Chanda's Wars (5 page)

T
HERE'S A DIM
glow in the sky to the right. The firepits of Tiro. We turn off the highway. A few hundred yards of potholes, a bend in the road, and we come to a place where the brush and grasses have been cleared back. Just ahead, I see the bare lightbulb shining over the front door of the general dealer's.

Mr. Kamwendo's store is exactly like it was when I came for Mama six months ago. The stuccoed walls need patching, the whitewash is faded to near gray, and there's weeds growing in the broken roof tiles. The only difference is, the neon Chibuku sign in the window is dead.

We pull up at the gas tank to the left. I look across the lot at the cluster of people huddled on Coca-Cola crates around Mr. Kamwendo's firepit. Four of them get up to greet us. “That's our Granny Thela, with the black shawl,”
I tell the kids. “And that's our older sister, Lily, carrying our baby cousin Abednego in a sling. The man in the toque running ahead of them is Mr. Kamwendo, the general dealer.”

“And who's he?” asks Iris, pointing at the stranger slouching along at Mr. Kamwendo's heels.

“No idea,” I say. From what I can tell, he's about my age. His face is set in a frown, but he's still pretty handsome. Tall, lean, with a strong jaw and forehead. I wish it was daylight, so I could see more.

Mr. Kamwendo's out of breath by the time he reaches us. His whiskers are whiter than I remember. “Chanda,” he exclaims, “it's good to see you again!” As he helps me off the truck, he whispers in my ear: “You coming means a lot to your granny. She's been talking 'bout nothing else.” Then in a big voice: “And you must be Iris and Soly. I'm Sam Kamwendo.”

He lifts them down. Soly presses behind me, but Iris plays tough. She puffs out her chest like she's queen of the town. All the same, she takes my hand.

“That your stuff?” Mr. Kamwendo says, pointing at our bundles.

“Mm-hmm,” I nod.

Mr. Kamwendo turns to our stranger. “Look lively, Nelson.”

Nelson plants a hand on the truck's floor and springs onto the flatbed. He tosses our things to Mr. Kamwendo without a glance in our direction.

Granny's stopped a few yards away. Lily has a protective arm around her.

“Granny.” I step forward. She barely comes up to my shoulders. I bend down. She opens her arms and swallows me up in her shawl. It smells of smoke and earth.

“Chanda.” She tries to say more but she can't. I can feel her ribs under her sweater. I'm afraid to hold her tight for fear she'll break. She hugs me for what feels like forever.

I pull away gently. “Soly, Iris, I'd like you to meet your granny.” I motion for them to give her a hug too, but they just stare, openmouthed.

“It's late. They're tired,” Granny says. “In this shawl I must look like an old crow.” She smiles at them. “We can have a hug tomorrow. How would that be?”

“Better,” says Iris, in a voice that says: If we have to get hugged at all.

I look around for other relatives, but there aren't any. Why not? Don't they want us? I mean, I'm not expecting
the world. My cousins are grown up, the male ones tending cattle with the herd boys, the females tending families of their own. But what about my aunties and uncles, my grampa, or Lily's husband, Mopati?

Lily reads my mind. “Everyone wanted to be here. But Auntie Lizbet's tending Grampa's joints, and Uncle Chisulo and Uncle Enoch are fixing the mule cart—the axle broke when we left to get you. Auntie Agnes and Auntie Ontibile, they're minding the soup. Still, they're all waiting to greet you at the compound—except my Mopati, he's training our son at the shanty.” She nods toward Nelson. “Nelson's a son of Granny's neighbors. His people offered their cart, and him to drive it.”

I turn to Nelson. He's standing off to the side, our pillowcases and wicker baskets at his feet. “Thank you,” I say. He gives me a sideways look and shrugs.

“Nelson's a real charmer, aren't you, Nelson?” Lily laughs.

“If you say so.” He grabs our belongings in both hands and heads to the mule cart tethered at the far side of the general dealer's. We follow. “Get in,” he says. Lily and I help Granny up and make a comfortable spot for her with the stuffed pillowcases. Nelson balances the load, then he unhitches his mules. He walks to the inside of the road,
guiding them with his right hand, holding the reins to the side of the yoke.

“G'night,” Mr. Kamwendo calls out.

We holler “g'night” back, except for Nelson, who keeps his eyes focused ahead. “Aren't you going to ride with us?” I ask him. “We could make room.”

“I'm fine walking.”

“Nelson's worried about the weight,” Lily whispers. “The mules are tired. They worked all day. They'll be working again tomorrow.”

