Chanda's Wars

by Allan Stratton

  These days, it’s worse. Mr. Tafa brought her a cell phone from work. It’s practically attached to her head. So now instead of simply yakking at the neighbors, Mrs. Tafa hollers their sins to the world. Folks run when they see her coming. That doesn’t stop her: “There goes Mrs. Bande,” she’ll bellow into the cell. “I’d hide my tail too, if my yard looked like a rummage sale at the dump.” Last week, she got on the local radio call-in show. “I’m at the Nylos’ place on Fourth Street,” she announced. “What a smell! Jacob Nylo should stop chasing young girls and dig out his outhouse.”

  Right now, Mrs. Tafa’s on the cell to her husband, telling him what to pick up at the drugstore on his way home. I pray she doesn’t see me. No such luck. “Why, there’s Chanda,” she hoots at the cell. “The poor thing’s watering her excuse for a garden. Those bean rows are more crooked than Mrs. Gulubane’s teeth. Yoo hoo! Chanda!” I look over. She’s waving at me. I wave back. “Well, I’ve things to do, places to go,” she brays at her husband. “Bye bye.”

  Mrs. Tafa sashays into the yard, struggling to find the cell’s Off button. The trouble is, the buttons are too small for her to see without the little magnifying glass she hides in her sewing bag. She’s always getting wrong numbers. I’ll see her on the street, squinting and poking at the pad, then yelling at the stranger that answers: “Who the hell are you? I never phoned you! Get off my cell, or I’m calling the police!” After a dozen wrong numbers, she’ll pitch it at a tree. No wonder it’s covered in glue, sticky tape, and elastic bands. I’m amazed it’s even working.

  I keep my eyes on my watering in hopes that Mrs. Tafa will leave. Instead, she twirls her parasol and stares at me. I move slowly through the rows. She keeps staring. I pretend to check for aphids. More staring. Finally, when I can’t stand it anymore, she says: “Any trouble last night?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Saw your light. Your light’s been on quite a few nights lately.”

  “Soly’s afraid of the dark,” I shrug.

  Silence. I examine the pale yellow leaves on the squash vine.

  “You’d tell your Auntie Rose if there was a problem, wouldn’t you?”

  Auntie Rose. I hate it when she calls herself that. The name began when I was little. Mama and Papa had moved down from Tiro and settled us into the worker houses at the diamond mine. Mrs. Tafa’s first husband, Meeshak, was a friend on Papa’s shift; they died together with my older brothers in the great cave-in. Mrs. Tafa started acting like we were family. “Calling her Auntie Rose is such a little thing,” Mama said, “and it’d mean so much to her.” So fine, I call her “Auntie Rose” for Mama’s sake.

  “Chanda, dear,” Mrs. Tafa says. “I asked you a question.”

  “Yes, Auntie Rose. If there was a problem, I’d tell you.”

  She dabs her forehead with her hankie. “I’m thinking of your mama, is all. She’d want me to know.”

  I nod. We say our goodbyes. Out in the street, Mrs. Tafa makes a big show of poking her button pad. “Howdy-do, Mr. Mayor,” she blares into the cell. “What a pleasure to find you awake. I trust you’re not hungover?” With that, she sails off on her tour.

  The kids run out the door ready for school, Esther following with my satchel and a small bag of biscuits. I give Soly a hug. Iris glares past me, her hair wrapped in a kerchief. She grabs Magda by the hand and the two skip off, Soly and Sammy close behind kicking a stone between them.

  When I started work at the elementary, I tried to walk with them, but they told me it made them embarrassed in front of their friends. To be honest, going alone is best for me too. I get to ride my bike. Bonang’s a city of eighty thousand; it’s all spread out, and we’re in the far west outskirts. If I have errands to run after class, having wheels is a blessing.

  “I’m going to the Welcome Center this morning,” Esther says as we watch the children turn the corner. “But I’ll be back to feed them lunch and supper. You’ll be late, right? Talking to someone at the secondary?”

  “Please, Esther. Don’t make me tell Mr. Selalame my dream. I don’t want him thinking I’m crazy, or that he made a mistake getting me my job. Please, please, I can’t let him down.”

  “Then talk to your ‘Auntie Rose.’”

  I give her a hard look, grab my satchel, and jam it in my bike carrier. “Keep the stupid biscuits. I’m not hungry.”

  The ride to school is the only peace I get all day. Little Ezekiel Sibanda has smuggled in a carton of shake-shake from his papa’s still. First thing I know, he and a friend are drunk at the back of the class. They fight, I haul them to the front, and they puke on my desk. I spend the rest of the morning wiping up vomit. I spend lunch hour explaining to the principal how I let it happen. Then I’m in the hall with Lena Gambe sobbing on my shoulder about some name-calling. Finally, to top my day, Iris decides to show me who’s boss. She sits backward on her bench, won’t turn around, and dares me to do something about it.

  When the final bell rings and the students spill from the room, I collapse in my chair. I couldn’t see Mr. Selalame now even if I wanted to. I’m too tired. Too, too tired. I’ll wait till after the weekend.

  My eyelids flicker shut. I’m on the road to Tiro. The ditches are rivers of blood. Soly and Iris are swept away.

  My eyes snap open. I can’t breathe. Mr. Selalame. I don’t have a choice.

  3

  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 o
f 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.

  4

  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.”