Chanda's Wars

by Allan Stratton

  “We need your help,” the older one says. “What can you tell us about last night?”

  Granny squeezes Uncle Chisulo’s hand and presses her face into his side. He cradles her.

  “Why talk to you?” Uncle Chisulo murmurs to the soldiers. “You can’t protect us. You can’t even say the name of who did this. If we talk, he’ll return. You’ll be back in Rombala. Why risk our lives for nothing?”

  There’s a pause. The soldiers stand awkwardly. “We’ll be sending patrols throughout the afternoon. If you think of anything…” He puts his notepad back in his pocket. They turn and go.

  I run after them to the road. “Are you going to track them down?”

  “We’re waiting for orders.”

  “That means no, doesn’t it?”

  “It means, for now, we’re here to secure the village.”

  I gulp back a cry. “My little brother and sister have been kidnapped. They can’t be more than twenty miles away. You could still find them.”

  The soldier bristles. “Two villages have been attacked. There are bodies in the streets. We’ll look for the bandits when we can.” The soldiers get into their jeep.

  “Cowards!” I yell. “Cowards!”

  I race into what’s left of the house, into the bedroom I shared with Soly and Iris. Above me, the open sky. Stray bits of blackened thatching hang from collapsed roof poles. I lean against a wall. The mud is scorched, cracked; the dirt floor, warm. Everything’s covered in soot and ash. Our mats are singed. Our belongings, burned. All that’s left are Soly and Iris’s metal lunch boxes, their little treasure chests.

  I see Mama in my dream: She’s alive and well, watching Soly and Iris play. “I’m so proud of you,” she says. “You’ve kept them safe like you promised.” My eyes fill with tears. Why did I come to Tiro? Why? If only, if only, if only—

  Wait. The treasure chests.

  I squat down. The morning air has cooled the metal. I open the first. It’s Iris’s. Her torn mosquito net’s stuffed in with her combs and costume jewelry. I shake it out. Mr. Lesole’s tiny binoculars fall to the floor. She swiped them from my bag. Never mind, right now I could hug her for keeping them safe.

  I dive into Soly’s. On top of his old sock puppet and special stones—the map of Mfuala Park, protected in the lunch box thermos. I pull it out, unfold it, touch the pictures of the animals on the back, the inset map of our country on the front.

  My forehead tingles. There’s a fluttering in my ears. A power surges through my body. I raise my arms to the open roof, the sky. Stretch my fingers to the sun. “Rest easy, Mama,” I say. “Soly. Iris. Wherever you are, I’m with you, you hear? I’m coming to get you. I’m going to bring you home.”

  Part Four

  27

  IF I’M GOING to do this, I can’t make a mistake. I clutch Soly’s sock puppet, shut my eyes tight, and try to work out a plan.

  Starting out will be easy. According to Granny, the rebels marched the captives single file, north, from the cemetery. There’ll be a well-beaten path as far as the stretch of rock where Auntie Lizbet was killed. But where did they go then? I’ll have to figure that out when I get there.

  One thing I know is, I better move fast. If I don’t catch up with the rebels soon, I never will. Under the midday sun, the trampled grasses will rise back up. The trail will vanish. A tracker would know other signs to follow, but I’m not a tracker.

  Nelson. He’d know. Would he join me? Who am I fooling? He’d find excuses. I can just hear him: “Suppose you catch up to the rebels. What then? How do you keep from being captured? Killed? How do you rescue anybody? How do you escape?”

  Well, how? What if he’s right? Stop. If I think like Nelson, I’ll give up before I start. I can’t. I won’t.

  I shake out my legs and prepare to say goodbye to my family. First though, I phone my other family. Esther and Mrs. Tafa. They’ll be worried sick, wondering what’s happened. I picture them slapping their thighs, pacing back and forth beside our cactus hedge since dawn. Bad news is awful, but not knowing anything is even worse.

  Mrs. Tafa picks up in the flick of an eyelash; I hear Esther a heartbeat later. The two of them listen in together. They’re horrified by news of the attack and kidnapping, but even more horrified by my plans.

  “Don’t you dare go after the rebels,” Esther pleads. “There’s no shame in saving your life.”

