Chanda's Wars

by Allan Stratton

  The corpses are laid side to side. The last in the row is small. The height of a child. Nelson bites hard on his hand.

  The soldiers uncover the faces one by one. The first is a man with receding hair. A moan rolls through the crowd. Everyone seems to know him. Wait. I know him too.

  “That’s Obi Palme, the bus driver,” Mr. Kamwendo tells the lieutenant.

  Mr. Palme. My insides go cold. I remember him filling up the tire in Shawshe. Now he’s on the ground, eyes wide, mouth open, as if screaming to us from the dead.

  The soldiers continue down the line. At each body we hold our breath, afraid we’ll see someone else we know. The third is a woman. At the sight of her, a man runs forward, beating his chest. “Jeneba! My sister, Jeneba!” Friends hold him back. He collapses.

  The soldiers reach the last body. The child. One of them kneels down. Nelson can’t bear it. He looks away. The cloth is lowered.

  “Nelson,” I gasp. “The child…It’s not Pako.”

  Nelson rocks on his feet. For a second, his eyes fill with joy. Then instant confusion and fear. “If that’s not Pako,” he gulps, “where is he? What’s happened to him?”

  20

  NELSON BOLTS FROM the crowd.

  Others head off too. They scatter in all directions, spreading the news throughout town. Soon I’m alone, except for Mr. Kamwendo and a few others who’ve stayed behind to watch the soldiers sandbag the clinic.

  Nelson’s words ring in my ears. What’s happened to Pako? I have a sick feeling. I sink to the ground. Stick my head between my knees and chant: “ABCDEFG, ABCDEFG.”

  “Chanda?” Mr. Kamwendo squats down beside me. “Chanda, are you all right?”

  My throat’s a rope full of knots. “I—I don’t know. I—I—”

  “Everything’s fine.” He squeezes my shoulder. “You heard the man. It’s bandits. We’ve had ’em before. They’ll run when they see the army.”

  “But what if he’s wrong? What if it’s not bandits?”

  “Who else could it be?”

  I choke out my fear: “Mandiki. The rebels.”

  “What?” Mr. Kamwendo checks to see if anyone’s listening. They aren’t. All the same, he waves his hand to hush me. “Look for trouble, trouble will find you,” he says.

  But I won’t be hushed. I can’t be. Not now that I’ve started. “Two days ago, I asked if you’d heard of any trouble at the Kenje River Safari Camp. The thing is, the man down my street works there. Folks at home say his tongue was cut out.”

  Mr. Kamwendo’s eyes go tight. “It’s you should have your tongue cut out, talking wild like that. You want to start a panic? There’s no reason to think things are any different from what that soldier said.”

  “Really?” I give him a sharp look. “If it’s only bandits, why post soldiers? Or barricade the clinic? Or close the highway? Or shoot-to-kill during curfew?”

  “Better safe than sorry,” he snaps. “You oughta be glad about the troops. They’re here to protect us.”

  “How? They’re barely as old as me.”

  “With an AK-47, it don’t matter if they’re six or sixty.”

  “It matters if they don’t know what they’re doing,” I say. “Our country’s at peace. Our troops have never fought. What’ll they do under fire? They can’t even sandbag.” It’s true. The wall around the clinic is ragged; bags tumble off the top.

  Mr. Kamwendo wipes his forehead with the back of his sleeve. “Enough of that. They’re good boys.”

  “Sure they’re good,” I say. “Good and useless.”

  Mr. Kamwendo gets up. “It’s best you move along,” he says quietly.

  “Mr. Kamwendo?”

  “Shoo. Shoo. I’m too old for bad luck.”

  “What do you mean ‘bad luck’?”

  “You’re like your mama. No respect. Just questions, tales, stuff to scare folks half to death. No wonder your people don’t want you.” He wipes his hands on the back of his pants. “I’ve done good by you. I’ve tried to help out, more fool me. Now move along. Please.” He hurries inside. The screen door bangs shut.

  If folks weren’t looking at me before, they’re looking now.

  “What?” I shout. “What?”

  They stare. Frightened. Suspicious. Angry.

  I start to run.

  My sister Lily’s in her front yard with her baby, talking to a neighbor.

  “Lily!”