So no wonder he's rude, I think. I decide not to add to his burden. First impressions are important, as Mrs. Tafa says. “I'll walk too,” I say, and jump off.

The mules react. Nelson tightens his grip on the reins and braces himself against the yoke. “Whoa.” He whirls on me. “What are you trying to do? Spook the mules? Shift the load? Tip the cart?”

“I thought I was helping.”

“If I want your help, I'll ask for it.”

“Nelson!” Granny barks.

“Beg pardon, Mrs. Thela.” He looks to my left.

I get back in the cart, cheeks burning.

Iris whispers to Soly: “He sure told her.”

Lily's home is a short detour from the general dealer's. We let her and the baby off. “I'll be by tomorrow morning,” she says.

“No hurry,” Granny replies. “Chanda and the children will want to sleep in.”

“Good luck to that,” Lily laughs. “The roosters of Tiro can wake the dead. And Nelson's place has a yardful. They strut and crow like trackers on payday. They learned that from you, didn't they, Nelson?”

Nelson snorts. “We should get going.” He leads the mules around, and we begin the long trek down the village line, parallel to the highway.

When I was little, Tiro was just a gas stop on the way to Mfuala Park. Blink and you'd miss it. There was the general dealer's and a flat stretch of ground where folks came to trade twice a month. Then the government built a health clinic opposite the dealer's, along with a grid of water pipes under a square mile of big, empty lots. Soon there was a blacksmith's, a weaver's, a tinker's, a barber's, a feed store, and a school. All sorts of folks moved in from the country for the convenience. They built compounds next to friends from nearby cattle posts, so they'd keep the same neighbors in town. Others stayed on the land.

My family held out till Granny and Grampa got feeble. By then, the only lots available were on the far outskirts by the cemetery. Now every day, while my aunties run errands around the village, my uncles commute with the other men to their posts in the country, where their cattle are tended overnight by sons and hired herd boys.

There's a rustle of grass to my side. A field? I look back. Pockets of glow flicker up from the front yards behind us. The village line comes to an end. Nelson whispers something to the mules, and we swing right. The rickety cart tilts as the left front wheel lumbers over a rock. Where are we? Nelson must see by starlight. How? I'm glad I'm in the cart.

A few minutes later, beacons of light ahead. As we get close, I make out three lamps in front of three mud homes on three sides of a yard, a blazing firepit in the center. It's Granny and Grampa's compound. Their place is the one in the middle; they share it with Auntie Lizbet. Uncle Chisulo and Auntie Agnes live to the left; Uncle Enoch and Auntie Ontibile to the right.

My uncles' broken cart is over by Uncle Chisulo's. One end is on cinder blocks. My uncles are wedging a wooden wheel onto the new axle, while Aunties Agnes and Ontibile fuss at the soup pot hanging over the fire. A fifth person
gives everyone instructions with her cane: Auntie Lizbet. With her wizened breasts and lumpy thighs, she looks like a rotten pear.

“Your grampa must be asleep,” Granny says. “Your Auntie Lizbet's taking a break, bless her heart.” Bless her heart? When I came to find Mama, sainted Auntie Lizbet swung that cane to crack my head open. Mama had been left alone, dying, at the abandoned ruin on the cattle post. Auntie Lizbet said she deserved it. She said it was god's will, and the will of the ancestors.

By the time we pull up, everyone's come to bid welcome. Uncle Chisulo lifts Granny out of the cart like she was a feather pillow, while Uncle Enoch wrestles our bags over the side of the cart by pushing off with his belly. Their wives, Auntie Ontibile and Auntie Agnes, are right behind, wiping their hands on their aprons. They're identical twins. I tell them apart by the dent in Auntie Ontibile's forehead, from where she got kicked by a goat when she was little.

Last to join us is Auntie Lizbet. I shoot her a look that says: Remember what you did to Mama? What you said to me? Her head drops. She turns away.

I'm all in knots. Aren't I here to heal old wounds? Isn't
that what Mama would do? Why can't I forget? Why don't I forgive? What's wrong with me?

“Thanks for the ride,” Granny says to Nelson. He nods. I smile awkwardly. A chorus of g'nights, and he leads his mules home.

“You three will be staying in my room,” Auntie Lizbet says. “I'll be in with your granny and grampa.”

“We thought that'd be best,” Granny adds. “You'll have some privacy, and your auntie will be handy if Grampa's legs cramp up in the middle of the night.”

“Good, yes, thank you,” I say. All I want to do is put the kids to bed, flop on my mat, and sleep till Judgment Day. But everyone's planned a welcome party, so after we drop our bags inside, we come back out to sit around the firepit.

