Chanda's Secrets (5 page)

Mrs. Tafa hollers a greeting: “Dumêla!”

“Dumêla,” I say back. I nod to her grandkids: “Dumêlang.”

Mrs. Tafa doesn't bother getting up, just points to the bench opposite her. “I dropped by this morning,” she says, “but no one would open your door.”

“I'm sorry.” I sit. “Something awful's happened.”

“So I hear.” I'm not surprised she's heard. She has the ears of an elephant.

I glare at Iris and Soly. “Stop eavesdropping. Go pile stones.” They do. “Mama doesn't want them to know,” I whisper.

“She's right,” Mrs. Tafa nods approvingly. “There's no need to involve little ones with things like that.” She shoos her grandchildren away. “So... you want to use my telephone?”

“If it's all right, yes, please. I need to let Mama's people know.”

“It's your mama who should call.”

“She wants to stay with Sara.”

“I see.” A pause. Mrs. Tafa stretches her arms and wobbles the flab. “A lot of folks want to use my telephone,” she says at
last. “If I let everyone use it, I'd never get any peace.” She tilts her head and wipes the dribbles of sweat from under her chins.

“I know, and I'm sorry for bothering you.” I take a deep breath. “It's just... I hoped you wouldn't mind... you being my ‘Auntie' Rose.”

Mrs. Tafa smiles. She sucks the end of her lemonade through a straw. “Who's doing the arrangements?”

“Mr. Bateman.”

“Ah.” The way she says “Ah” makes me feel like dirt.

“I tried the other mortuaries,” I lie, “but they were full up.”

“No need for excuses. People will understand,” Mrs. Tafa says. “Besides, Mr. Bateman did up the Moses boy, no complaints. All the same, you should have come to me. I have connections.”

“Sorry, Auntie.” I shift in my seat. “So, about your telephone...?”

“How many calls do you want to make?”

“Just one. To the general dealer in Tiro. He can get the word to my mama-granny, Granny Thela. She'll see to the rest.”

Mrs. Tafa sucks her teeth. “Tiro. That's two hundred miles away. Calls to Tiro don't come cheap.”

“Mama will pay you back.”

Mrs. Tafa waves her hand. “Don't be silly. I'm your auntie. Glad to help.” She heaves her rump out of the chair and leads me into her house.

While I wait for the operator to connect me, “Auntie” dusts the shrine on the nearby side table. It's to her youngest son, Emmanuel: his baptismal certificate, undergraduate photograph from university, funeral program, and an envelope of baby hair. Emmanuel died two years ago in a freak hunting accident, just
weeks after winning a scholarship to study law in Jo'burg. It was a closed casket. Life isn't fair.

The general dealer, Mr. Kamwendo, answers his phone. Mrs. Tafa kneels by Emmanuel's photograph and pretends to pray, but I can tell she's listening in.

I explain to the dealer about Sara's death and how the burial is set for Thursday. Mr. Kamwendo says he'll pass on the news to my mama-granny and asks if the family can call us at this number. I interrupt Mrs. Tafa's prayers to check. She sighs heavily, but I can tell she's happy as a cow dropping pies: she'll get to hear our news firsthand.

I hang up. Mrs. Tafa struggles to her feet, escorts me back outside, and drops into her lawn chair.

“Thanks again for the use of your phone, Auntie,” I say. I lower my head. She gives it a peck. For a second I try to like her.

“Your dear little Sara,” she comforts. “Her death's a great tragedy, like my blessèd Emmanuel's. At least they died pure.”

My legs go hollow. “Pardon?”

“They were innocents. No one can spread rumors about why they died. No one can point fingers at our families and whisper.” She taps her nose. “If you don't mind me saying so, you be careful around that Esther Macholo friend of yours.”

“What do you mean?”

“May her parents rest in peace, but I hope she burned their sheets and buried their dishes.”

“How can you say that?”

“I don't mean to be unkind,” she cautions, “but I keep an ear out.”

“There's nothing wrong with Esther. Her mama died of cancer. Her papa died of TB. They died like they said at the funerals.”

