I wish I didn’t have this stupid cell phone. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have had that conversation. I wouldn’t be feeling so…so…I put on a smile and return to the front yard. Pako’s come over; he’s playing with Soly. Iris is still skipping for Auntie Lizbet. Auntie’s clapping along, singing a skipping chant I’d half-forgotten from when I was little.
“I’m going to the general dealer’s to say hello to Mr. Kamwendo,” I call across the yard. “Can I get you anything?”
“No,” Auntie says. “Just be back in time for lunch.”
Iris is distracted. She trips. “I was at two hundred and thirty,” she shouts at me. “I was setting a record. You wrecked it!”
“Sorry.”
Auntie gives me a stern look and turns with a smile to Iris. “We’ll start a new record. How’s that?”
“All right,” Iris fumes, “but it won’t be the same.”
Mr. Kamwendo is sitting under the tin awning in front of his store, at the center of a semicircle of men who’ve dropped by for a jaw. Music from his radio blares through the screen door. He’s chewing tobacco, an old spittoon at the side of his chair. He gets up slowly and waves as I approach. “What can I do for you?”
“Not much. I just came by to see if there were any letters for out our way.”
He chuckles. “No more than usual.”
“Actually,” I toe the dirt, “I was wondering if you’ve heard any news from Mfuala Park.”
“Not that I recollect.” He turns to the others. “You boys heard anything from the park?” They shrug no.
“Nothing about poachers?” I ask.
Mr. Kamwendo spits a drool of tobacco juice into his spittoon and taps the corner of his mouth with his juice rag. “There’s a trial about to start in Shawshe, if that’s what you mean. Eight fellas from Mfualatown shot a hippo, what, maybe six months ago. A ranger was in on it. Quite the operation. Split the meat amongst five families. Had a foreign buyer for the head. They’re lookin’ at two years each, six for the ranger.”
“No,” I say, “this trouble, it’d be from a couple of days ago.”
He shakes his head. “Then sorry. Haven’t heard a thing.”
“Nothing about the Kenje River Safari Camp?”
“Why?” Mr. Kamwendo teases. “You planning a holiday with the tourists? You should’ve seen a travel agent back in Bonang.” The men laugh.
I laugh too, then: “It’s just, there’s a rumor they had a problem with poachers.”
“Not so’s I know. But we never hear much bad from the camps. They don’t want to scare away the tourists. Neither does the government.” He shakes his head. “Gotta say, though, it don’t sound right. Poachers, they tend to stick clear of the camps. Park’s so damn big, why risk gettin’ caught? Them boys in Shawshe are in for one helluva ride.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Anyway,” he smiles, “if you want my advice, don’t fret. There’s always plenty of stories around. If poaching’s up, they’ll hire more rangers. Plant a few soldiers by the park towns. Whatever it is, it’ll sort itself out.”
I work hard around the yard all afternoon. Granny tells me to relax, but I have to keep busy to clear my head. I want to ring Mr. Lesole, to know what’s happened for sure. But I’m afraid. Even if I could get his number, would the soldiers let him take my call? And if they did, what would I say?
We eat around the firepit and watch the sun go down. My uncles and aunties come out and join us. My mind’s a mess, but I try to be good company. No one can know what I’ve heard. Especially not Iris and Soly. Like Mr. Kamwendo says, there’s always stories around. Why make folks crazy with rumors?
Time passes. Uncle Enoch tells a joke about two porcupines in love. He laughs so hard, bits of maize cake fly from his mouth. We laugh at his joke, and at him laughing at his joke. Auntie Agnes and Auntie Ontibile sing a folk song about the coming of the rains. We sing along. Uncle Chisulo drums a beat on his cheeks, chest, and thighs.
All the while, Iris sits cross-legged on the ground beside Auntie Lizbet. During a lull, she rests her head against Auntie’s knee. “Auntie,” she asks into the silence, “do you ever miss not being a mama?”
“Oh, sometimes, I guess,” Auntie says simply, staring at the coals in the firepit. “But if I was a mama, all my love would have to go to my children, wouldn’t it?”