I open Mrs. Tafa's wicker baskets and give them all their presents. Mrs. Tafa chose well. My uncles are pleased with their socks. My aunties admire the stitch work on their pot holders. And Granny cradles the preserves.

“I'll bring out the biscuits,” Auntie Lizbet says. “Just the thing to put that marmalade to the test.” She hobbles to get them. Iris follows, staring in bug-eyed wonder at her foot.

“Iris! No!” I cry.

Auntie Lizbet whirls around, catching Iris in the act. “What are you gawking at?”

“Your hoof,” says Iris.

The world stops breathing.

“My…what?” Auntie glares.

“Your hoof!” Iris exclaims again. “It's so…so…clumpy.”

Auntie Lizbet grips her cane. “Who taught you your manners, girl?”

“Nobody,” Iris says brightly.

“Nobody?” Auntie Lizbet pounds her cane. “Nobody???” She suddenly bursts out laughing. “Can you beat the nerve of the little thing!” She peers at Iris over her spectacles. “So, nobody taught you manners?”

“No, Auntie,” Iris says, innocent as you please. “Not a blessèd soul.”

Auntie puts on a stern look. “Well, we'll have to see about that, won't we?”

“Oh yes,” Iris says.

Auntie beams. “What a little sweetness.”

Iris bats her eyes at me. I could smack her.

A
S SOON AS
the party's over, I put the kids in bed, roll onto my mat, and fall asleep.

Mama is sitting beside the termite mound. “There's going to be a storm.”

My head is thick, but I know one thing for sure: “This isn't real, Mama. It's just my old dream.”

“All the same, there's going to be a storm.”

I close my eyes and kick myself. “Wake up, wake up.”

When I open my eyes, the mound is gone. But I'm not on the mat in Auntie Lizbet's room either. I'm back on the flatbed to Tiro. It's night. Did I dream I arrived, or am I dreaming now? Soly and Iris are beside me, hugging potato sacks. Next to us, a granny with three kids lets the baby suck her thumb.

There's a rumble. Mama was right. There's going to be a
storm. A crack of lightning. Thunder. No, it's not that! It's rocket fire!

The granny turns to me. Under the light of a green flare, I see the face of a crocodile. Dead eyes. A wall of teeth. This isn't a granny. It's General Mandiki.

Mandiki pulls his thumb from the baby's mouth. His thumb is a machete.

A missile explodes against the flatbed. We fly through the air. Crash into a ditch. The potato sacks split open. They're full of human heads.

Mandiki stands above us. He swings his machete.

“Run!”

 

I sit bolt-upright. I'm on my mat in Auntie Lizbet's room. A nightmare. I've had a nightmare, that's all. Thank god I didn't scream. Granny and Auntie Lizbet would've taken me to a spirit doctor. But why am I dreaming about Mandiki? Of course. I slap my forehead. I saw the general's picture with the bodies in
The Rombala Gazette
. Mr. Selalame is right. Dreams are about the present. My mind was on our trip.

I reach out in the dark and brush Iris and Soly's shoulders. We're safe. I smile at my silliness. My nerves, my nerves. I'm such a coward.

It's a good thing we're here. I need the rest. I do. I really do.

I lie down again. Float into the night.

 

Roosters crow. Somewhere there's roosters. Oh yes, there's roosters across the way at Nelson's. Maybe Granny and the aunties have some too. I cover my head with my pillow. Drift off again.

I blink. What time is it now? The shutters are closed and the curtain across the bedroom door is drawn, but I can feel the sun's up. Soly and Iris are out of bed. I hear the rattle of dishes. They must be having breakfast.

I hear Auntie Lizbet. “What we say is ‘please.'”

“‘Please,'” Iris mimics.

“Good girl,” Auntie Lizbet says. “And then we say, ‘thank you.'”

“Thank you,” Iris repeats. “Thank you, Auntie Lizbet, for teaching me ‘please and thank you.'”

“You're welcome.” There's a twinkle in Auntie Lizbet's voice.

I can't believe it. Mama taught Iris “please and thank you.” I taught her “please and thank you.” She's such a little brat, pretending we didn't. Oh well, if it puts Auntie
Lizbet in a good mood…

I roll over.

“Chanda?” Soly's in the doorway. “Chanda, are you still sleeping?”

“I was.” I rub my eyes.

“Can I play with Pako?”

“Who's Pako?”

“Nelson's brother. He's nine. Granny says it's all right. Is it?”

“If Granny says so.”