“Of course they did, and you didn't hear any different from me. Your auntie just wants to protect you, that's all.” She winks slyly. “A word to the wise: there's what people said, and there's what people say.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Oh, yes, you do,” she whispers. “Oh, yes, you do.”

M
RS.
T
AFA IS RIGHT.
I
do
know what she's talking about. New cemeteries overflow as fast as they open. Officially it's because of pneumonia, TB, and cancer. But that's a lie, and everyone knows it.

The real reason the dead are piling up is because of something else. A disease too scary to name out loud. If people say you have it, you can lose your job. Your family can kick you out. You can die on the street alone. So you live in silence, hiding behind the curtain. Not just to protect yourself, but to protect the ones you love, and the good name of your ancestors. Dying is awful. But even worse is dying alone in fear and shame with a lie.

Thank god nobody whispered “AIDS” when Esther's parents got sick. Her papa had a cough and her mama had a bruise. It started as simply as that.

At first, Mrs. Macholo's bruise was so small I hardly noticed it. It was months before I realized it hadn't gone away. It had gotten bigger, darker—and more bruises had started to appear. Before I knew what was happening, Mrs. Macholo was covering her arms and legs with heavy shawls and long skirts.

At the same time, Mr. Macholo's cough got worse. Some days his lungs had a dry rattle. Other days they gurgled like they
were full of thick soup. He'd heave up wads of mucous into a china bowl, hacking so fierce I thought his lungs would rip themselves inside out.

I was visiting Esther the day of his last attack. We screamed for help as he thrashed around the floor gasping, choking, for what seemed like forever. He drowned in his own retch.

Esther's mama fell apart. It was as if she'd stayed alive to take care of him. Now she lay in bed refusing to eat.

“There's a tumor at her temple the size of an egg,” Esther wept. “It's growing into her brain. She's half-blind, sometimes crazy. She doesn't know where she is anymore. She doesn't even know I'm there.”

Esther stayed home from school to look after her. I'd bike over at lunch to help. One day the street was full of gawkers. Mrs. Macholo was staggering around the front yard, swinging a rake, screaming that lions were eating her. It took me, Esther, and three neighbors to get her inside.

Esther shoved the neighbors out when the doctor arrived.

“It's the devil come to get me,” her mama screamed. Then she burst into tongues.

The doctor sedated her and gave her an examination, while Esther and I huddled with her brothers and sister on the floor of the main room. When the doctor came out of the bedroom, he pulled me and Esther aside. He thought I was family. Esther didn't correct him.

“Nothing can be done,” he said. “I'm sorry. I'd like to offer a bed at the hospital, but we're full. Someone needs to be with her full-time, to take her to the toilet, wipe her, bathe her... Do you have an auntie who could stay here for a few weeks?”

“I don't know,” Esther said.

“Painkillers will have to be rationed,” the doctor continued. “I'll arrange for a harness. She'll need to be restrained. I'll also arrange for some bleach and a box of rubber gloves. You'll all have to wear them when handling her.”

“She's our mama,” Esther said. “We won't treat her like garbage.”

“It's for your own protection. There'll be body fluids. Feces.”

“Who cares? We'll wash our hands. You can't catch cancer from germs.”

The doctor paused. “I think this is more than cancer. I want to do a test for the HIV/AIDS virus. You and your brothers and sister should have one too.”

“No,” said Esther, terrified.

“It's best to know the truth.”

“Don't insult my mama. Don't insult my family.”

“I'm not insulting anyone.”

“Yes, you are.” Esther raised her fists. “You're saying my family is dirty. That my papa cheated. Or Mama's a drug addict.”

“I'm saying nothing of the kind.”

“Then how could she have the virus?”

“Miss Macholo,” the doctor protested, “I only care about
what
she has. Not how she got it.”

“Get out of here,” Esther screamed. “Get out of here now.”

When the doctor left, Esther looked at me in horror.

“Don't worry,” I whispered. “I won't say a word.”

I kept my promise. I acted like everything was normal. Maybe it was, for all I knew. Cancer is cancer, and lots of miners get TB. That's what everyone said at the burial feast. In the words of the priest, “Death tiptoed through the door when no one was watching. It could happen to anyone.”