  “I don’t have a choice,” I say. “If Soly and Iris disappear, they’re as good as dead. Then how do I live?”

  “You’ll live because you’ll live!” Mrs. Tafa sputters. “When my son, my blessèd Emanuel, passed, I prayed for the end. But I survived. You will too.”

  “No. I’ll blame myself. The rebels came here because they captured Pako, because he ran away, because I shamed his papa. It’s all my fault. Always and forever. If it wasn’t for me, Soly and Iris would be safe.”

  “That’s crazy talk,” Mrs. Tafa explodes. “Why not blame me and your family? If it wasn’t for us, you’d never have gone to Tiro in the first place. Things happen in life, Chanda. There’s twists and turns we can’t foresee. All we can do is our best, and hope the stars are smiling.”

  “Then hope they’re smiling now. Auntie, Esther—I love you both so much.”

  I turn off the cell, before I lose my courage. Have I talked to them for the last time? Don’t think like that, don’t. I take a deep breath, and step outside to say goodbye to Granny.

  My relatives have laid her in the shade of a mule cart, on one of the blankets my cousins brought. She’s sitting up, propped against a sack of maize. My cousins brought that, too, along with vegetables and strips of dried chicken and beef, so we’d have something to eat. They’re seated around her, rocking and moaning. When Granny sees me approach, she waves them away.

  I kneel in front of her. “Granny…Granny…” My mouth bobs open and shut, but nothing comes out.

  Granny puts her finger to my lips. “You’re going after them, aren’t you?”

  I look at her, bewildered. “How did you know?”

  “You’re your mama’s daughter.” I search her face for judgment. There is none. Just a deep ache.

  “Don’t worry about Mandiki’s threat,” I say quickly. “I won’t put anyone in danger. If I get Soly and Iris, I’ll take them straight to Bonang. We’ll never be seen here again.”

  “I’m not thinking about Mandiki’s threats,” Granny says. “I’m thinking about you. What we did to you. What you’re about to do to yourself.” Her cheeks sag with weariness. “I can’t stop you leaving, any more than I can stop the rains in rainy season. But I can beg. Chanda. Please. Don’t go. Stay.”

  I look around the yard. Relatives mutter in small groups, glancing in my direction. “Granny, I can’t. Soly and Iris need me. Besides, like you, there’s things I know in my bones. Our family says Mama was cursed. They think I carry that curse. No matter what, the other relatives don’t want me. They’ll be glad to see me go.”

  Granny sighs. Her eyes are as deep as wells. “Forgive us.”

  I kiss the hem of her dress.

  She pats the blanket beside her. I crawl up and nestle at her shoulder. She strokes the side of my head. Out of the stillness, she whispers in my ear: “I believe in the power of the ancestors. They speak to me. I always try to do what they say. But sometimes, I think what they say and what I hear are two different things. I think, maybe, sometimes I’ve heard what I wanted to hear. I’m old now. Soon, I’ll join the ancestors. When that time comes, I’ll ask them what they really wanted me to do, and I’ll ask myself why I didn’t listen more carefully.”

  A silence, then Granny waves Lily over. I tell her my plan. From her face, I know she’s relieved I won’t be back. She offers me her baby’s sling as a knapsack. I pack it with things from my cousins—a small box of matches and a bag of dried chicken and maize bread—along with my torn mosquito net, map, binoculars, and thermos of water. Uncle Chisulo wanders by with a thin blanket, a small ball of fishi
ng line, and a machete. “From your Uncle Enoch and me,” he says, looking off in the distance. He lays the gifts at my feet and hurries away before people see us talking.

  Soon, I’m bundled up, the machete at my side, the sling over my shoulder. Lily carries Granny to the edge of the Malungas’ compound, so she can wave me off as far as the cemetery. Everyone else pretends not to notice. Good. The less they know, the better.

  Granny asks Lily to set her down, and steadies herself on Lily’s arm. I bow. Granny kisses my forehead. “Bless you,” she says. “Whatever may lie ahead, I pray that the ancestors bring you peace.”

  28

  I PASS THROUGH the Tiro cemetery.

