The Cinnamon Tree Read online

  ‘But I’ll be lonely.’

  ‘Of course you won’t. No third wife is ever lonely.’

  The weak, feckless voice raved on. But Yola was seeing Sindu’s meagre possessions again: some cheap beads, seashells – her one visit to the sea probably – and a man’s watch that did not work – Juvimba’s? Suddenly they were scattered on the floor.

  ‘No!’ she exclaimed, jolting as if waking from a dream.

  Father’s face materialised. Had she exclaimed aloud? As if he understood, his voice changed. The ritual chanting was gone and she realised he was speaking in English, slowly and clearly so that Sister Martha and Mr Hans could understand.

  ‘Now we come to your punishment, Yola my daughter, and this is how it must be understood by everyone outside these walls. I have decided that you are to be banished from this compound for striking your mother, Sindu. Do you accept my decision?’

  Yola felt herself swaying on her crutches. Was this it, was she too to be married off? What did banished mean? She searched Father’s face but there was no answer there. Then she stood up as straight as she could and said, ‘Yes, Father.’

  A ripple of movement, like wind in the grass, spread through the people in the room. Yola knew that it wasn’t her place to speak but she had to.

  ‘Father, I am sorry–’ she began, but immediately Father stiffened.

  ‘Quiet girl! Do you think that I have been talking to you for all this time without knowing your mind? Do you think I am a mask that you can look at without it knowing you? You and I have been on a journey together, now we must see if you are capable of learning from it. I have spoken. Now, Sister Martha and Mr Eriksen will tell you about our plans for you.’

  Yola sat in her secret place – not so secret now, but still a place to come. Gabbin came in and sat for a little while, hoping for information, but she wasn’t giving any. She sent him away while she tried to absorb what they had said. Sister Martha had looked like a little grey parrot, while Mr Hans tried to look serious. She went over her sentence again, this time pretending she was on trial in a real court.

  ‘Criminal Yola Abonda, this is your sentence,’ they might have said. ‘You are banished from this compound, banished from the city of Nopani, banished even from Kasemba, your country. You will be taken from here (in chains, perhaps), and despite your protests you will be given some beautiful new clothes. You will then be put on an aeroplane and flown to your place of exile – a small island off the coast of Western Europe.’

  At first, Yola thought that he had said Iceland rather than Ireland. ‘Eskimos?’ she had asked. But Mr Hans explained that even in Iceland she mightn’t see Eskimos. What she would see in Ireland, however, was lots of rain. Sister Martha had been quite indignant and said it was the island of a thousand greens and everyone had laughed.

  ‘Silence! Criminal Yola,’ the judge would have continued, ‘there you will be taken to a place of correction where the leg you so carelessly lost will be replaced and made as good as new. After that you are sentenced to school with extra geography lessons because you don’t know the difference between Iceland and Ireland!’

  Yola would be away for nearly a year. She would spend two or three weeks in hospital while she was given her new leg, and then a whole year at a convent school belonging to Sister Martha’s order.

  She leant back and looked up at the little patch of blue through the leaves above her and felt that she already had wings. She wanted to shout and tell her friends and to laugh and sing, but she wouldn’t. Father had taken her on a journey and trusted her. She decided that, when the time was right, she would give Sindu the remains of her geography book, all that is but one picture – her picture of the Eskimos, that she would probably keep forever.

  Yola began to lead a double life. Inside the compound she was palpably in disgrace. Senior Mother seemed to be everywhere, like a watchful vulture ready to hop in at the slightest sign of trouble. Yola wanted to see Shimima, but she had always been busy when the girl had passed by. Then, a couple of days after her ‘trial’, she heard a voice calling.

  ‘Eheeeh? … Yola Abonda, I hear great things of you!’

  Yola emerged from her hut, where she’d been bruising herself trying to sweep with one hand. Shimima, on her way to the well this time, had placed her great water jar beside the gate. Kasembi is a language meant for calling out, and Shimima had a fine, strong voice.