He gets his lunch box from beside his pillow. “I'm going to show Pako the map.” A few minutes later I hear the two of them outside my window. “When I grow up, I'm going to work at the Kenje River Safari Camp with Mr. Lesole. It's the red dot near the mountains. Mr. Lesole's a big boss there and he's my friend.”

“Aren't you afraid of lions?”

“Well…” Soly replies carefully, “I wouldn't walk up and pet one. But Mr. Lesole says they mostly hunt at night. I'd be in bed then. And you get warnings. If a lion's around, the impalas get jumpy. And anyway, unless they're old or sick or starving, they stay away from people. Mr. Lesole says our meat's not as tasty as antelope or porcupine.”

“How does he know?” Pako laughs. “Is he a lion?”

“Don't be stupid,” Soly sighs. “Want to play Hyena Hideaway?”

“What's that?”

“A game. First we need some stools and benches…”

 

By the time I get up, everyone's outside, except for Grampa, who's snoring. I rub my eyes and go into the main room. There's a table, chairs, and a rocker, and in the left corner, a sink and open shelves draped with a curtain. Granny and Grampa's room is at the back; Auntie Lizbet's (our room) is to the side. The layout's a lot like our place, actually, except the bedrooms at home are next to each other.

Granny's place is different in other ways, though. Our home is in the city. It's cinder block, with a cement floor and a corrugated tin roof. Here, the floor is dirt, the roof is thatched, and the walls are mud bricks, made from a mixture of earth, dried cow dung, and the soil of termite mounds. I've decorated our house with drawings that Iris and Soly made at school. Here, everything's bare. The other thing different about here is the smell of old people.

I stick my head out the door for some fresh air. The yard is alive with work.

Auntie Ontibile and Auntie Agnes sit together scrubbing laundry on their washboards. Auntie Lizbet hangs it to dry on lines strung between our houses. Iris is at her side, handing her clothespins, and pushing the tub of cleaned wets in front of them with her foot. Auntie Lizbet doesn't have her cane; she uses Iris's shoulder for balance.

“Welcome to the land of the living!” Granny laughs when she sees me. She's sitting on the bench by the firepit with Lily, Lily's baby, and a middle-aged woman I've never seen before. There's a pot of seswa and a kettle of water simmering on the coals. Lily's nursing her baby. Granny and the woman are having tea and biscuits. The woman soaks her biscuits before eating. She's missing her front teeth.

I look up at the sun. It must be past eleven.

Granny waves me over. “Let me introduce our neighbor from across the way,” she says. “Our families go back years. She came by to meet you. I was telling her what a great help Nelson was, getting us home last night.”

So this is must be Nelson's mama, I think. I try and straighten my hair. I'm such a mess. At least my skirt is clean.

Nelson's mama rises. She has the look Mama had before she went away. Thin as a rake, her eyes are large
and yellow, her cheeks gaunt, the skin stretched tight to her skull. Her bright green dress hangs limp from her shoulders. It's like she's swimming in cloth.

I forget about everything. “Don't bother getting up.”

Her eyes flicker. She knows I know her sickness. “I'm fine,” she says. “Just a little arthritis.” She winces as she takes my hand, but her grip is strong. Mama's grip stayed strong till the end, too. “So you're Chanda Kabelo.”

“Yes,” I say.

“I'm Grace Malunga. Tuelo Malunga's wife.”

I gasp. Tuelo Malunga! The man who almost married Mama! The man she was afraid of! Of course. The Malunga cattle post is next to Granny and Grampa's. Like everyone else, they built next to each other in town, to stay neighbors.

“Mrs. Malunga,” my lips flap. “Mrs. Malunga, Mrs. Malunga, I've heard so much about you.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Yes.” I can hardly say no.

“I always let Chanda's family know about your boys,” Granny winks.

The boys. Oh yes, Granny made sure to tell Mama each time Tuelo Malunga had another boy. Eight boys. No girls to need dowry. It was as if Granny liked to rub the
Malungas' good luck in Mama's face. As if she were saying, “Mrs. Malunga has sons to take care of her in her old age. Eight sons. Eight. It could have been you. You, if you hadn't run off. You, if you hadn't broken our hearts and shamed us.”

The Malungas. I've heard all about the Malungas. Tuelo Malunga. Mrs. Malunga. And Nelson's their son. I sink onto a stool.

Mrs. Malunga steps back to give me a good once-over. “I'm impressed,” she announces, her words as firm as her handshake. “Your sister Iris is quite the worker. Your Soly's played well with my Pako all morning. And as for you, my girl, you're as lovely as your Granny's reports.”

