Chanda's Wars (4 page)

“C
HANDA
?” T
HE VOICE
coming out of the phone is familiar, but I don't recognize it. “Chanda?” it says again.

The connection is bad. It sounds like the call is coming from far away. I press the phone to my ear and plug my other ear with my finger. There's talking in the background. The loud
cling
and
clang
of an old metal cash register. Oh my god. I'm talking to Lily, my older sister who stayed in Tiro when the rest of us came south. She must be using the phone at the general dealer's.

But why is she calling? How did she know the number to reach me?

I glance at Mrs. Tafa. She's staring at me like I'm her evening's entertainment. Suddenly, everything makes sense. Mrs. Tafa's called Tiro and left a message about my dream. She's arranged for Lily to call collect. I glare at Mrs.
Tafa, turn my back, and move off a piece.

The line crackles. “Chanda, are you there?”

“I'm here,” I say tightly. “If this is about my dream, I'm hanging up.”

“Granny's standing beside me.” Lily says. “She's wanted to talk to you for a long time.” The noise in the background is suddenly muffled. It's like Lily's cupped her mouth to the phone, so Granny won't hear. “When your neighbor called about your dream, Granny said it was an omen. If I put her on the line, will you be nice?”

“It depends.”

“She's been crying since Mama died. Please. Be nice.”

“Fine.”

The receiver is passed to Granny. I hear Lily's voice in the background: “Granny, you have to talk into this part here.”

“Hello?…Hello?…Chanda?” It's Granny. She sounds lost.

Mrs. Tafa's breathing over my shoulder. I give her a look. She backs off.

“Hello, Granny. It's me, Chanda.”

“Chanda…” Granny's voice is so old. It was old before, but never like this.

There's a lot of static. “Granny, I'm sorry, I can't hear you.”

“I'm sorry too,” Granny says. More static. “Things got said that should never have been said. Things got done that…Chanda, I want to see you.”

My head swims.

“Chanda, are you there?”

“I'm here.” My eyes well. My knees are jelly.

“Please come visit,” Granny says. “Please. Your grampa and me, we're too old to travel down.”

I can't think. I can't see.

“We want to bless our grandchildren before we die. We want to heal the family curse.”

“Granny…” The words choke out. “Granny…I can't talk…I'm sorry…I…”

I drop the phone in the dirt and run toward the house. Esther's in the yard with Sammy and Magda, back from visiting their uncle. I wave them off, run into my room, and cover my head with my pillow.

Outside, I hear Esther soothe Soly and Iris.

“What's wrong?” they ask.

“Nothing,” Esther says. “Your sister's just thinking. You know what it's like when you need to think?”

They sound uncertain. When Esther has them ready for bed, they call for me to tuck them in. I do. Then Esther and I step into the yard. Esther sits cross-legged on the ground, her back slouched against the cistern. I rest my head on her lap, look up at the moon, and tell her about Granny's phone call.

Esther strokes my hair. “I think you should go,” she whispers. “And not just for a few days. A month at least.”

“Never. I made a vow.”

“People can change their minds.” She smooths out a tat.

“Anyway, I can't go. If I went, what would happen to you?”

“Chanda, I can manage. Really.” She cups my face in her hands. “My health's been good. And if I get sick, or something happens, I've got friends at the Welcome Center. I can count on Mrs. Tafa, too.” Her eyes twinkle. “She can't stand me, but she'll do anything to get you to Tiro.”

We smile.

Esther hesitates. “Chanda, I used to have fights with Mama and Papa about boys. I gave them a hard time. But when the end came, they knew I loved them.”

“What does this have to do with me and Granny?”

Esther pauses. “When your granny and grampa pass,
they're never coming back. If you don't go to Tiro, how will you feel when the priest puts them in the ground? How will you feel, knowing you kept Soly and Iris from receiving their blessing?”

 

I think hard all Sunday. Then Monday, I go to the secondary, early-early.

I find Mr. Selalame in the staff room. He makes us tea and sits on an armchair with the stuffing coming out, while I sit kitty-corner on what used to be a sofa. I pour out my heart, letting him know about everything: Mama, Tiro, Granny's call, and what Esther said.

Mr. Selalame blows gently on his tea. “So how
would
you feel, if your grandparents passed before giving their blessing?”

“Terrible,” I say. “Terrible and guilty, knowing my pride kept Soly and Iris from getting something special. But how do I forgive what they did to Mama?”

Mr. Selalame takes a long, slow sip from his mug, then carefully sets it down beside the pile of essays on the coffee table in front of us. “You loved your mama very much.”

I nod.

“Do you ever think maybe she loved
her
mama, your
granny, the same way?”

“I guess. I don't know,” I say, so quiet there's hardly a sound. “Probably.”

“Probably, yes?”

