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Two months ago she tried a new tactic and invited Blais to bring
his wife, Amina, and their new toddler daughter by for tea and cake. The ‘care’ package from her mother had managed
to survive the vagaries of the U.S.
and African postal systems, arriving all the way from Connecticut in tact. From
the cake mix and the canned frosting she concocted a Devil’s Food affair of two layers and thick dark chocolate icing.
It had turned out well in spite of the humidity and the precariously small oven which ran on bottled gas. Madame Blais remained
frozen when Adrian ceremoniously
presented the cake.Thankfully, the baby’s large, black saucer eyes widened in anticipation. The conversation went on
painfully. Blais interpreted for his wife. ‘Oui, Madam
liked her new town, her new house.’ ‘Oui, Madam,’
who was no more than 17 ,’had come down from Mali as
a new bride two years ago. Oui, she came from Blais’
very same village. She might go back for a visit when the rains stopped, in a month or so. It would take four days each way
by bush taxi and autobus. In spite of the tortured pace, Madame Blais and the baby got through most of the cake, the mother
attending to every crumb and drool with a hand rag.
Blais never once mentioned the visit, nor the special cake, nor the book of brightly
colored African animals she had given the baby. Now in the early morning with the rain thudding above them, he hovered over
her, spooning out another dab of instant coffee, pouring more hot water from the aluminum kettle.
Pulling on her rubber muck boots, she told him not to bother
with lunch for she had to go to Duekue village and wouldn’t be back until after 6. “Please, nothing for the evening
either,” she instructed as firmly as she could manage, knowing whatever she said, he would leave a whole roast chicken
or something else elaborate in the fridge. She had gained 2 whole kilos in 12 months, much too much. Cooking for herself would
have meant salads and canned tuna, not all this meat and starch he persisted in putting before her.

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