Iris thinks a bit. “I guess it would.”
“Then I wouldn’t have any left over, would I?”
“No, I guess you wouldn’t.”
“So maybe this is best,” Auntie says, stroking Iris’s hair. “This way I have lots of love, all stored up, to give to little girls who don’t have mamas.”
A pause.
“Little girls like me?”
“Little girls like you.”
Iris smiles. She doodles a finger on Auntie’s club foot. “When I grow up, Auntie, I want to be just like you.”
“Hush now, hush. Don’t wish for that.”
“But I do.”
We sit in comfortable silence and watch the smoke drift skyward. Before long, we hear Nelson and his older brothers riding back from their cattle post. Their noise carries from over a field away. By the sounds of things, his brothers are into the booze.
Granny goes to the road and flags down their mule cart. “A little reminder. Tomorrow’s the big feast to honor my grandchildren’s visit. I want you boys here in good time.”
“We’ll do our best,” says the one with the hip flask.
Granny wags her finger. “I want more than that. Before the celebration, our families have important business to discuss. Understood? Nelson, if your brothers get lazy, you crack the whip.”
His brothers laugh: “It’s us who crack the whip.”
I catch Nelson sliding me a look. When he sees me seeing him looking, he snaps his head back to the road and flicks the reins. “Don’t you worry, Mrs. Thela,” he says as the mules move forward, “we’ll pen the cattle late afternoon.”
“That’s my Nelson.” Granny waves, and returns to our circle.
“You’re having a feast on our account?” I ask.
“Of course,” Granny says. “Your being here is important. To all of us.”
I lower my eyes. “Thank you.”
“Not a word of that. We’re the ones grateful.” Granny hesitates. We listen to the crackle of the fire as she struggles for the right words. “Sometimes things happen in a family,” she says slowly. “Terrible things. Things that tear a family apart. We go to the ancestors for wisdom. But sometimes our healing comes through the young. A new generation gives hope that the sins of the past can be forgiven. That the mamas and papas, the grannies and grampas, can find peace when they think to the future.”
Everyone stares at me. This time I’m the one who should say something. But what? I take a deep breath. I look each of them in the eye. “My brother, my sister, and I—we’re glad to be here,” I say. “At first, we were afraid. For that, I’m sorry. You’ve made us welcome. You’ve made this home. Whatever problems there’ve been in our family, I swear I’ll do my best to put them right.”
“Dear girl. Dear, dear girl.” Granny offers her hands. I kneel down and kiss them. She kisses my forehead in return. “Bless you, child of my child. I give you my blessing.”
Murmurs of “bless you, bless you” from my aunties and uncles, as Granny blesses Iris and Soly too.
“Tomorrow will be such a celebration,” Granny says. “Tomorrow, Chanda, you must take your ease. No raking the yard, no fetching water, no helping with the meal like you did this afternoon. Reflect. Dream of your life to come.”
I feel shy. I look over to the Malungas. They’ve rolled into their yard. I watch as Nelson’s brothers stagger to their homes and yell for their wives to put food on the table. Is there going to be a fight? Do I go over? Ruin everything here? Soly puts a worried finger to his lips. Then—laughter behind the Malunga doors. My shoulders relax. Everything’s fine. At least for now.
15
I GO TO bed. Granny’s blessing, the love of the aunties and uncles, fills me with such peace. Nothing can change the past. But can the past be forgiven? Can forgiveness change the future? I think of Soly and Iris. For their sake, I hope so. I’m all the family they’ve got. They deserve more. Like Mrs. Tafa says, they need a granny, a grampa, aunties and uncles, cousins.
I fall asleep, filled with the wonderful things that can follow from Granny’s blessing. But sometime in the night, I’m not sure when, my old dream starts, like a storm cloud rolling across a sunny day: As always, things begin well. Mama is alive. We’re at Granny and Grampa Thela’s cattle post, near the abandoned camp where I found her. Mama smiles at me, orchids in her hair. I want us to stay like this, but I know what’s coming. “Wake up,” I tell myself. “Wake up, before it’s too late!”