“Yes.” The room is so still I can hear the clock on the far wall.

“Your granny and your mama had a falling out,” Mr. Selalame says at last. “It hurt your mama to her dying day.” I lower my eyes. He waits till I look up. His eyes are deep pools filled with everything I've said. “Chanda,” he continues, “what would your mama have done if your granny'd called and said she was sorry? What would she have done if your granny had offered a blessing?”

I can't breathe. “She'd have been on the next bus to Tiro.”

W
E PACK THE
evening before we leave. If we didn't, I'd be awake all night worried that we'd forget something. Mainly we fill our pillowcases with clothes, but I find a place for the spyglasses from Mr. Lesole. They'll be something for Soly and Iris to play with. I also slip in the bookmark Mr. Selalame gave me last year when Mama was sick. It's got a picture of the sun rising over the plains to remind me there's hope in new beginnings. Lastly, I hide some green plastic feed sacks to put over Soly's diaper-towel.

The kids are bringing mementos too, tucked in their “treasure chests,” a pair of old metal lunch boxes, painted black. Iris fills hers with ebony combs from Mrs. Tafa, paste jewelry from Esther, a few crayons, and her swath of torn mosquito netting. (Some days, she pretends it's a bridal veil, other days that it makes her invisible.) Soly packs his with stones he's collected on the way from
school, the sock puppet he likes to sleep with, and Mr. Lesole's map of Mfuala Park. To make sure the map is safe, he rolls it inside the lunch box thermos.

I was worried the kids would be scared of the trip. They've never been outside Bonang, except as babies, and the only relative from Tiro they've met is Auntie Lizbet, who came down a year ago for our baby sister's funeral; they remember her “funny shoe,” meaning her club foot, and that's about it. I didn't have to be concerned. They're head over heels with excitement. Mr. Lesole's park map has a mini-map of the country in the top left corner. On the mini-map, Tiro is only a quarter inch from Mfualatown. Soly and Iris think they'll be seeing giraffe and zebra from Granny Thela's front door.

Their only fright comes when Mrs. Tafa drops by at bedtime. “Leo's taking me to the hairdresser's at the crack of dawn,” she says. “But he'll have me back to see you off by lunchtime.”

“Lunchtime!” Iris wails. “We may be gone by then!”

Mrs. Tafa laughs. “Not if I know Obi Palme!”

Obi Palme is the bus man who drives the open-air flatbed truck between Bonang and Mfualatown, the trading center by the entrance to Mfuala National Park. Officially, he's supposed to leave Mfualatown at dawn, pass through Tiro by breakfast, and get here by noon, returning through
Tiro by supper, and to the park by dusk. In real life, Mr. Palme shows up midmorning to swap stories and smoke cigarettes with the merchants setting up their stalls at the park gates. He hardly ever gets away till noon. And since he stops everywhere to let folks hop on and off the flatbed, we're lucky if he drives through Bonang by midafternoon and gets to Tiro by midnight. There's even times he's rolled back to Mfualatown the following morning because of trouble with the engine—or because he's run out of gas, on account of the fuel lines leak and the gauge doesn't work. At least there's never a problem with the fan belt; Mr. Palme keeps a bag of old pantyhose in his glove compartment for emergency repairs. He gets them from friends in the hotels who fish them out of tourists' wastebaskets. “At least, that's the story he tells his wife,” Mrs. Tafa winks.

 

In a blink it's morning. Departure day. As I rub my eyes, I feel a glow. Maybe my dream—Tiro, the loss of loved ones—came from the shock of finding Mama at the ruin. Going back to Tiro, seeing my relatives, I'll have the chance to face down that horror: to bury the past in the present.

Right after breakfast, Mr. Selalame bicycles by on his way to class. “All the best.” He gives me three cards: one
from my students with their names in crayon on a piece of construction paper; the second from the teachers at my school; and the third from him and his wife. Next thing I know, he's halfway down the street, waving goodbye. The trip suddenly feels real. My stomach flips.

Neighbors drop over all morning. The kids are skittish as chickens before a storm. They chase each other around the outhouse, get me to give them rides in the wheelbarrow, and brag to Esther about the adventures they're going to have. Then they hug her as if they're never going to see her again, and fret about whether Mrs. Tafa will be back from downtown before we leave.

As it turns out, the Tafas don't return till early afternoon, but it doesn't matter; the bus is still an idea, somewhere in the distance. As Mr. Tafa helps Mrs. Tafa out of his truck, Soly and Iris race to see who can get to them first. Mrs. Tafa drops to her knees so she won't be knocked down. They crawl over her like ants on a mango pit.

“Careful of Auntie Rose's new hairdo!” I holler, as her kerchief comes undone.

