Chanda's Wars (8 page)

“G
ET AWAY FROM
me, you sonovabitch!” I grab fistfuls of ants and sand and throw them at the man's face. He steps away. I scramble toward the path. He grabs me from behind.

“Hey, there, city girl,” he laughs. “Settle down or you'll get hurt.”

I know that voice. “Nelson?”

Nelson lets go of me. I stumble back ten feet and stare at him, brushing ants and dirt off my skirt. He's wearing a red bandanna around his neck, loose trousers, and a baggy shirt. A few of the top buttons are missing, exposing a muscled chest. I'll bet he cut them off on purpose, for the girls.

“What are you doing here?” I demand.

He flashes a row of straight white teeth. “Your granny asked me to find you. Your sister said you'd disappeared.”

“I didn't disappear. I told my brother I'd be back by lunch.”

“Who cares?” His voice goes dead earnest. “Do you know the trouble you could be in right now? A girl alone in the bush?”

“I was careful.”

“Careful? You're not careful. You're a city girl!”

If I argue, I'll get mad. If I get mad, I'll act like an idiot. “Since you followed me,” I say calmly, “you'll know I'm right. I was never in danger.”

“I didn't follow you. Your uncles left before you were missed. Why do you think your granny came to me?”

“If you didn't follow me, how did you know where to find me?”

“Easy.” He picks a blade of grass. “I tracked you.”

“That's impossible. There were too many others on the same route.”

“So?” he grins. “There's a trick for that. Someday, I'll tell you, if you're nice.” He chews the end of the grass. “I've tracked things my whole life. Stray cows, city girls—it's the same thing.”

“You're saying I'm a cow?”

“No.” He squinches his nose. “Cows are smarter.”

“So I'm a cow, only
stupider
.”

“Sure.” He sweeps his arm across the barren campsite. “Look at this place. What cow would be stupid enough to come here?”

“Is that supposed to be funny?”

“Not as funny as you,” he smirks. “You should see yourself. This big stuck-up city girl with ants crawling out of her nose.”

“Stop calling me ‘city girl.'”

“How about ‘little girl'?”

“Don't call me ‘little' or ‘girl' either. You're only seventeen yourself.”

“Whatever you say, cow child.”

“Goodbye, Nelson. I'm going home.”

He runs his fingers over his hair. “Not without me.”

“Yes, without you. I know I'm breaking your heart, country boy, but you're obviously too good for me.” I throw my shoulders back and start down the old cart path. Nelson follows, a steady ten feet behind me. I whirl around. “Go away.”

“Sorry, cow child. I promised your granny I'd see you home.”

I glare. Nelson smiles. If only I could spit like Iris.

 

We reach the highway. There's a whirring in the sky, a rumble on the ground. Three military helicopters fly over us, leading a convoy of army jeeps. They're headed toward Mfuala Park.

I want to keep Nelson at a distance, but my nerves won't let me. “We didn't see any soldiers on the way up,” I say. “Is this normal?”

Nelson shrugs. “Up here, the army comes and goes like the seasons. If you ask me, it's good to have soldiers in the bush around Mfualatown. Especially now we've signed the friendship pact with Ngala.”

“You know about the friendship pact?”

“Of course. Do you think I'm stupid?”

I hesitate.

He gives me a fierce look. “You city folks think we're all stupid in the country. Well guess what. We've got radio and weeklies. I read
The Rombala Gazette
at the dealer's when it's in.” He sees my surprise. “Yes, I can read, cow child. I can write a bit too, even figure out the cost of cattle feed. I have grade six, you know.”

“I didn't mean to insult you.”

“I don't care what you meant.”

A second convoy passes. I bite my lip. Nelson is
amused. “Those jeeps really scare you, don't they? You, a girl who walks alone to the post at dawn?”

“I'm not used to them, is all.”

“Well relax. If I was the government, I'd send lots of soldiers to the park too. And I'd hoist the flag at the private safari camps. A show of force is good. It warns Mandiki not to cross the border.”

I try to hold my tongue. But my fear blurts out anyway: “What if he's already crossed?”

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said. What if Mandiki's crossed the border? What if his rebels are in our park?”

Nelson sighs like I'm an idiot. “We'd know.”

“How?”

“A government plane patrols the border every day. They'd be spotted.”

“A lot you know. The Mfuala National Park is over ten thousand square miles. It'd be like spotting mice in savannah.”