  ‘Ehee …!’ Yola called in return, but snipped it short; Senior Mother had appeared at the door of Father’s house and was glaring at the unfortunate Shimima. Yola abandoned her sweeping brush and swung her way down towards her friend, anxious to head off trouble and trying to force her face into some semblance of seriousness. She had to pass Senior Mother on the way; bright eyes watched from under hooded lids. Yola prayed that she would be allowed to pass when, in little more than a whisper, Senior Mother spoke.

  ‘I’m glad for you Yola, Shimima is a good girl. Go with her, but keep your laughter till later. Remember, here you are in disgrace.’

  For a second the lowered lids lifted – a suggestion of a smile, but a warning glance as well. Yola knew better than to turn to see if Sindu was watching. She hung her head and allowed her crutches to drag in the dust like the wings of a wounded bird.

  ‘Heyee, Yola? Was she casting a spell on me?’

  ‘No, you are safe for now Shimima, but you will be turned into a toad if you make me laugh,’ said Yola, keeping her head down. ‘I’m in disgrace. Let’s go.’

  Shimima adjusted the ring of cloth on her head and swung the empty pot into place while Yola led the way, still dragging her crutches. They turned a bend in the path and Yola asked, her voice still subdued, ‘Shimima, you turn and look, are we out of sight of home?’

  Shimima turned gracefully under her pot. ‘Yes, but wha … Eyeee, careful Yola!’

  Yola had thrown both crutches away and had both arms around her friend. ‘If we’re out of sight Shimima, I’m free, the spell is broken!’

  But Shimima had both hands up, desperately holding on to her water pot. ‘Yola, I may have two legs, but I have a pot on my head – whatever about your spell the pot must not be broken!’ Yola hopped back while Shimima got control of her pot and rested it gently on the ground. ‘It belonged to my husband’s grandmother. Imagine if I dropped it!’

  ‘Oh, Shimima, I have so much to say. Let’s find somewhere to talk.’

  They found a clearing in the bush a little off the path. Here the two girls talked and talked, sometimes seriously, sometimes laughing with their foreheads pressed together. In the end, Shimima knew all about Yola’s trial, about Mr Hans – how lovely he was – and how Yola was going away, although she did not know how soon. Then Yola listened. She heard about Shimima’s household and about Kimba, her funny husband, and the jokes he played. She thought she would like a funny husband. She imagined Shimima’s house, laughing at the fun and goings-on inside. Shimima also told her secret things about marriage, things that Yola wanted to know.

  Finally, they fell silent.

  ‘I will miss you, Shimima.’

  ‘When you come back you will have two legs again. You will walk down and see us, and if Kimba pulls your leg then it won’t matter.’

  Yola smiled at Shimima and didn’t want to leave. Then Shimima said, ‘Things will go along here, Yola. The sun will shine, I will carry the town’s water supply on my head; a year is not a long time. I will think of you when the rains come again and will start then to look forward to the return of my little friend.’

  6

  The Road to Simbada

  Yola felt she had hardly slept when Mother shook her awake. She sat on the edge of her bed, shivering slightly in the chill air before dawn. It was still pitch dark. A tiny yellow flame wobbled above the oil lamp on the table. She wasn’t at all sure that she wanted to go now. She’d wanted Gabbin to see her off, but Senior Mother said no, no one must know when she was going. Now she was having difficulty getting her shoe on – either her foot ha
d grown since her accident or it had just spread from walking barefoot. Mother helped her, speaking in whispers. A torch flashed in the doorway. Yola couldn’t see who carried it, but recognised Senior Mother by her breathing, a strong inward breath followed by a gentle exhalation; you could tell a lot from Senior Mother’s breathing. She played her torch over Yola, who was standing now, self-consciously, in a borrowed dress that Mother had let down so that it covered her stump. Senior Mother’s hand appeared in the beam of the torch, holding an envelope; Mother took it.

  ‘She is to get nothing that is not necessary, tell that to Mr Eriksen. She needs warm clothes, it will be cold even in summertime in Ireland. What is left will be her pocket money while she is in hospital. At school she will need less.’

  ‘A girl from the office will take her shopping,’ Mother explained.

  Senior Mother sniffed significantly. ‘Girls can be foolish together,’ she said. ‘Nothing unnecessary! Take the torch for the road and go quietly.’ Senior Mother turned to Yola. ‘A great loss, and now a great gain. Grow with it, but do not swell. May your ancestors watch over you.’ She gave Yola a peck on the cheek and was gone.

