Chanda's Wars (2 page)

I
BIKE TO
the secondary, run down the hall to Mr. Selalame's classroom. He's working late, as usual. Right now, he's leaning out the window, clapping his blackboard erasers, singing a march. What do I do? Waltz in? Knock first?

I end up outside his door, staring. Some teachers have coffee stains on their jackets or stink of B.O. and alcohol. Not Mr. Selalame. He's the cleanest, handsomest, smartest man in Bonang. And he uses new words for fun. His newest is
ergo
.

Esther thinks I have a crush. One day when I couldn't stop saying his name, she said: “Remember, Chanda, he's got a wife and kids.” I gave her the eye. “Of course I remember, Esther. When it comes to men, I'm not like
some
people.” I hope she's forgotten. It was back when we
could tease about boys, before her days on the street.

Besides, even if I do have a crush, it's not
that
kind of crush. Is it? I'm not sure. I've never had a crush like that—at least I don't think I have—so it's hard to tell. All I know is, I could watch him forever.

Mr. Selalame finishes clapping his dusters and centers them on the ledge under the blackboard. As always after a clapping, he has a tickle on his nose from the chalk dust. He rubs it with the back of his wrist. Then he turns around, wiping his hands with a handkerchief. We both jump when he sees me.

“Chanda!”

“Mr. Selalame!” I think he's embarrassed I caught him singing. I'm embarrassed he caught me spying.

“Come in,” he laughs. “Sit, sit. Can I offer you a tea?”

“No, thank you.” I hesitate, then slump into my old desk—middle aisle, two rows back—and stare through the hole in the upper right-hand corner where the ink bottle used to go.

Mr. Selalame props himself against the desk opposite me. “I see you've come about something important.”

I nod. Mr. Selalame smells of fresh soap and peppermint. I try not to notice.

“I've been getting this nightmare,” I say at last. As the words fall from my mouth, I want to jump out the window; I have a dream and I run to my old teacher? “Mr. Selalame, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come, I have to go.”

He raises his hand. “Not before you tell me your dream.”

“It's stupid.”

“Nothing you care about is stupid.”

I look in his eyes. They coax the truth out of me, like Mama's. I check the door to make sure no one's listening. Then, even though I'm kicking myself, I take a deep breath and begin. When I'm finished, Mr. Selalame thinks a bit, clicking his tongue behind his teeth. “Your dream is always the same?”

I frown. “Sometimes the ditches by the road are full of crocodiles. Other times they're full of blood, and the children paddle by in dugouts. But it's always about Tiro. Tiro and Mama and my little brother and sister. Is it a warning? Is something terrible going to happen?”

Mr. Selalame smiles. “Relax,” he says. “Dreams don't predict the future. They're about the present. You know that, don't you?”

“Yes.” I lower my head. The truth is, I don't know it. I
say I do, because it's what Mr. Selalame wants to hear. But deep down, I'm not sure what I think. I don't believe in magic. All the same, I know there's more to life than what we see with our eyes.

“Your nightmare is a chase dream,” Mr. Selalame says calmly. “Ergo, it's about feeling helpless. Trapped. Chase dreams come when we're stressed.”

I sit up straight, shoulders back. “But I'm not.”

“You are.” He folds his arms. “You need to slow down, Chanda. Since your mama passed, you haven't taken a breath.”

“There hasn't been time.”

“Make time.”

“How? There's always a problem with Soly and Iris—a scrape, a fever, a stubbed toe. Or Soly will cry, or Iris will throw things—and I know it's from missing Mama, and I want to make it better, but I can't. And when I'm not messing up with them, I'm working, or doing chores, or visiting Mama at the cemetery. And I haven't even started the friendship center in her memory. I promised to open one when she died, and—” I bang my head on the desk, twice. “I'm sorry. It's just, Mr. Selalame, I'm scared. Sometimes I fill up with this panic. I can't stop it. Why? What's wrong
with me? Mama always managed. She did what she had to. Why can't I be like her?”

Mr. Selalame checks his shoes, so we can pretend he doesn't see my eyes fill. “Chanda,” he says slowly, “what about taking a break from your supply teaching?”

“No. My family needs the money.”

“Not as much as you need your health.”

“I can't afford to think about that.”

“You have to. For the sake of your brother and sister. You can always patch clothes. Stretch a pot of soup. But if you make yourself crazy-sick, you won't be able to do anything. Then what?”

I breathe out till my lungs are empty. “You must think I'm a baby.”

“No,” he exclaims. “But you're not an adult either.”

“I'm old enough. Mama was married at my age. She had babies.”

“Is that what you want?”