“Once they're in the bush, sure,” he agrees. “But first, they'd have go through a mountain pass. They couldn't risk it by night. They'd have to use torches, and the light would give away their position.
That leaves the day. And by day they'd be exposed.”

“No, they wouldn't. The Mfuala peaks are covered in cloud.”

“Who cares? The air force has heat sensors.”

“What good's a heat sensor over a place filled with wildlife? It can't tell if it's picking up rebels, lions, kudus, or bush buck. Look at Ngala Park. Mandiki hid undetected for six years.”

Nelson twirls in exasperation. “All right. Fine. You want the best proof Mandiki hasn't crossed the border? Here it is: Nobody's missing their lips and tongues.”

I start to shake. I gasp for air. I can't stop.

“Sorry if that upsets you,” Nelson says, “but the rebels have mutilated folks from the very beginning. They do it to keep them from talking. They do hands, too, if the person can write. I thought a genius like you would know that.”

“I do.” I squeeze my arms. “I have a neighbor who works for the Kenje River Safari Camp. I heard the army flew him home. Soldiers are guarding his house. He's being questioned. There's a rumor his tongue's been ripped out by poachers. But what if it isn't poachers? What if it's Mandiki?”

Nelson looks at me in wonder. “Whoa! You don't even
know for sure your neighbor's been hurt. You don't know why he's being questioned either. A lot of poaching rings have someone on the inside. There's a case right now in Shawshe. How do you know your neighbor hasn't been setting up kills? Maybe that's why he's being held.”

“No. Mr. Lesole hates poachers. He reports them.”

“That's what he says, anyway,” Nelson snorts. “Even if he reports them, so what? He could be doing it to cut down the competition. Or to throw off suspicion.”

“How dare you attack Mr. Lesole!”

“I'm not. I'm just saying, don't jump to conclusions.” He rolls his eyes. “I mean, listen to yourself. You hear a rumor from hundreds of miles away. A single rumor about poachers. And suddenly, your little brain sees rebels running all over the countryside. You really must enjoy scaring yourself.”

I have to admit, when he puts it that way, I feel pretty foolish.

Nelson speaks slowly, mouthing the words like I'm a two-year-old. “Mandiki is in Ngala. He's been there for six years. It's where he's going to stay. If he's crazy enough to cross the border, those soldiers you saw will be there to stop him. Right?”

“I guess so.”

“You guess so?”

“All right. You're right.”

“I'm always right,” he laughs. “Those army convoys mean security. Forty miles of security. Don't you forget it.”

W
E'RE BACK IN
Tiro by midmorning. Nelson's talked all the way home. Apparently, he's an expert on everything. The country. The city. The army. The rebels. The meaning of life. He's so full of himself I could throw up.

Granny claps her hands when she sees us. “Thanks for getting my girl home safe,” she says to Nelson. “Remember to get your brothers home too. Early and sober. There's important business to discuss before the celebration.”

“Sure thing, Mrs. Thela.” Nelson tosses me a wink and runs backward down the road, throwing Granny and me elaborate waves.

“That boy's trying to impress you,” Granny laughs.

I raise my eyebrow. “Trying.”

“Good girl,” Granny smiles. “Keep him guessing.”

A pause. I give Granny a sidelong glance. “I'm sorry I made you worry.”

I expect a lecture on selfishness, but it doesn't come. It's as if Granny wants nothing to break the goodwill of last night's blessing and this evening's celebration. All she says is: “No harm done. But next time, for the sake of these white hairs, have an auntie or uncle go with you.” She gives my arm a friendly pat. “Come, you'll want a nap after your walk.”

“I should help to get things ready.”

“Not a word of that. Tonight is in your honor. I want you as fresh, rested, and beautiful as you can be.”

She leads me through the yard. Everyone nods greetings as we pass. Auntie Lizbet is adding bright beads to the ends of Iris's cornrows. They're on a bench next to the firepit, where Auntie Agnes is turning a goat on a spit. My sister Lily sits nearby, baby Abednego strapped to her waist. She wraps carrots, sweet potatoes, and pumpkin in damp leaves to slow-roast in the hot ash. Meanwhile, Auntie Ontibile is decorating the clotheslines with ends of bright cotton, old balls of foil, and tin cans that have been pressed flat and cut into the shapes of trees and stars.

I look around. “Where's Soly?”

“With Pako,” Granny says. “I expect they're at the cemetery. What a good boy. Always paying respects to his papa.”

If she only knew.