  She looks up, waves me off with a hand. “No,” she calls out. “Whatever it is, no.” The neighbor disappears. Lily heads to her house.

  “Lily, wait!” I catch up to her at the door. “The army’s in town. They’ve closed the highway.”

  “So I hear.”

  “Soly, Iris, and me—we’ll need a place to stay.”

  “The children are welcome at Granny’s, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, but they’re with me. Mama put me in charge.”

  “Then take them wherever you want.”

  “I have nowhere to go.”

  “That’s not my problem. You brought this on yourself.” The baby cries. Lily pats its back. “Now excuse me. I’m busy.” She goes inside. I try to follow. She blocks the doorway.

  “Please, Lily,” I say in a small voice. “Take us in. We’re family.”

  “After the way you shamed us?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t want to hear it. This is between you and the elders. I have a place in this family. I won’t let you spoil it. Not for me, and not for my children. Sooner or later you’ll be back in Bonang. We have to live here.”

  “What should I do?”

  Lily gives me a long, hard look. “Swallow your pride,” she says. “Crawl back to Granny. Tell her you’ll do what she wants—you’ll eat the Malungas’ dirt if you have to.”

  “No. I can’t.”

  “Are you family or not? If you are, act like it. If not, stop slipping us on and off like a pair of old flip-flops.” She slams the door.

  My body tingles. I float out of Lily’s yard. There’s a clothes pole near the side of the road. I lean against it. Everything goes black. Am I fainting? Out of the darkness, I see my dream stork flying toward me. I hear Mama’s voice: “Mrs. Tafa.”

  I blink. The world swims into focus. I’m still on my feet. But I’m not scared anymore. Mrs. Tafa. Yes. I’ll call Mrs. Tafa. She’s talked to Granny before. To Mr. Kamwendo, too. She’s an adult. They’ll listen to her. She can fix things. Or pay for a room at the local rest house. Mrs. Tafa. If everything works out, I’ll never laugh at her again.

  I reach into my right skirt pocket for my cell phone. It’s empty. Strange. I try the left. It’s empty too. What? I fumble frantically. Nothing. This is crazy. I remember putting the cell in my skirt after I talked to Esther. I haven’t used it since. And I haven’t changed skirts.

  Did it fall out? Impossible. My pockets are deep. So where is it? When was the last time I saw it, touched it? There was my walk to the cattle post. I remember patting my pocket on the way. I felt it; I had it. Then I’m at the ruin. Nelson scared me. I ran. I reached for the cell but I tripped, somersaulted backward onto an anthill. It had to be then—then—with my skirt flying over my head. Oh my god! My cell fell out at the post, in the grasses with the ants.

  My mouth’s dry as sand. I can’t go to the ruin. I’m too afraid. There’s rebels in the bush. Where, I don’t know, but somewhere. So how do I get it back? I have an inspiration. I don’t need the cell. I can call from the clinic, or beg a special favor from Mr. Kamwendo.

  The afternoon sun is hot. I long for the clinic’s shade. By the time I get there, the army trucks are gone. The square is practically empty. A sergeant studies a map laid out on the hood of a jeep. Four soldiers stand at ease, guarding the clinic’s corners. A fifth blocks the entrance, rifle at the ready.

  I approach cautiously. “I have to see the doctor.”

  “The clinic is closed. House visits only.”

  “But I need to use the
phone.”

  “The clinic is closed. House visits only.”

  “At least tell the doctor I’m here. The nurse. The assistant.”

  “They’re out. The clinic is closed—”

  I stamp my foot. “Listen to me. I have to use the phone. Now. How old are you, anyway?”

  The sergeant looks up from his map. “This girl giving you trouble, soldier?”

  “Sir. No, sir.”

  “You giving this soldier trouble?”

  I shake my head. “I just need to use the clinic phone. It’s an emergency.”

  The sergeant scowls. “Clear off, or you’re under arrest.”

  My heart stops. “Yes, yes.” I bow. “Right away.”

  But before I can take a step, there’s a yelling and clattering from the general dealer’s. We all whirl around. It’s Mr. Kamwendo. He’s attacking the left side of his eaves with a rake. Two night owls take flight. Mr. Kamwendo turns to us, his face a mask of terror. “Owls,” he says. “Owls roosting in my eaves.” He sees me. Points a bony finger. “It’s you that brought this. Things were fine before you came. Now there’s bandits. Owls. Death.”