  A handful of village elders wander the grounds in shock, grieving the desecration by the rebels. Wooden crosses have been broken. Moritis have been ripped from the ground. Brick markers have been tossed in all directions. The burial site of the ancestral chiefs has been fouled with human waste.

  I pause at the far side of the cemetery. For a second, I want to turn around and run back to Granny. But that would betray the most important people in the world: Soly. Iris. Mama.

  Five trails lead from the cemetery through the waist-high grasses in the fields beyond. Granny said the captives marched north for a long time, veering inland “at the place Mr. Bakwanga lost his hands.” That rules out three of the trails: the two that swing west to the highway and the one that heads inland within a stone’s throw. The other two fit Granny’s description, going north till they disappear into a valley near the horizon. The first starts at the cemetery’s left corner. The second starts two thirds of the way across.

  I close my eyes and try to imagine I’m General Mandiki planning my escape. Granny said he didn’t expect to be followed: The Tiro soldiers were blown up in Shawshe, and villagers were hiding or running for their lives. Still, if I’m Mandiki, I’ll be careful. I’ll confuse my enemy about my route by keeping my path as undisturbed as possible.

  Suddenly things make sense. Mandiki tied his captives in a line. I’ll bet it was to keep them from wandering off the path and trampling the tall grass. It also made them walk in one another’s footsteps to hide their numbers.

  I check the two trails heading north. The one at the left is rough, with crushed patches at the side where folks have passed each other; they clearly weren’t tied together. And the stalks lean toward the cemetery, bent by people coming in to pay their respects—the elders, maybe?—or taking a shortcut from the posts to pick up supplies.

  The second trail is different. There are footprints on footprints. Even up the trail, the grasses are barely disturbed. There’s just an occasional lilt of stalks pressing away from the cemetery, as if gently grazed by departing shawls. I think of Granny, Auntie Lizbet, and the mamas.

  This is it. I bite my lip and begin. One step leads to another. Soon I’m clipping along, certainly faster than captives could travel at night. Especially with gear. It’s only late morning, not too hot yet; I’ll catch up in no time. Who needs Nelson? Tracking’s not hard. All I have to do is think.

  The trail dips into the valley. The cemetery disappears behind me. I don’t care. I’ll be safe till I get to the stretch of rock where Auntie was murdered. I can’t imagine the rebels doubling back; they’d know the army’s had time to regroup.

  At the bottom of the valley, the trail winds through a stretch of brush. It ends at a cart lane. The footprints turn right, onto the lane. That’s strange. Granny never mentioned a lane. And she said they went inland only after Mr. Bakwanga’s hands were chopped. So where’s the blood?

  Details. Granny could have been confused by the night, the shock, or the horror. The tracks are the most important thing. The earth around here is damp because of the shade and runoff from the hill. The footprints are clear. They go along both of the lane’s broad cart grooves. Hidden from the town, Mandiki had time to separate his captives into two groups so they could escape faster. I decide to hurry up myself.

  I follow the tracks through another quarter mile or so of twists and bends. Then the brush opens up, and the lane leads into a dirt yard with five thatched mud houses, a nearby shed, and a reed outhouse. To the right, there’s a post fence lined with barbed wire penning a herd of cattle taking shade from the late-morning sun under a row of broad-branched acacias.

  A post compound? Granny didn’t mention this, either.

  “That’s far enough.” The man’s voice comes from behind me. “Arms up, turn around.”

  I do as I’m told, and find myself looking down the barrel of an old shotgun.

  “She’s alone, far as I can tell,” yells another man. He’s calling from on top of a baobab. Immediately, young men emerge from the brush on all sides, guns and machetes drawn. So that’s it. Mandiki overran this post and left scouts to trap pursuers. Less than an hour from the village, and I’ve been caught.

  I’m such a fool. Who did I think I was?

  The man with the gun is old, in dirty coveralls, a dark plaid shirt, and a gray bandanna. He sees my machete. “What are you doing here?”

  If I’m going to die, I won’t be a coward. “I’ve come for my brother and sister. Give them to me.”

  The men give me an odd look. “What?”