  Senior Mother had insisted that the Landcruiser was not to come up to the compound. There was to be no excitement; Yola was still in disgrace. Once they were outside the compound, Mother shone the torch on the road; snakes travel at night. It was pitch dark, there was not even a glimmer of light in the east: morning was a good hour off. Yola was sure they were too early but the Landcruiser was there, its headlights off, with just the dim glow of the little light over the windscreen. Hans was sitting in the passenger seat beside the driver, reading some papers. The back seat of the car seemed to be full of Kasemban deminers and the rear was piled high with bags and equipment. Yola wondered where she would sit. At that moment, Hans saw the torch and climbed out to shake hands with Mother.

  ‘Good, Yola, you are on time, let’s go. It is an eight-hour drive to Simbada. Have you ever been to the capital?’ Yola said no. ‘Let’s get going!’ he said.

  Yola’s goodbyes to Mother had to be hasty.

  The first hour of the drive was silent apart from the roar of the engine. They all felt tired after their early start. The Landcruiser threaded its way around the potholes as the road climbed up out of the Ruri river valley. The road had been smashed to bits during the war as both sides fought for possession of the Nopani Bridge and the main road into the neighbouring country, Murabende, to the north. The headlights swung back and forth, illuminating outcrops of red rock at one moment, towering forest trees the next, or pocket-handkerchief plantations of bananas, where the green banana bunches ended in pendulous purple flowers. Morning mist clung low to the few fields that sloped up the valley sides. Yola felt sleepy and curiously content. She was sealed in a metal capsule, the forest out there was dark and mysterious, but sandwiched between Hans and the driver she felt safe and protected. She liked Hans, she liked him very much, she decided.

  She realised she must have nodded off because, next thing, the cab was full of grey light, the forest had sunk back into the valley and they had emerged onto high ground, where the tawny grasses beside the road glowed briefly in the waning headlights. The acacia trees stood, waist high, ghostly in the mist. What happened next came as a complete surprise.

  The car nosed down as the road dipped into a hollow. The driver swore. An impenetrable sea of mist rose outside the windows like muddy water. The driver was braking hard; the car slewed, but did not slow appreciably. Yola was holding her breath.

  ‘Bad place!’ he muttered. ‘They put oil on the road!’

  ‘Who?’ she asked, but he did not answer. He was leaning forward, peering intently through the windscreen. He sucked in his breath. A man loomed out of the mist on the road ahead. Afterwards, Yola would remember him quite clearly. He had a filthy bush-hat pulled down over his face, two bandoleers of ammunition criss-crossed over his chest and in his hands was a sub-machine gun; it was raised towards them. Then something else caught Yola’s eye: there was a log across the road. She shouted, but David, the driver had seen it too.

  ‘Jump, Bandit!’ he yelled, wrenching the wheel not away from the man but directly towards him. Yola saw the man’s astonished face as he jumped clear, the wheels hit the end of the log and for an agonising moment Yola thought the car would turn over into the ditch, but then, screaming like a wounded elephant, it clawed back onto the road and accelerated up the hill and out of the mist. The men, startled into bleary wakefulness, started shouting and laughing and slapping the driver’s back.

  ‘Jump, Bandit, jump!’ the men were shouting.

  Yola looked around at Hans, who was smiling grimly at the excitement. Then one of the men started to sing a popular Kasembi song about a lover who had all sorts of problems with his girl, but he substituted the word ‘bandit’ for ‘lover’. The result was hilarious and Yola joined in, hoping Hans didn’t understand all the words.

  They were clear of the fog pockets now and they stopped because the men wanted to get out. Yola noticed they did not leave the road, but stood at its edge; she turned her back. Hans came up after a little and offered her a bread roll.

  ‘It is safer not to step off the tarmac, there are still landmines along the road edges. If you want to “go”, I’ll make the men look away,’ he said.

  ‘Why mine the edges?’

  ‘In that way you force the enemy to walk on the road, then you can see them coming.’

  ‘But that’s where we, the women, walk – beside the tarmac, otherwise we get run over!’