I shake my head, rock on my hands. “All I want is to make Mama proud. I want her to know I'm taking care of things. That Soly and Iris are safe.”

“She knows. She's proud.”

“How can you say that? Everything's falling apart.”

Mr. Selalame pauses. “You're too tired to see this, but I promise you: You're doing fine. One day Soly and Iris will be grown up. You'll go back to school. You'll graduate with that scholarship. You'll build your Mama's friendship center. Trust me. These things take time, that's all. Don't let your pride destroy your future.”

He lets me think about that for a while, then he leans back slowly. “If I recall rightly, you have people in Tiro.”

My throat dries up. “It depends what you mean by people.”

“Relatives. Your mama-granny and grampa, some aunties and uncles, cousins—and isn't there an older sister? It's where your mama went when she got sick.”

I nod.

Mr. Selalame strokes the side of his head like he's nursing an idea. “In your dream, you have to get to Tiro,” he says slowly. “Maybe your mind is telling you, you need to return to your roots. Families are something to cling to when things get overwhelming. Maybe you need a visit to Tiro. It'd give you support. It'd give you a rest as well.”

“No,” I blurt out. “I'll never go back to Tiro.”

Mr. Selalame leans in, eyes alert.

My ears burn. “Things happened in Tiro,” I whisper.
“Things happened to Mama.” I flap my hands. “Please, don't make me say it.”

Mr. Selalame puts his finger to his lips. “If you want an ear, I'm here. Otherwise, I haven't heard a thing.”

“Thank you. Thanks.”

I don't know where to look. A silence swallows the room.

Mr. Selalame clears his throat. “So,” he says carefully, “where else could we turn for some help?…How about your neighbor lady?”

“Mrs. Tafa?” My eyes twitch.

Mr. Selalame looks like he's stepped in a cow pie. “I guess it's not my day for ideas.”

I find myself laughing. “I guess not!”

He smiles.

My eye catches the time on the wall clock. “It's late. Soly and Iris, they'll be waiting for supper.
Ergo
, I better go.” I get up, stand awkwardly by the desk. “Mr. Selalame…thank you. Thank you for everything.”

“But I didn't do anything.”

“Yes. You did. You made a difference just being here.”

He gives me a wink for encouragement. “Drop by anytime.”

“I will.” I stop at the doorway, heart bursting. “Mr. Selalame—you're the best teacher in the school. And you have the cleanest blackboard erasers in the whole world.”

I flush and race down the corridor.
You have the cleanest blackboard erasers in the whole world?

How embarrassing.

I
RIDE TOWARD
home, lighter than air: a chase dream. Now that I know what my nightmare is, it doesn't seem as scary anymore. In fact, I'm so happy to name it, I almost don't notice Mrs. Mpho standing at the side of the road. She waves me over with a dish rag, mad as a hornet: “I'll have you know my family's underpants are clean as the priest's!”

“What are you talking about?”

Her mouth drops open like she's out to catch flies. “Don't play the innocent. This very morning I was hanging my laundry, when Rose Tafa waltzed by. ‘Why, Chanda,' she said into that phone of hers, ‘Mrs. Mpho's forgot to scrub her undies again.'”

“Whoever Mrs. Tafa was talking to, it wasn't me,” I say. “I was at school. Only the principal has a phone. If you want to complain, complain to Mrs. Tafa. I dare you.”

I leave Mrs. Mpho cursing in my direction, and speed to Mrs. Tafa's, too upset to think. Mrs. Tafa is squeezed into her lawn chair, fanning herself with a fly swatter. Soly and Iris are at her feet, drinking her famous lemonade.

Iris points smugly at her hair. It's in tight, shiny cornrows, beads woven throughout. “Look what Auntie Rose did. She knows how to do it right. And I didn't have to say ouch once, did I, Auntie?”

“No, you were an angel,” Mrs. Tafa beams. She peers up her nose at me. “If you don't mind my saying so, that girl's hair looked like a weaver's nest.”

I try not to scream. “Auntie Rose.” I clip each word. “How dare you pretend that I gossip with you on your cell phone!”

“Who says I do?”

“Mrs. Mpho.”

Mrs. Tafa sniffs. “That woman's got coconuts in her head.” She rearranges her rear end on her chair's vinyl seat straps. The aluminum legs wobble. I pray they'll buckle and send the old goat onto her backside with her dress over her head.

I turn to the kids. “Soly, Iris. Come with me. It's time for supper.”

“Auntie's already fed us,” Soly says.

My eyes bulge. “What?”

“You were late,” Mrs. Tafa chides. “The poor things were starving.”

“But Esther was making supper,” I say.

“Esther. Cooking.” Mrs. Tafa shudders. “Who knows where those hands have been? Besides, the children get far better food here.”