This time, I do. I sit up, heart beating fast. I’m safe in my room.
What time is it? I rub my eyes, get out of bed, and step outside in my housecoat. It’s not quite night, but it’s not dawn either. The air is a dark, dusty blue. I can make out the shapes of the houses, the granary, the wash place, and the outhouse. My aunties’ll be up soon, getting my uncles ready for the cattle post.
I shiver. The cattle post. The abandoned ruin. Mama.
A second ago, I was fine. Now everything’s raw. I see me when I went to Mama. How I held her. Brought her home. How she died. Mama. Mama is gone. Forever. But the pain’s still here. Now. Six months later. I want it to stop. Please, let it stop.
A need overwhelms me. To go where I found her. I don’t know why. I just have to be where she was.
I move fast. If Granny or Auntie Lizbet find out, they’ll stop me. I tiptoe into the house, find a cup, a bar of soap, and a towel. Then I hurry back outside, fetch a pail of water from the cistern, and go to the reed wash place beside the outhouse. The abandoned camp—it’s an evil place to my relatives. But to me, it’s holy. Sacred. I have to be clean.
“You’re thinking crazy,” says a voice inside me. “You don’t believe in superstition. Spirits. Ritual.” I know. But right now, no matter what my head says, my heart tells me this is important.
I pour water over myself with a cup from the pail, wipe myself with soap, then sponge, rinse, and dry. In no time, I’m back in my room. I change under my sheet in the dark. Soly rouses. “What are you doing?”
“Shh. Nothing. Tell Granny I’ll be home by lunch.”
“All right.” He’s back asleep. Will he remember to tell Granny? Probably not. What if she worries? She won’t. She’ll think I’m having a walk, reflecting like she told me to. Which I am, sort of. And anyway, I won’t be gone for long.
I head across the yard. Auntie Ontibile and Auntie Agnes have lit their morning lamps. I see them move about in the glow pouring through the slits of their front shutters. My uncles stretch in their nightshirts.
There’s still no sun, but the dark is lifting. The sky is gray-blue. A rooster breaks the silence. I’m on the road now, heading toward the general dealer’s and the highway. There’s no one else as far as I can see. Before, when I went to find Mama, I drove out with a nurse and helper from the Tiro health clinic. This time I’m alone. Alone on a country road. Am I insane? This is something Esther would do.
I should turn back. I should ask my uncles to take me. No. They were the ones who brought her there. They’d be shamed. Besides, my uncles’ll be coming to the post any minute. If I run into trouble, they’ll be right behind me.
But what if a car drives by? A man could grab me, take off, rape me. No, not if he doesn’t see me. If I hear a car, I’ll hide in the ditch till it’s passed. Besides, I have my cell phone in my front pocket. If a car stops, I’ll do like Mrs. Tafa. I’ll yell their license plate number into my cell at the top of my lungs. Then we’ll see who runs.
I relax when I get to the turn at Mr. Kamwendo’s. A few other folks are off to an early start. Once I hit the highway, there’s a cart or a bicycle every few hundred yards. I fall in line, walk north for about twenty minutes. At last I reach the giant baobab on my left. There’s a dirt trail heading into the bush. This is the cutoff used by my uncles, the Malungas, and the other families on nearby posts.
I slip across the highway, run a few yards up the trail, crouch, and look back. The carts and bicycles that were behind me pass by. No one’s following me. Good.
I get up and follow the path. The rainy seasons have made new twists and turns in the trail since I was last here, and some of the trees have been cut down. All the same, the land comes back to me. It’s like going downtown in Bonang and finding buildings collapsed, or a mall going up, or stores with new owners. No matter how different things are, I’m never lost. The map of it’s in my bones.
I get to the three boulders that mark the southeast corner of Granny and Grampa’s post. The abandoned camp is a hard walk into the scrub brush to my right. The new camp is a mile farther down the trail. It was built far away for a reason. The curse of the ancestors.