“You think I'd really go to the hairdresser's on a day like today?” Mrs. Tafa hoots. “Where's your sense, girl? I went shopping! Leo, get those wicker baskets over to Chanda's.”
She pats her forehead with the kerchief. “We can't have you showing up in Tiro empty-handed, can we? What would your mama say?”

Mrs. Tafa's bought us each a new set of clothes. “By the end of the ride you'll be plenty dusty,” she says. “Wet your dirty tops in the bathroom sink at the last rest stop, wipe yourselves clean, and change into these. First impressions are important.” Mrs. Tafa's also bought gifts for my relatives. New socks for my uncles and Grampa, pot holders for my aunties and Granny, plus two tins of gingered pears, a jar of marmalade, and a box of chocolates.

“This last little gift has seen better days, but it's still in good working order,” Mrs. Tafa says. She hands me a small cardboard box. Inside is her old cell phone patched with sticky tape. “It's topped up for an hour.”

I'm overwhelmed. “I can't accept this.”

“Nonsense. The Mister's got me a new one,” she says. “Besides, I won't have you children getting homesick. If ever you feel like a one-legged dog at the races, home is only a call away. To tell the truth, getting your news'll be good for me.”

I hesitate, but then I look at Esther. I miss her already. Making sure she's all right will help me rest easy.

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” Mrs. Tafa beams. “Esther here's been kind enough to program my number. She's also programmed the number of the general dealer in Tiro, so you can check for truck delays the day you return. Promise you won't waste my time card calling him for groceries.”

“I promise.”

“And no excuses about being in a dead zone, you hear? There's towers all through the north to keep those fancy safari camps hooked to civilization. And another thing—”

“Enough, Auntie,” I laugh. “I'll call.”

“See that you do.” She picks a twig from Soly's hair, then licks her thumb and wipes a smudge from Iris's forehead. “Mind you behave.”

The truck to Tiro rounds the corner. We run to the side of the street and flag it down. “Take care of these three, Obi,” Mrs. Tafa says to our driver. Mr. Palme grunts and helps us scramble up onto the flatbed.

Mrs. Tafa's face trembles. Her eyes embrace us. “Be good.”

“Don't worry, we will.” For a second, it's like saying goodbye to Mama.

The truck lurches forward. We blow kisses. Bonang disappears in a cloud of dust.

W
HENEVER
M
RS
. T
AFA
drives Mr. Tafa's truck, she goes so fast you expect to be killed, thrown through the windshield or crushed in a pileup. The ride to Tiro with Mr. Palme is different. All I expect to die from is boredom.

For the first hour, the flatbed is packed with other travelers, but they've mostly left by the time we pass the Kawkee turnoff. Some have hopped off with their fishing poles to try their luck in the river and wetlands above the dam. Others have headed into the village to visit relatives, or to see Dr. Chilume, the herbal doctor whose farms are a short way off.

The farther we get from Bonang, the more the highway's in need of repair. Soon the paving disappears and we're driving on dirt. Gravel's been laid down on either side of the villages dotting our route to protect against erosion, but
most of it's been washed away anyway, along with chunks of the road.

An hour north of Kawkee, the highway narrows to a single lane. The truck slows to a crawl as we wait for mule carts and bicycles to move to the side. We stop entirely while our driver, Mr. Palme, argues with an oncoming tractor about who should back up. The tractor ends up perched on the edge of nothing. We pass, and it regains the road, as the dirt shoulder crumbles.

After about an hour, the highway widens back to two lanes. Rainy season is over, and already the smaller streams that run into the ditches have started to disappear. The sedges and reeds beside their banks are turning yellow in the hardening mud. We jolt through miles and miles of scrub brush. Trees close to the road have been chopped for kindling. In the distance, though, we can see scattered mopane, acacia, and baobab trees.

Soly and Iris love the baobabs. They don't get to see many in town. I let them peer through Mr. Lesole's binoculars at the squat, bulbous trunks, some over sixty feet around and a thousand years old, their topknot of branches looking like a tangle of roots. They giggle as I tell them stories about how the baobab got its shape: “Once, the baobab was the most beautiful tree in the forest. But it wouldn't stop bragging. So
God said, ‘I'll teach you not to boast.' He ripped it up and stuck it back into the ground headfirst, with its ugly roots up in the air for all the other trees to laugh at.” Or my favorite: “God gave every animal a seed to plant. He gave the baobab seed to a hyena, but the hyena was so stupid he planted it upside down, and it grew that way.”

“The baobab tree got its revenge, though, didn't it?” Soly says. “When it gets big and old, it goes hollow, and people can hide inside from the hyena.”

“From lions, too,” Iris adds, not to be outdone. “From everything.”

“That's right,” I smile and stroke the top of their heads.

