A Seal Upon Your Heart

A SEAL UPON YOUR HEART

Pepper Pace

Copyright
© 2013 by Pepper Pace. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of Pepper Pace. For information regarding permission contact;
[email protected]

ISBN-13:978-1482050578

ISBN-10:1482050579

Dedication

My good friend JG inspired this story and has become my unwitting muse.
He is also the developmental editor—meaning, any grammatical or spelling mistakes made are completely my own.

Acknowledgments

I
would like to acknowledge the contribution of my talented friend, Benroe, who rescued me with his contribution of three beautiful poems after discovering that I had spent six hours trying to write one mediocre one. Whoever said that a novelist can transition into a poet?

There are others that have rescued me when I was in need. JoAnne Henry is a long time reader on my blog and when I needed a title for this story, her college thesis title inspired my own.

Several years ago 800, 000 people were savagely murdered over a three month period of time. That number and the brutality suffered by the victims of the Rwanda genocide astounds me. I cannot begin to express my horror over the events surrounding that period in our recent history. While this story is a fictionalized account of one young survivors experience it is in no way meant to trivialize, romanticize or exploit those events.

This is, by far the most
difficult story that I’ve ever written; genocide, religion, sex, death, love…and a man and woman’s journey to self. It has turned out to be that for me as well; a journey of self-discovery. For that reason A Seal Upon Your Heart is the most rewarding story that I’ve ever written.

-Pepper Pace

January 16, 2013

I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.

John 16:33

CHAPTER 1

They help you. They keep the rebels from raping and murdering you. They make sure your belly is full and there is a warm place
to sleep. They teach you about God. And they tell you that your name is Jane and to forget that your dead mother and father had named you Martier Nufaika Besigye.

“Your father was imprisoned for crimes against humanity. That is not a last name that you should carry with you. And Martier sounds like a boy’s name. Jane. Do you like that name? You will be Jane Nufaika.”

They teach you everything that is important…except how to understand the world around you.

“I thought you might want to become an aspirant.” Sister Louise removed her small glasses and rubbed them with a worn tissue that lay crumpled on her desk. “There are many of us here that are willing to mentor you, Jane. When you went to school and studied theology…well,” the older woman smiled to herself, “I had hopes that you would join the sisterhood.”

Sister Louise seemed to forget that in order for the school to pay for your college education, you had to pursue some course or training in one of their prescribed curriculum. Well she didn’t want to be a nurse or secretary or even a bookkeeper. She had studied theology along with literature, and history as a means to understand the world around her. Theology was thrown in just so that Bartholoma would willingly pay for her further education.

But to become a nun…that was out of the question.

“Sister, I don’t believe I have the calling.”

“And you’ve prayed on it?”

No. “Yes, Sister.”

There was a short sigh. “Jane, I don’t want to see you leave. But you’ve graduated and received your degree…and you’re over eighteen, dear. This is a school for girls not women.”

She nodded quickly, feeling panic rise in her. “I understand Sister Louise…but I was hoping to be able to stay long enough to find a job…” Because the facts had been laid out before her; you either become a nun and stay or you go out into the world and good luck, goodbye and good riddance. She felt ashamed for her thoughts. The sisters had been good to her. They had prevented her from being raped, murdered, had provided her with food, a place to sleep, an education; and they had told her of this often enough.

Sister Louise had a Rolodex on her desk and she rifled through it once she’d replaced the glasses on the bridge of her nose. “Now that is something that I may be able to help you with.” She withdrew a card and examined it. “Tim Singleton, attorney at law. Mr. and Mrs. Singleton are one of our biggest supporters, even if it is just for the tax write-off,” the last she said mostly to herself.

Jane found that funny. Maybe Mr. Tim Singleton and his wife were humanitarians. There was no shortage of those among whites. They would say,
‘Oh my goodness. You survived genocide. You survived the refugee camp. Are you Tutsi or Hutu? Oh it doesn’t matter…it’s all the same in the end.’

She had been six years old; old enough to have memories—but there was only an empty hole there now. Still, she knew that they were wrong; it did matter. My name is Martier Nufaika Besigye. I am a child of Africa. I used to run in the sun with my brother and sisters-

“Jane?”

Her eyes moved back to Sister Louise who had the phone covered. “Mr. Singleton said that you can begin on Monday. Is that good?”

“What?”

Sister Louise sighed in practiced restraint. It was a sound that she was familiar with. “Jane, the job? Remember?”

“Yes.” She nodded quickly, feeling ashamed that she’d allowed herself to travel away from the present. It’s just that she had wanted to find her own job…one that she liked. Of course if she tossed away this opportunity, then Sister Louise would be very displeased and call her ungrateful.

“Yes. Monday is fine. Thank you.” The sister and the man over the phone continued to chat and Jane slipped out of the room, happy to be away from the scrutiny of the one person that she most loved and most despised.

She went back to the small room that she shared with Sister Callista. She had long ago moved out of the dormitory and was no longer considered a student of St Bartholoma International School for Girls. But she willingly helped out with the girls or in the kitchen or wherever else she was needed.

Jane dug into her drawer for the bundle of letters that she kept hidden beneath her bras and panties. It wasn’t that she couldn’t have letters. It’s just that Sister Nicolette and some of the others didn’t approve of Dhakiya. She smiled at the memory of her old friend. Jane used to love listening to her voice; her mutterings is what sometimes lulled her to sleep. It reminded her of home and she had felt an instant kinship to Dhakiya long before she had gained the courage to befriend the older girl.

Everyone said that she was a troublemaker and crazy, but because of this no one dared to mess with her. Jane had been at the school for two years before Dhakiya had joined them. The older girl was nearly eleven and had done something that Jane had never seen anyone else do; she had yelled at a sister. “My name is not Betty! My name is Dhakiya and I’m a child of Africa!”

“You are a child of God, first!” Sister Nicolette spat back angrily.

“You say!” Sister Nicolette smacked her hard and all of the smaller children had become nearly hysterical. But Dhakiya had just glared back. Later sister Nicolette had been reprimanded in front of everyone and was assigned to the older students, never to work with the young ones again. Dhakiya had been given double chores but barely seemed to care.

Later that night, Dhakiya lay in bed muttering while Jane fell asleep to the soothing words that no one else could make out. She was speaking Kinyarwanda and no one but Jane understood it.

“
Mwaramutse
, Jane.” Dhakiya had said one morning. Jane had flinched and looked away. The older girl slipped from her bed and placed her face inches from Jane’s.

“Don’t you dare forget. I am Tutsi and you are Hutu, but here we are just Africans. They took away your name but don’t let them take your history. “
Mwaramutse!”

“
Mwaramutse.”
Jane whispered back.

“And I want you to say that to me each morning, little one; good morning in our own language.” Jane had nodded shyly at the bigger and tougher girl’s words.

Jane pulled the last letter from the envelope. It had been written three years ago. She looked at the address and telephone number, an invitation for her when she left St Bartholoma. Except Jane had never left and now she was 23 and didn’t know how to move forward.

Dhakiya had left on her eighteenth birthday and Jane had never again set eyes on her sister-friend. Even still, they had exchanged letters and the older woman had offered to help her when the time came. And now Jane hoped Dhakiya would help her find a place…just a place. She loved the sisters, but she also hated every second of her life with them.

She slipped the letter into the pocket of her dress and quickly replaced the others. Then she left the large building and walked into town. When she attended the all girl’s college there was a bus that collected her. But she rather enjoyed the long walk into town. It was the only time that she really got to see the world around her. Oh there was television and books. But the sister’s frowned on anything that was not considered educational.