 

As promised, Nelson gets his older brothers home in good time. A change of shirt and they come over with Mrs. Malunga. Their wives remain behind with their children and Pako. Soly and Iris are with them too. Iris wanted to stay with Auntie Lizbet. “You can sit on my lap at supper,” Auntie smiled, “but first, us grownups have things to talk about.”

I'm not sure why the family wants to include me in the discussion. I know nothing about their goings-on. Still, it's a compliment to be counted with the elders, so I pretend to be happy about it, even though I expect to be bored.

The Malungas praise the preparations. Both families' tables have been set together and are piled with platters of goat meat, pots of vegetables, bowls of spiced tomato sauce, and fresh maize bread. For dessert, there's a basket of tangerines and a tin of Mrs. Tafa's gingered pears. Mrs. Malunga is especially impressed with Auntie Ontibile's cutouts, glinting in the late afternoon sun.

Nelson introduces me to his brothers Samson and Runako. They're not drunk yet, but they're not sober either. I can smell the manure on their skin and trousers. Samson's only in his mid-twenties, but his nose is already bubbled and pocked from alcohol. Runako is a few years younger; his left eye is slightly crossed. They lean in to me more than I'd like. I cross my arms over my chest.

After the welcome chitchat, Uncle Chisulo calls us to the circle of chairs and benches around the firepit. Granny leads me over by the elbow. She sits us across from Nelson and Mrs. Malunga. The others fill in the gaps. Samson and Runako sit together. A space opens up on either side of them. Everyone's too polite to say so, but no one wants to be near the stink. Runako slouches back on his chair; his trousers ride up his calves. There are open sores on his legs. I shudder. I'll bet his wife is sick too.

As the eldest male present—Grampa is indoors sleeping—Uncle Chisulo delivers a formal greeting and invokes the ancestors, praying that our meeting and celebration will be a blessing to all. We murmur agreement, then Uncle Chisulo asks Granny to share a few words.

Granny lifts herself up. “Everyone's had a chance to meet my granddaughter,” she says. “A few of you more than
others.” She nods to Mrs. Malunga and Nelson. “As you know, Chanda's mama passed six months ago, leaving the poor girl with the care of her younger brother and sister, and the maintenance of a large property with a cinder-block house.”

“I've seen it,” Auntie Lizbet interrupts. “The property's as big as her next-door neighbors', and those neighbors have a row of rental rooms. Very nice, if you take my meaning.”

Everyone is impressed. They nod congratulations. My pride gets the better of me. “Auntie's right,” I enthuse. “It's very big. One day, I'm going to build a friendship center on the extra land. It'll be in memory of Mama.”

People shift in their seats. It's like I've thrown a live skunk into the party.

Granny clears her throat. “As I started to say,” she continues, “our Chanda is a hard worker. A good mama to her brother and sister.” Hearty agreement from my aunties.

“Yes indeed,” Lily adds. “My sister may be from the city, but she can cook, clean, carry water, mend clothes, and raise children, as well as me or our aunties. She'll make a fine wife.”

“A fine wife, yes,” Auntie Lizbet nods vigorously. “And
as we've hinted, her property, her large property, means she has money.”

I flush with embarrassment. Auntie means well, but the Malungas will be thinking I'm spoiled. I hurry to correct the impression. “Auntie's mistaken,” I say. “I have no money. If I sell our home, I'd have to buy another.”

Mrs. Malunga understands. “Raising money is difficult for everyone,” she confides. “When my Tuelo passed, he left our herd to our oldest, Samson and Runako. When their children are grown, they'll be able to manage the herd without Nelson and Pako. Those two will need to bring cattle of their own to the post. And the cost of cattle these days…” She raises her hands to the sky.

Samson and Runako could share their inheritance, I think. But they twiddle their thumbs and look in the air, as if things are beyond their control.

“I speak for our family,” Uncle Chisulo says. “Papa is no longer able to farm. Enoch and I have cattle to sell. A sale would give us the money to connect our homes to Tiro's water pipe. We could have indoor sinks and washtubs. Maybe even an indoor toilet. A cattle sale would be good for us.”

Mrs. Malunga nods. “But we have no money to buy.”

I stare at my nails. When can we eat? I begin to realize the talking has stopped. I lookup. For some reason, I'm the focus of attention. Why? I don't know anything about the cattle market or indoor plumbing. I sit up straight. “Well,” I say brightly, “we all have the same problem, then. No money.”