Each month since Mrs. Macholo's funeral I've breathed easier. By now, I was certain Esther was safe behind the curtain. But if Mrs. Tafa is whispering, how many other whispers are in the wind, spreading like germs, infecting minds? How soon before the curtain blows open? And then what?

I leave Mrs. Tafa's yard with an extra swing in my step, so she won't know how much she's upset me. Iris and Soly are crouched at the side of the road in front of our place.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking at ants,” Iris says without looking up. “They're pulling a dead fly.”

Soly nods. “It's a parade.”

“It's not a parade,” Iris corrects. “It's a funeral. They're taking him to the fly cemetery to bury him.”

“That's no fun. I say it's a parade.”

Iris glares at him. She picks up the fly by a wing and shakes off the ants. Then she heads down the road with Soly in pursuit. “There's no parade. We're having a funeral. Understand? I'm the priest, I get to say prayers. You're a mourner, you get to cry.”

I leave them arguing and turn into our yard. My heart stops. Esther is lying on the ground by the cactus hedge, her bicycle on one side of her, her school bag on the other. She must have arrived while I was inside Mrs. Tafa's.

Why is it that people always show up when you're talking about them? It's like they're ants with antennae that can pick up their names from miles away.

“Dumêla!” I call out as I approach.

Esther gets up, rubs her eyes, and waves. The bracelets on her arm flash sunlight. “I came as soon as I heard,” she says, and hugs me.

Back in her lawn chair, Mrs. Tafa sends us the evil eye.

“Let's go for a walk,” I say.

We head arm in arm to the park. All the way I'm thinking: How much did she hear? Was she asleep when Mrs. Tafa attacked her family?

The park is an empty sandlot with a few patches of weeds, a set of swings, and a teeter-totter. We sit on the swings and twirl around until the chains are knotted up. Then we take our feet off the ground and spin. Esther laughs. She still likes to get dizzy.

When the swings are still, we stare at the ground, scuffing our toes in the sand.

“Chanda,” Esther says at last, “you know I'll always be your friend, right?”

“Right.”

“I mean, even if people say awful things about your family ... even then I'll be your friend.”

I feel a chill. “What are people saying?”

“Nothing. But if they ever do.” An awkward pause. Then Esther says, “What if people spread rumors about
my
family?”

“Pardon?”

“You heard me. If people spread rumors about
my
family, would you still be my friend?”

I try not to blink. But the way she says it, I know two things. Esther heard everything Mrs. Tafa said. And what Mrs. Tafa hinted is true.

So what? I think. Deep down, I already guessed her parents had AIDS. So nothing's changed. But if nothing's changed, why am I scared?

“Tell me,” she presses. “Would you still be my friend?”

“Stop talking crazy. It's bad luck.”

“Answer my question.”

I know the facts from school. You can only catch AIDS from blood and semen. All the same, if people say you have it you can be shunned. Your family and friends can be shunned, too.

Esther gets off her swing and comes toward me. “Would you still be my friend or not?”

I jump up and back away. Her eyes fill with tears. She turns and starts to run.

“Wait!” I catch up to her, whirl her around, hug her, and plant a kiss on both cheeks. “Of course I'd still be your friend. Your best friend.”

Esther squeezes me hard. “I knew you'd say that,” she laughs. “We're best friends forever. No matter what, you'll never let me down. I knew it!”

But the truth is, she didn't.

And until right now, neither did I.

M
AMA IS WAITING AT THE ROAD
when Esther and I get back. She whispers that she wants Iris and Soly to be away when Mr. Bateman comes. Esther offers to take them downtown to the YMCA lunch counter for some seswa and a Coke.

When they get the news, Iris and Soly practically do somersaults. They think bus rides are the biggest adventure in the world. And they love Esther. She lets them wear her costume jewelry. It may be fake, but they don't care. It's bright and colorful, and they spend whole days pretending they're kings and queens, or acting out legends I bring home from Mr. Selalame's English class.

I give Esther a few extra coins and tell her to take them to the bazaar afterwards; one of the street sellers might have a little toy to keep them busy over the next few days, or a couple of rings to have for their very own.