  I look from Mr. Kamwendo to the soldiers and back again. They stare at me like I’m a witch. I run.

  Mrs. Tafa. I need Mrs. Tafa.

  There’s no choice. I have to get to the cattle post.

  21

  IF I’M LUCKY, I can reach the post, find my cell phone, call Mrs. Tafa, and get back to Tiro before dark.

  The empty highway makes me shiver. Why? I’m better off than I was yesterday. No cars or trucks means no one to take advantage of me. That calms me down for a few minutes. Then I round a bend, go down a small hill, and Tiro’s out of sight. Walking through silence, my mind plays games. I imagine eyes peering from the brush. Men following me behind the grasses.

  I spot a movement in the ditch reeds up ahead. I freeze. A hare pokes its nose through a sedge patch. It hops out of the ditch and onto the shoulder of the highway. Sits on its haunches. Sniffs the air. The still of the road must be strange for it, too. I relax. The hare catches the shift of my shoulders and bounds across the potted pavement to the reeds opposite.

  What a baby I am. Even the lieutenant thinks we’re safe until dark. I don’t know if he’s right, but it makes sense. Bandits and rebels have to sleep too. Better for them to hide by day, attack and escape by night.

  All the same, I see a sharp rock at the side of the road. I pick it up, clutch it tight. Not that it’ll help if I run into Mandiki, but it makes me feel safe. Safer anyway.

  An army patrol jeep heads down the road toward me. A soldier’s at the wheel, a civilian in the passenger seat. The civilian keeps his head burrowed in his jacket, as if he’s afraid he might be recognized. Is he under arrest? Or is he helping the soldier? The jeep slows as it passes, then turns around, and pulls up beside me. The civilian shrinks down until he’s practically under the dashboard.

  I nod at the soldier and keep walking, as if nothing’s the matter. Nothing is the matter, is it? The soldier lets the jeep idle forward. He’s older than the troops in town, and rougher. A homemade tattoo snakes up his neck from under his collar. Or maybe it’s the tip of a birthmark. Or an AIDS sarcoma.

  I walk a bit faster, eyes straight ahead. The jeep keeps pace, then brakes. The soldier watches as I walk away. And watches. And watches. I start to feel nervous. Please let him drive off. Instead:

  “You,” he barks.

  I stop.

  “Yes you. Come here, where we can see you.”

  I walk back to the jeep, my eyes on the gravel.

  “Turn around,” he says. “Let’s get a good look at you.”

  I turn. Once. Twice.

  “Raise your arms.”

  I raise them.

  “Why do you have that rock in your hand?”

  “No reason.”

  “Sir,” he corrects me. “No reason, sir.”

  “No reason, sir.” I let the rock drop.

  His eyes narrow. He looks me up and down, slowly. I feel naked.

  “Sir, can I put my arms down. Please?”

  “No.” He stares at my breasts. A long pause. “What are you doing out here?”

  “Heading to my family’s cattle post.”

  “Who’s your family?”

  “The Thelas.”

  “Who’s on your post?”

  “My uncles Enoch and Chisulo, and their herd boys.”

  The civilian eyes me from inside his jacket. He mutters something to the soldier.

  “My friend here’s never seen you before,” says the soldier. “He says the Thela boys have one grown niece. Lily.”

  “That’s my sister, sir. I’m Chanda Kabelo, visiting from Bonang.”

  The soldier keeps staring. The tattoo on his neck is pulsing.

  I choke. “Is there a problem, sir?” He keeps staring. I start to perspire. “My uncles are expecting me. I’m already late. They’ve probably sent people out to find me.”

  The soldier considers this. He shifts in his seat. “You know about the curfew?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He presses a finger against his left nostril, and snorts a wad of snot onto the highway. Then, without a word, he presses his foot on the accelerator, wheels the jeep around, and takes off toward Tiro.

  The moment the jeep rounds the bend, I start to shake. I drop to my knees, pick up my rock, squeeze it to steady myself. If that’s how I faced a government soldier, how would I face Mandiki? I can’t think about that. I’ve lost time. I better hurry.