I'm confused. Granny told her I was lovely? After what I said and did when I came for Mama?

“You made an impression on Nelson, too,” Mrs. Malunga adds drily. “‘She's a real handful,' he tells me this morning, saddling up for the post. ‘Well,' I said, ‘pepper adds spice to the seswa.'”

“Chanda's got pepper all right,” Lily hoots, giving her baby a burp. “She's a basket of piri-piri.”

The three of them laugh.

I hate that. Since when am I meat spice? The trouble is,
if I don't laugh along, they'll say my head's as big as a melon. I change the subject. “Where's Soly?”

“I think the boys went over to our place,” Mrs. Malunga says.

Granny stirs the pot. “It's getting near mealtime. Grace is joining us. How be you make yourself useful and call them back?”

I'm happy to get away. I cross the road to the cluster of shacks on the Malunga property. Lily was right. There's roosters everywhere. The yard is covered in crap. I wave at a couple of Mrs. Malunga's daughters-in-law. They're by the granary, mending work pants, surrounded by half-naked toddlers. They seem to know who I am and why I've come.

One of them points to a lane through a field that leads to what looks like a wood lot. “They're at the cemetery paying respects,” she says, her hand in front of her mouth. Is she missing teeth like Mrs. Malunga? I pretend not to notice.

 

The drying grasses along the route are well trampled. I'm at the graveyard in no time. It's surrounded by a post fence strung with barbed wire to keep out goats and cattle. The trees are old. The villagers must be afraid to chop here.

Like the cemeteries circling Bonang, the Tiro yard is outside the town limits. I spot a few moritis: rusted metal enclosures over the burial mounds, with frayed canvas and nylon tops; a name and birth and death dates soldered to the front, the letters breaking away. Tiny homes for the dead. But moritis are expensive. Most of the graves are marked with paving bricks and homemade wooden crosses. At least Tiro is small enough that family can be buried together. In Bonang, AIDS kills so many so fast that families like mine get scattered everywhere.

Stepping into the cemetery, I think about Mama. I say a prayer. The air is still. I listen to the insects: the rustle of beetles, the whisper of moths.

Then, to my right, the cries of children, and a rhythmic thumping on earth. I look over. Soly and Pako are a hundred yards off, faced away on their hands and knees. I sneak up behind them. They're in front of a freshly filled grave. Each is holding a rock in both hands and pounding it on the dirt. “Ai! Ai! Ai!”

“Soly?” At the sound of my voice, the boys drop the rocks and leap back. Soly squeals with relief when he sees it's me. Not Pako. A scruffy boy in need of a bath, his eyes are hunted.

Soly recovers. “Pako, that's Chanda.”

“Sorry to scare you.” I smile. “It's lunchtime. What were you boys doing?”

Pako gives Soly a warning glance. “My papa died three weeks ago,” he replies flatly. “I was showing his grave.”

My head reels. Tuelo Malunga—dead? Why didn't anyone tell me? I want to ask about the rock pounding, but the way Pako looks at me, I don't. “I'm sorry about your papa,” I say instead. “We lost our mama a few months back. It hurts, doesn't it?”

“I guess.” He looks across the field toward his house.

“Pako's papa died of a bewitchment,” Soly says, low and serious. “He has brothers here too.” He points at four nearby stone markers. Another shock. Granny never sent word about the dead Malunga boys either. Only the births.

“Matthew would've been my twin,” Pako says, pointing at the smallest marker. “If he was alive, he'd be nine like me. He strangled on the cord when we were coming out. My brother Yoo, next to him, he died when I was little. I don't remember him much. Just how he kept crying, like myyounger brother Shadrak, over there. Their bones were weak. They'd fall and break them. This marker, at Papa's feet, it's the baby from last year. It was born sick. I'm older
than all the dead ones, when they passed, so maybe I'm going to be lucky.”

I swallow. “I'm sure you are.” For the first time I realize his jaw is crooked. Was he born that way, or have his bones been broken too?

“Anyway, my brothers, they have markers,” Pako says, “but Papa's getting a moriti. Wrought iron, Mama promises, with a gate and a lock. A strong lock.”

“Good,” I say. “Good.”

A pause.

“So…it's time for lunch?”

“Uh…yes.”

Pako shows us a shortcut out of the cemetery, a dried streambed nearby where you can slip under the barbed wire. There's a footpath from here that leads directly across the field to his family's yard. The whole way back, Pako checks nervously over his shoulder. When the graves are out of sight, he lets out a holler, twirls around, and beats himself three times on the head.

What a strange boy. If Soly's going to play with him, I better keep an eye out.