Iris nods vigorously. “Auntie Rose gave us chicken and figs and sweet potatoes and things that came out of a can.”

I grab my bike and storm to our yard, leaving the kids behind with Mrs. Tafa. Esther's chasing Sammy and Magda around the outhouse. She stops when she sees me. “Don't blame me,” she says, before I can get out a word. “I went over to Mrs. Tafa's and called them to eat: eggs and maize bread. Mrs. Tafa told me that she was looking after things and for me to mind my own business.”

“Esther,” I say fiercely, “we're going for a walk.”

We get Sammy and Magda to promise they'll stay in the yard till we're back. Then we march past Mrs. Tafa's, Esther struggling to keep up.

“Where are you going?” Soly calls out to me.

“Nowhere,” I yell. “Eat some more figs, why don't you?”

“Are you mad?”

I stare straight ahead and keep stomping. We end up at the empty sandlot a few blocks away, sitting on the rusty swing set that the city put up, back when the place was supposed to be a park. I grab my side chains, push off the ground, and swing up hard with all my might.

“It's not fair,” I say bitterly. “I'm losing the kids. Mrs. Tafa's got time and money. She can do things for them that I can't. Mr. Selalame says my nightmare's because of stress. Well maybe she's the stress. Maybe she's what I'm afraid is out to get them. I hate her. I hate her I hate her I hate her!”

“Chanda, slow down,” Esther says. “You're going to swing right over the top bar and crack your head open.”

“I don't care.”

“The kids love you, Chanda…Mrs. Tafa, she doesn't matter…Listen to me!”

“No, you listen.” I skid my feet in the dirt and come to a stop. “Mrs. Tafa's not just stealing Soly and Iris. She's ruining my name.” I tell her about Mrs. Mpho and the cell phone story.

Esther frowns. Then suddenly, she laughs.

“What's so funny?”

“Think about it, Chanda. This morning, Mrs. Tafa pretended she was talking to you, but she wasn't talking to anyone. I'll bet it's like that all the time. She whoops into her cell like she knows the world, but really she's just blabbing to herself. It's like when Mrs. Gulubane mutters into her giant snail shell, pretending to talk to the dead.”

My head swims. “You think so?”

“Of course,” Esther hoots. “She's rich compared to most people around here, but that's not saying much. How would she know anybody important? Why would the mayor take her calls? As for our neighbors—how many have a phone? Who'd talk to her if they did? The only people she can call are her husband and the man at the radio call-in. Mrs. Tafa's a mean, old bully. Your mama was her only friend, and that's because your mama was a saint.”

Esther's right. Even Mr. Tafa avoids her. He leaves for work early and gets home late; on his days off, he does odd jobs, like building Esther's rooms at the side of my house, or patching the tenant shacks at the far side of his property.

“Everyone's scared of her tongue,” Esther says, eyes dancing, “but nobody pays her much mind. As for Mrs. Mpho—it's true about her underpants.”

I laugh. Next thing I know, Esther and I are twirling our
swings till the chains are twisted tight. We lift our feet off the ground and spin, squealing like when we were little. We wobble dizzily to the road and make our way home in the near dusk.

Iris and Soly are already under the cover in their nightclothes. They're so quiet, I have to check to know they're there. When I stick my head into their room, Iris says: “Would you tuck us in?…Please?”

I pull the bedsheet under their necks and smooth it just so.

“Do you still love us?” Soly whispers.

“Of course. How could you ask that?”

He acts shy. “You were so mad. We were scared.”

“Not me,” Iris says. But I know she's lying.

I kiss their foreheads. “I love you now and forever,” I say. “More than anything.” Then I sit cross-legged at the side of their mat and tell them their favorite bedtime story—the one about the impala and the baboon—acting the parts with Soly's sock puppet and my hankie.

I kiss them good night again. My stomach dissolves. Mama. I remember how she tucked me in, how she kissed my forehead, told me stories, said how she'd love me forever. Mama. I miss Mama so much I can't stand it.
As I leave Soly and Iris, I touch their door frame for balance, get to the far corner of the main room, and roll into a ball on the floor, stuffing my hankie in my mouth so they won't hear me cry.

When I'm like this, I usually go to Esther. She holds me and rocks me and lets me babble, and it helps. But she didn't know Mama. Not really. She's the sort of friend that stays away from parents. All she remembers is that Mama smiled at her, offered her biscuits, and never kicked her off the property. So it's not the same. Not like she knew Mama, and knows what Mama means.

I'm going to start sobbing, I know it. I won't be able to stop. I need to get away. The sandlot. I'll go back to the sandlot.