  “Leave her be.” Ayoung woman in a yellow shawl comes out of the shed. She’s my age, maybe. A baby’s slung from her shoulder. At the sound of her voice, other women and children emerge from all the homes on the compound. “I saw her in Tiro,” the mama continues. “She’s nothing to worry about. She’s not with them.”

  The men put down their weapons.

  “So what’s she doing here?” asks the old man.

  “She told you,” the mama says. “She wants her brother and sister.”

  “They’re not here.”

  The mama sighs like he’s simple, and gives me a tilt of her head: “Care for some tea and biscuits?”

  I’m about to say no when it hits me: These people were here when Mandiki passed through. They’ll have information that can help me. “Yes. Thank you,” I say. “But I’m in a hurry.”

  We pull up benches, stools, and upturned pails into a circle. The women rock their babies on one side, the men smoke on the other, while the children play tag beyond the row of acacias. In no time, I discover they’re a family living full-time on the post: a widower, his six sons, their wives and children. Yesterday, with rumors on the wind, the women took the kids to folks in Tiro. The men stayed behind to guard, taking cover in the trees and outlying brush. The women and kids returned this morning. Tebogoc, the young mama, was the last in. She walked the road by Granny’s, before taking the shortcut here from the cemetery. She remembers me yelling at the soldiers, and how she laughed at my nerve.

  This is all very nice, but it’s wasting time. “Tell me about the rebels,” I say.

  The men shift in their seats. “Nothing to tell.”

  “But you must have seen them.”

  “Didn’t see nothing.”

  “Heard something, though,” says the young man who scouted me from the baobab. “Middle of the night, off that way.” He points west up the lane.

  The old man shoots him a look. “You didn’t hear nothing, neither. Nothing.”

  The young man scratches his ear. “Guess that’s so. If I heard something, it was only bush rats.”

  “Bush rats?” I say. I look the men hard in the eyes. They concentrate on the curls of smoke from their cigarettes. They’re scared.

  I take another glance around the compound. The thatching on the houses is intact. Nothing’s been burned. No one’s been cut or maimed.

  Cold sweat seeps across my forehead. I’ve been on the wrong trail. The rebels didn’t come by here. The grasses from the cemetery weren’t bent by captives. They were bent by Tebogoc and her sisters-in-law. The footprints on footprints were made by them and their kids.

  But what other route could Mandiki have taken?

  The answer hits me hard. Mandiki led everyone off single-file. But once he separat
ed the children, the villagers scrambled home in the dark. I was so busy thinking about their leaving, I forgot about their return. They’d have retraced their steps, coming back on the same route as they left. I should have chosen the grasses bending toward Tiro.

  Idiot! I’m an idiot!

  The trail at the left of the cemetery, that’s the one the rebels used. Those grasses weren’t trampled by people passing each other to pay respects or pick up supplies. They were crushed by survivors racing home in fear of their lives.

  I clutch my knees. What do I do now? How do I get to the right trail? How do I make up the lost time?

  I thank Tebogoc and the others for the tea and biscuits and stand up. My legs wobble. As I walk away, I stumble. The young man who said he heard something helps me to my feet.

  “About those bush rats,” he mutters, “there were dozens of ’em. They were heading north. You’ll spot their trail twenty minutes up the lane, past the heavy brush.”

  29

  I GO UP the lane to where the bad trail ended. Do I take it back to the cemetery and start over? Or do I keep going and hope Mr. Bush Rat is right? I left Granny’s almost an hour-anda-half ago. If I go back, I’ll have wasted the whole morning. I’ll be walking in the heat of the afternoon sun. Signs of the rebels will be disappearing.

  But what if Mr. Bush Rat really didn’t hear anything? What if the rebels went inland before they got this far? Granny said they marched north for a longtime, but in the dark a few minutes can seem like forever.

  Breathe. Don’t panic. Breathe. ABCDEFG, ABCDEFG.

  I close my eyes. I picture I’m back at the cemetery looking over the fields. In my mind, the good trail—the one I should have taken—is seventy yards to my left. If the rebels went inland before they got this far, their path would’ve had to cross mine. It didn’t. So it must still be on my left, up the lane, like the man said.