The sun starts to set as we reach the rest stop at Rombala, the halfway point in our journey. There are a couple of picnic tables next to the gas pumps. I packed some maize bread and dried chicken, but after bouncing around all day in the back of the pickup, none of us is hungry. We settle our stomachs with water from the roadside pump.

Rombala is a trading post with an army base nearby. It's got its own paper,
The Rombala Gazette
, that publishes once a week. A few crumpled sheets from last week's edition have blown against a leg of our table. Before I toss them in the garbage, I check to see if there's anything interesting to read.

There's a front-page story about the town's new chief.
She's the niece of the past chief, and the first woman ever chosen for the post.

There's also news about a hollowed-out pumpkin found smashed near the home of a local spirit doctor. Nearby, the neighbors discovered a necklace of beads carved from the stalk. The spirit doctor says a rival used the pumpkin to fly over his property to spy; the flying pumpkin fell to earth owing to a spell he cast. His rival has a broken leg. The rival says he broke it tumbling off a ladder, not from crashing in a pumpkin, but the timing is considered suspicious. Mrs. Gulubane should move to Rombala, I think. The deeper we go into north country, the more folks believe in magic.

Turning the page, I see the headline “National pact with Ngala.” There's a photograph of General Mandiki. He's standing on a pile of headless bodies, brandishing an AK-47, a necklace of human jawbones over his medals. Child soldiers with machetes pose at his side. Mandiki looks like a crocodile. Cold, dead eyes. Leathery skin. Finger stubs with thick, fungal nails. An extended jaw with a wall of crooked teeth. The rumor is, when he was president of Ngala, he ripped those teeth from the mouths of his enemies and had them implanted in his own.

According to the article under the picture, the Ngala army has marched into its national park. A sweep
uncovered Mandiki's main camp, but he and the rebels had already scattered. The article says they're probably moving in small raiding parties of about twenty. Ngala has no idea where any of them may be heading. Our government's pledged that any of Mandiki's men who slip across our border will be shot on sight.

The rest of the paper is announcements: a buy-and-sell column, a calendar of upcoming events, and a posting of births, marriages, and deaths. The dead are almost all in their twenties and thirties. According to the gazette, they all passed of pneumonia, cancer, and TB. There's no mention of AIDS.

It's too dark to read anymore. I throw the paper in the trash and get Soly and Iris back on the truck, as Mr. Palme loads new passengers. There's a couple of peddlers, a barefoot man with a toothbrush sticking out of the pocket of a filthy nylon jacket, a middle-aged couple with two sacks of sweet potatoes, and a granny with three small grandchildren, two chickens, and a goat.

The men sit at the end of the flatbed and smoke. The granny sits with her grandkids and livestock, staring ahead, eyes vacant. When the baby cries, she gives it her thumb to suck. The couple sit near the cab with Iris and Soly and me.

Iris and Soly are worn out. They hug the potato sacks and fall asleep. I try to sleep too, resting my head on my pillow of clothes. But lying flat makes the truck's rattling worse. I sit up, propping myself against the back of the cab. Somehow I drift off. When I come to, the couple with the sacks are gone, and Soly and Iris are wide awake. I keep my eyes closed, curious about what they talk about when they think I'm not listening.

“Granny Thela has long yellow teeth,” Iris declares. “They're so long she uses them to scratch her chin. Grampa Thela is worse. He has porridge brains. When he tips his head over, the porridge spills out of his ears, and that's what they eat for breakfast.”

“Ewww.”

“Then there's Auntie Lizbet and her funny shoe. Her left foot is really a hoof.”

“I remember the hoof,” Soly says solemnly.

“And remember her tail, swishing under her dress? And the sharp little horns under her bonnet? Auntie Lizbet's a witch. If you're not careful, she'll come in the middle of the night and eat you.”

“She will not.”

“Will too. And then she'll throw up.”

I open my eyes. “What are you two talking about?”

“Nothing,” Iris says. “Just things.”

“Is Auntie Lizbet a witch?” Soly asks.

“No,” I say with a sharp look at Iris. “But little girls who tell lies grow lizard scales, and nobody wants to go near them.”

“Ha ha ha,” Iris yawns, and crosses her eyes at me.

We rumble along the road in silence. Soly snuggles into my side. “How much longer?”

“Not much.”

We pull into Shawshe, the last rest stop before Tiro. I get us cleaned up and changed in the garage washroom, while Mr. Palme fills a soft tire. He honks his horn for us to leave. Another hour, we'll be in Tiro.

There's a nip in the night air. I'm covered in goose-bumps. I hold Soly and Iris close and rub their arms to keep them warm.

“Remember,” I tell them, “we're going to be guests. So be polite. Make Mama proud. Give Granny and Grampa big hugs. And whatever you do, don't stare at Auntie Lizbet's club foot.”