  ‘Soldiers don’t think of women, just their own skins. They don’t even think of the people they are supposed to be fighting for, just themselves.’

  ‘Like the bandit? He had a gun.’

  ‘Ya ya! Russia, America, Britain, China, they all sold guns to one side or the other. The government here is socialist, so they tried to nationalise your oil and minerals; the Americans and the British didn’t like it. They had interests in these industries so they turned a blind eye when their arms dealers sold guns to the rebels – the Kasemba Liberation Army, the KLA. Then the Russians sold guns to the Kasemba government. But really what they all wanted was African oil and African copper ore, and to sell more guns so that they could make bigger and better guns to sell to the Arabs.’

  ‘But the war is over. The KLA are defeated now, even my Uncle Banda, who was with the KLA, has handed in his Kalashnikov.’

  ‘Ya, Yola my dear, but for how long? Just till someone sells him another one!’

  ‘It’s confusing.’

  ‘It’s criminal!’ Hans snapped, his voice rising. ‘What sickens me is that in some pretty house in America or Russia, the man who made that bandit’s gun will have his morning coffee without a thought that Yola Abonda was nearly killed by one of his guns just now. It just makes me so angry!’

  Yola stared at Hans. She had never before thought of how those faraway places could play a part in her own life. Should she be angry, like Hans?

  ‘Come on, back on board!’

  They were all wide awake now. The sun, which had shone briefly over the mist, now appeared as a glowing ball, sucking the fog up in a sheet. Underneath, the landscape appeared clean and fresh. David, the driver, thrust a tape into the tape deck on the dashboard, and music blared out. Hans yelled into Yola’s ear that the volume button had fallen off so they couldn’t turn it down; Yola didn’t mind. The driver put his foot down and the road began to disappear under them faster and faster in a dizzy stream. Visibility was good now and they seemed to be skimming all but the largest potholes. Hans, seeing that her balance was not good without a second foot to brace herself with, laid his arm at the back of her seat, from time to time he steadied her with a hand on the shoulder; she was glad to have the road ahead to concentrate on. She closed her eyes against the giddy stream of the road. The music was from Zaire; voices rising on a magic carpet of heady rhythms.

  Hans shouted in her ear, ‘I used to think Latin Am
erican music came from America, but it is pure Africa. Just listen to that! When your people were taken away as slaves, they brought their music with them to America and gave rise to a whole new musical culture.’

  Yola turned to tell Hans how it made her want to dance, but at that moment the two-way radio, which was bolted to the dashboard, gave a series of hisses and pops.

  ‘It’s time for a radio check,’ Hans shouted.

  She watched, fascinated, as he leaned forward and took the microphone from the dashboard. David switched off the tape and Hans took up a microphone and started calling.

  ‘One-five bravo calling Simbada. One-five bravo calling Simbada. Come in, please.’

  The radio hissed back at him. He twirled a knob, head cocked to one side, listening. Suddenly the hissing stopped and a voice cut in.

  ‘… avo, do you read me?’

  ‘One-five bravo, receiving you Simbada.’

  ‘Carry on one-five. That’s Hans, isn’t it?’

  ‘Ya, ya, Hans here.’

  Every hour, as they drove, Hans radioed to the NPA head office in Simbada, telling them how far they had got and how they were faring. The bandit was reported so that other cars could be warned.

  Yola couldn’t believe that it was still only midday when they drove down into Simbada. She had never been in Simbada before – the civil war had meant that no one travelled unless it was absolutely necessary, and then only with an escort of soldiers. She was a little disappointed; it was very like Nopani, acres of mud-brick houses with corrugated iron roofs. The roads between the houses were mud roads, but unlike Nopani, heaps of rubbish were piled wherever there was a space. Children crawled over these like maggots.

  ‘Hans,’ she asked in disgust, ‘why is there rubbish everywhere?’

  ‘Because the city councillor who is responsible for clearing the streets is corrupt,’ Hans replied. ‘He has a big Mercedes and a luxury house in the hills. He gives all the street-cleaning contracts to his friends for big bribes. They then buy smaller Mercedes with the money the government gives them, but they don’t do the work.’