  A few minutes later, I’m going so fast, I almost don’t notice the boy ahead of me. He’s about Soly’s age, standing at the entrance to a path coming out of the bush, unwashed, in his underpants, a tear in the shoulder of his thin short-sleeved shirt. Three older boys hide in the shadows of the brush behind him, gazing out with hooded eyes.

  Normally I’d ignore them. Not today. Today, I imagine the blank faces in the photographs of the child soldiers from Ngala.

  I cross the road. The boys come off the path onto the highway. I move past them. Slowly. Carefully. Check the weight of the rock in my hand. Turn it so the sharp edge faces out. Grab it so I can gouge and slash.

  The hairs on the back of my neck tingle. I feel the boys’ eyes on my back. Are there more of them? How many? Are they following me? Do I run? Do I attack? I glance over my shoulder. But they aren’t after me. They’re just ordinary kids off to Tiro, looking back at me fearfully over their shoulders.

  The heat of the afternoon sun is going down. I should be at the post by now. I walk faster. Ahead, more children appear on the highway: six fairly close up, ten in the distance. A few may be herd boys, but most are too young, and some are girls. They’re farmers’ children who stay on the posts, most likely. So why are they going to Tiro?

  Two girls, hand in hand, straggle behind. “What’s going on?” I ask. They look up, startled. At the sight of me, they scream and race to catch up with their friends. Who do they think I am? What do they think I am?

  My heart pounds. By the time I get to the turnoff leading to the posts of my family and the Malungas, the road is alive with children. They dot the highway, ahead and behind, all of them heading to Tiro.

  It’s my dream come to life. No. That’s crazy. It’s not. There’s no storm, no mud, no magic grass. Mama isn’t a bird. And Soly and Iris are safe with Granny.

  I dart up the path to the cattle post. I reach the ghost trail to the old compound. Take two swift steps into the bush. There’s movement behind me. I crouch down. A dozen young men peel by, Uncle Enoch and Uncle Chisulo rattling after them on their mule cart; they’re herd boys and cousins from my family’s post, I’ll bet. Word must have spread about curfew. They’re afraid they’ll miss it.

  I’ll miss it too, if I don’t hurry up. To speed things, I follow my route from yesterday. The grasses are still slightly bent from where I pushed through. It was a lazy, old trail to begin with. Add all my zigs and zags around stumps and
thornbushes, and the way I flounced on my way home, my path could’ve been made by an old cow. Nelson would have a laugh. “Did I call you cow child?” I hear him tease. “I should have called you Granny Cow!” Ha ha. Very funny.

  What’s not funny is the time. The sun is orange and heavy. It’s just above the trees. I should head back. No. I’ve come too far to go back empty-handed. Who cares if I miss curfew, anyway? I can sleep out here. No one wants me in town. No one’ll miss me. At least with my cell, I’ll have Mrs. Tafa and Esther.

  Two shots ring out in the near distance. Silence. If it was anything serious, there’d be more than just two, wouldn’t there? It was probably a farmer shooting at scrub hares. Or a jeep backfiring on the highway. Maybe, I laugh dryly, Mr. Kamwendo’s bicycled out to clear the brush of owls.

  I press on. It’s heavy going, the vegetation up to my waist, sometimes over. At last, I come around a cluster of thornbushes. I halt in my tracks. Take a deep breath.

  I’ve reached the dead land.

  22

  I GO TO the crumbled ruin where I found Mama, and start to retrace my steps. I face the termite mound. That’s where I was when I started to run backward. The grasses are almost upright from yesterday, but if I look closely I can see they’re still slightly tipped.

  The trees are casting shadows. I move about twenty feet back through the blades to around where I fell. I lost my cell by an anthill. Where is it? What was the last thing I saw? I turn around to get my bearings.

  Suddenly Nelson bursts out of the bush on the other side of the clearing. I almost don’t recognize him. He looks crazed like his brothers. Shirt gone, chest streaked with dirt, sweat, and blood.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Get down.”

  “Nelson?”

  “I said get down!” He thrashes through the thick grass, eyes blazing.

  “Stay back!” I raise the rock.