The story is like this:
When Mama refused to marry Tuelo Malunga and ran off with Papa, Granny and Grampa offered Tuelo a marriage with her younger sister, Auntie Amanthe. That stopped trouble between the families. But it didn’t stop problems at the post. The well water went bad. Babies got sick. Granny and Grampa called in the spirit doctor. He sacrificed a cow, chanted incantations, and sprinkled magic powder in front of doorways, under eaves, and across the pathways leading to the compound. But things got worse. Within the year, Auntie Amanthe was dead. Tuelo Malunga brought her body back to Granny and Grampa. His family didn’t want it buried on their post; they said that it had been touched by a curse. The spirit doctor said they were right. Mama’s disobedience had shamed the ancestors; they’d cursed the compound because of her. He said unless the camp was moved, all the cattle would die and every new baby would follow Auntie Amanthe into the ground.
Six months ago when I came to find Mama, Granny said our relatives had taken her to the abandoned camp to hide her sickness from the village. But I think there was another reason. For over twenty years, they’d blamed Mama for their bad luck. I think they returned her to the abandoned camp so the curse would die along with her, in the place where it started, where the evil first showed itself.
Near the three boulders, the cattle on the post graze freely, and for the first half mile I navigate quickly over a network of tracks; but my uncles and cousins have steered the cows away from the abandoned camp, and the end of my journey is hard. The grasses may be dying back, but they’re still up to my waist, and I have to take care not to run into thornbushes or trip in nest holes burrowed by lizards, birds, and bush mice.
Every so often I check the sun to gauge my direction. I’m also helped by the old cart path that runs off the main trail. When the path was in use, the cart wheels rutted the ground, and the rains broadened and deepened the furrows. Now that they’re overgrown, they could be mistaken for old streambeds. But I know what they really are—ghost tracks leading to Mama.
The brush and the grasses end. I’m at the camp.
The ruin where I found Mama is straight ahead. All that remains is the crumbling outline of where the mud walls used to be, and the ring of mopane poles that kept them in place. Some of the poles have toppled. Others stand like flagpoles at the center of termite mounds.
I go to where I found her. I lie in the spot where she lay and close my eyes. “Mama,” I murmur. “Mama, it’s Chanda. I’m here. Tell me what to do.”
I don’t know what I’m expecting. Perhaps the feel of her presence? Or, when I open my eyes, to see the stork from my dreams? Whatever I was hoping, it doesn’t happen. When I open my eyes, I don’t see anything
unusual. Just things. Ordinary things. And then—a revelation that dawns like the still quiet of sunrise. These things I’m looking at, they aren’t ordinary at all. They’re the things Mama saw while she waited to die.
To the right, more ruins: a remembrance of the shacks of my aunties and uncles. I think of the life that was shared there, the laughter, the joy and pain. Beyond my feet, the enormous termite mound and the tumbledown pole fence that penned the cattle; I picture the cows wandering home at dusk, without a clock or a minder. Then far on my left, a patch of river rocks, marking the graves of my ancestors, buried here on the land before the village cemetery was built. Auntie Amanthe’s rock is in clear view.
When I found Mama, her mind was gone. She was talking to Auntie Amanthe’s spirit. Talking as if Auntie Amanthe was alive. She talked to her in the Tiro clinic van too. “Don’t marry Tuelo,” she said. “There’ll be bad luck. I know things.” Was Auntie Amanthe with us after all? Can spirits come out of the ground? No. What am I thinking?
I suddenly notice something else. I leap to my feet. Turn in all directions.
The camp is in a clearing. When I was young, it didn’t seem strange, and when I came for Mama I was too upset to notice anything. But now I see with new eyes. This is no ordinary clearing. It’s as if someone—or something—has drawn a circle around the outskirts of the camp. Beyond the circle, the earth is alive with vegetation. But inside, even after years of abandonment, there’s not a single living thing. Not a tree, not a bush, not even a blade of grass. It’s like I’m standing at the center of death.
Enough. There’s always a reason for things. At least that’s what Mr. Selalame says. Maybe the earth was poisoned. Maybe even poisoned by the spirit doctor to prove his power with the dead. But reason can’t explain the tingling in my forehead. The hair rising on my neck.
Chanda's Wars Page 8
