsengiyumva, a fierce-looking man, addressed Severine and Immaculee, who were dressed like nuns.
“All we’re looking for here is the truth. Immaculee, did Fabrice defile you or not?”
“Your honour, I’m not sure but he…”
Severine couldn’t believe her ears.
“Miss, it’s either yes or no for an answer,” Judge Nsengiyumva interrupted.
Immaculee gave Fabrice a quick glance and felt pity and love for him.
“No, he didn’t,” she said.
“Yes, he did!” Severine shouted.
The judge dismissed Severine and turned to Fabrice.
“What do you have to say with reference to the allegation made against you?”
Fabrice Habimana, who had grown a beard in detention, bowed his head in resignation. He looked as haggard as a hopeless beggar.
“I didn’t commit such a crime,” he said.
Judge Nsengiyumva shook his head and concluded.
“This case is baseless, especially in consideration of the plaintiff’s dissenting remark, and the insufficient evidence. Hence, it prevents the court, jury inclusive, from convicting the defendant of the alleged crime.”
In the months that followed, Immaculee gave birth to a baby girl and later completed her college education.
—
Bakar Mansaray is a Canadian author of Sierra Leonean descent. He was the recipient of Writer-of-the-Year 2017, Afro-Canadian Heroes Award. Mansaray is the author of books of short stories, an autobiography, a book of historical non-fiction, and a novel. His debut book, A Suitcase Full of Dried Fish and Other Stories was translated into Kiswahili. He is the founder of the Mandingo Scrolls series and he holds an MBA degree from Athabasca University. He lives in Ottawa, Canada.
Read – Nyambeche’s Country – A Short Story by Wafula Meshack – Kenya