I walk gingerly across the yard. To the left, music and happy talk drift up the street from the Lesoles. Mr. Lesole's a safari guide; he's mostly away in the bush. When he's home, he celebrates, spending his tip money on CDs for his boom box and food for his guests. Normally I like it—I even go over—but tonight, all I can think is: How can there be parties with Mama dead? How can the world go on without her?

I turn right toward the sandlot and hear a familiar
voice: “If I was you, I wouldn't be wandering far, this time of night.”

Mrs. Tafa's in her lawn chair, alone in the dark under her tree, waiting for Mr. Tafa to come home. All of a sudden, she doesn't seem so mean. Just lonely. I'm filled with shame. Why am I mad about what she does for Soly and Iris? Why should they lose out because of my fear and pride?

I go into Mrs. Tafa's yard and sit quietly on the ground beside her lawn chair. We don't talk about our fight. Don't talk about anything. Just sit there. After a long time I swallow hard and say: “Thank you for doing Iris's cornrows.”

“It was nothing,” she says. “Something to pass the time, is all.” A pause. “It's nice to have someone braid your hair, isn't it?” Another pause. “I could do yours someday if you'd like. Not as good as your mama, mind. But I could try.”

I sob. Mrs. Tafa puts her hand on my shoulder. “It's hard, isn't it?”

I gulp air.

“Your mama was the finest woman who walked this earth,” Mrs. Tafa says gently. “Oh, how she loved you kids. She was proud of you, especially. Before she went to Tiro,
she said to me, ‘Rose, no matter what happens, I can die happy. I know my Chanda will take care of things.'” Mrs. Tafa slaps her thighs. “But why talk about sad things, when there's so much good to remember?” She leans in to my ear. “I'm thinking of when you were little, how your mama'd blow on your tummy to stop you being grumpy.”

I sniffle-smile at the thought of it. “I've tried that on Iris,” I say. “She hates it.”

“Iris is a special one, isn't she?” Mrs. Tafa chuckles, and recalls the time Mama was shelling peas and Iris got one stuck up her nose: “Your mama made her a necklace of husks so she'd stop crying.” Soon, Mrs. Tafa and I are laughing and storytelling in the dark. Stories about Mama. Happy stories. Simple stories. Stories from our time in the worker houses at the mine, to a few years back when Mama won a prize at the street fair for her sweet-potato pie.

“You should have seen the way your mama and papa flirted at the mine hall,” Mrs. Tafa winks. “The glint in your mama's eye when your papa'd do a jig. Folks knew they took care of business, all right.”

I get all embarrassed, but I want to hear more. As long as we talk, Mama's alive. Please, I don't want to go to bed ever. When Mr. Tafa finally comes home, though, I know it's time.

“It's been ages since we've talked like this,” Mrs. Tafa says. “Let's do it again.” She watches from her stoop as I head to my door. At the last minute, I have a sudden need to run back. I fall on my knees and clutch her round the waist. “Auntie Rose, will the pain ever go away?”

Mrs. Tafa kneels down, arms around me. “Remember how it was with your papa?”

I nod.

She kisses the top of my head. “The missing never goes away,” she says. “But after a time, the hurting's not so sharp. And in the end, if you're lucky, there's a glow.”

An enormous hole opens in the pit of my stomach. “Why did Mama have to die? Why like that? I wish she'd never gone back to Tiro.”

Oh, how Mama hated Tiro. At fifteen, Granny and Grampa engaged her to Tuelo Malunga, a boy from the neighboring cattle post; but Mama was scared of him, and ran off with Papa instead. Relatives said she was cursed for dishonoring the ancestors. They blamed her for everything. So for her to return there…Before she left, she said she wouldn't be gone long. But weeks passed and she didn't even call us. Then one night Mrs. Tafa blurted her secret: Mama wasn't coming back, not ever. She had AIDS. She'd been scared of what would happen to us kids if the
neighbors found out, so scared she'd gone to die in a place where she was hated. I got on the next flatbed truck to Tiro. The relatives had left her at the abandoned ruin on their cattle post. They claimed they brought her food. All I know is, when I found her, she was alone in the bush, thin as a reed, huddled under a stained sheet buzzing with flies. She didn't recognize me. With the help of the Tiro health clinic, I got her home. Three days later, she passed.

I leave Mrs. Tafa's, crawl onto my mat, and toss and turn till the middle of the night. Mama. You didn't have to go to Tiro. We'd have taken the shame, the pain—anything, everything—to keep you with us. Why couldn't I stop you? Why?

I drift into my dream. Mama's alive. We're at the ruin where I found her, watching Soly and Iris dance. Mama turns into a stork. “Keep them safe,” she says. “There's going to be a storm.”