There's an awkward silence. Clearly I've been given a test and failed it. But what was the test? What was the question? I'm confused.

Granny smiles gently. She takes my hand and speaks to the circle. “My grandchildren are all alone in Bonang. No mama, no papa, no aunties, no uncles. Not a living soul. We are their only kin. My dearest Chanda has brought her brother and sister here to us to heal an old family wound. Last night, before god and the ancestors, I gave them my blessing.”

“Granny?”

She squeezes my hand. “Child of my child, last night you spoke of this place as a home for you and the little ones. Your grampa and I, your aunties and uncles, your sister Lily, and our dearest friends the Malungas, would like to make it so.”

“Pardon?”

“Nelson has agreed to accept you as his wife.”

I look at Nelson. He shrugs and looks away.

“My boy says you have a tongue and a temper,” Mrs. Malunga laughs, “but these can be cured.”

I glance from face to face, utterly bewildered.

“Chanda,” Granny says calmly, “the curse—the curse that we will not speak of out of respect for your late mama—this curse began with a marriage denied between our two families. You and Nelson, the next generation, have been brought together to mend this divide. It is a joy for all. No longer must you struggle alone in a far-off city. You can live here, loved and supported, by your family and your new family-to-be. Your property in Bonang is the dowry that will make this union possible. With it, your husband Nelson will be able to buy our cattle—cattle that he needs. And this payment will be used to make life better for all of us.” She pats my knee with affection. “Especially for your aging granny and your Auntie Lizbet with her foot.”

Everyone glows with satisfaction, except Nelson. They lean forward to hear my reaction, suspended from their seats in expectation of my gratitude.

Instead, what explodes out of my mouth is: “NO!”

They stay smiling. Frozen like statues. It's like they haven't heard.

Granny beams. “I know, it's too good to be true, isn't it? But it
is
true. The answer to our prayers.”

“No!” I repeat. “No! Not
my
prayers. My home is in Bonang. I have a job. I have Soly and Iris to raise. And then I want to finish school. Granny, I have dreams.”

My aunties and uncles frown. Then they begin to speak, louder and louder, one over the other: “Your home is with family.” “You've no need of a job.” “Why finish school?” “Why build a center?” “What better dream than a husband?”

“For goodness' sake, Chanda, “Mrs. Malunga declares, “there's no need to fear for Soly and Iris. Nelson will take them in. He's already promised.”

“Even if he didn't, we would,” Auntie Lizbet insists, pounding her cane on the ground.

“No! No!” I'm standing now. Stomping my feet. “Mama gave me that land. She gave it to me in trust. If I sell it for dowry, I'll have nothing. Soly and Iris and I—we'll be dependent forever.”

“Not dependent,” Granny says. “Supported by a loving husband.”

“I don't need a husband. I have my neighbor lady and my best friend.”

“Your neighbor lady has her own problems,” Auntie Lizbet snaps. “As for that slut of a friend: Word has it she's a beggar-whore, face slashed and scarred as a country road.”

“Esther's no whore!” I cry. “Even if she was—better a whore than a Malunga.”

Runako and Samson leap to their feet. “What?”

“She's an ingrate,” Auntie Lizbet rages. “Selfish as her mama!”

“Selfish?” I whirl on Auntie Lizbet. “You'd sell me to a family of brutes for indoor plumbing—and
I'm
selfish?”

“‘A family of brutes'?” Samson raises his fists.

“Beat me! Prove it!” The words fly from my mouth faster than I can stop them. “Mama was afraid of your papa.”

“She was a crazy bitch.”

“Was she? My friend is scarred, yes—but what about the scars in your own family? Mrs. Malunga—how did you lose your teeth? Was it your husband, Tuelo, or one of your big, strong sons?”

“Take that back!” Runako yells.

“No! I've seen you drink. I've heard the fights. I know about the broken bones. Pako's bruises. The way he pounds your papa's grave with a rock.”

“He pounds Papa's grave?”

“Yes! So his spirit will stay in the ground! So it won't rise up and beat him like your papa did when he was alive!”

Samson's eyes blaze red. “Pako?!?” he yells to his yard. “What have you been doing? What have you been saying?”

“You shamed Papa,” Runako roars. “You shamed our family, you little sonovabitch!” He charges across the road, Samson at his heels.

“Pako! Pako!” Mrs. Malunga cries.

We leap to our feet. All of us screaming, “Run, Pako! Run!”