Iris, where are you? What’s happening in your mind?
After the doctor treats the wound and completes the examination, he takes me aside. “Her chest will be scarred,” he says. “Apart from that and a few bruises, she’s fine. You’ll be relieved to know, there’s no genital trauma.”
My head swims. “She’s only six.”
“It happens.”
We’re given new clothes and head kerchiefs donated by an overseas relief group. Then we’re brought to a holding room, where we’re reunited with Nelson and the boys. They look at our scarves, wrapped tight to our scalps; they can tell what’s happened, but they’re too kind to say anything. Soly and Pako had lice too, but their hair was short enough that it didn’t need to be shaved. As with Iris, they’ll be left with a nasty scar on their chests, but nothing more.
We barely have time to exchange the news before we’re separated once more, this time for questioning. The army needs to hear our stories individually to make sure we’re telling the truth. The children hang on to us in a panic. Nelson and I promise them we’ll be together again in a few minutes.
I’m taken to a makeshift interrogation room that’s actually one of the hospital’s walk-in linen closets, and made to sit on the edge of a lower shelf, while two soldiers stand over me firing questions. I tell them exactly what I told the officer in the park this morning. They seem to be deaf or simple, because they keep asking me to repeat myself. It’s like they’re waiting for me to trip up.
At one point, they pause to compare notes. “Excuse me,” I say. “Mandiki had dozens of child soldiers. Have they been rescued too?”
The soldiers look up sternly. “We ask the questions.”
Down the hall I hear young voices, voices I don’t recognize. Could they be some of those kids? I tell myself Mandiki stole the children from cattle posts and small villages here and in Ngala. They’ll know the bush. It may take days, but they’ll get out safe and sound. Won’t they? I hope so.
There’s a guard watching an old TV in a lounge opposite my interrogation room. The television gets a shaky signal from the government station in Bonang. During breaks in the questioning, I watch through the open closet doors. I keep expecting a report about this morning’s bombardment, but there’s nothing. Just cooking shows, old cartoons, and interviews with local mayors. Finally, late afternoon, programming’s interrupted for a special bulletin from Ngala.
“Ngala officials have confirmed the death of General Charles Joseph Mandiki,” the announcer says. My heart stops. “The remains of the rebel leader were found earlier today by the Ngala army during its continuing sweep of Ngala National Park. It is believed he was killed by his own troops. Dental records were used to identify the corpse. It had been torn apart by hyenas.” We see close-ups of half-eaten bones.
I call to the guard. “The news is wrong. The General wasn’t in Ngala. He was here.”
The guard stares at me. “Mandiki was never here.”
“He was. Everyone knows it.”
The guard crosses his arms. “That’s not what the television says. Is it?”
I fiddle with the hem of my skirt. “I guess not,” I say quietly.
So…did Mandiki make it over the mountains? Or was his body dumped across the border to protect the official lie? For once, I stop asking questions. Mandiki is dead. That’s all I need to know.
41
AFTER THE GRILLING, Nelson and I are brought back to the holding room and told to wait for the children; the soldiers aren’t through with them.
I get more and more anxious as the hours pass. Finally, near dusk, Soly is led in, followed by Iris and, a while later, Pako. I don’t know what they’ve been asked, but they’re quiet, withdrawn. When Nelson and I cuddle them, they hug us tight like they’re afraid we’ll disappear.
The army’s made arrangements for us to stay overnight with Mrs. Rachel Jaworka, a local widow who runs a center for orphans out of her home. A large frothy woman, she bounces in jangling bracelets and beads. At the sight of the glitter, Iris’s eyes flicker.
The desk sergeant stops us on the way out. “Everything you saw in the bush is classified. Say anything, there’ll be trouble. Understood?”
“Yes.” Who’d listen to us anyway?
Mrs. Jaworka waltzes us to the street, flashing a toothy grin and waving at everyone in sight. I follow a step back, Soly and Iris on either hand; Nelson carries Pako on his shoulders. “I left the car at the center,” Mrs. Jaworka calls over her shoulder. “With crowds and the goat carts, it’s faster to walk.”
The air is alive with excitement. Since the announcement of Mandiki’s death, the curfew’s been lifted and the road south is being reopened. Everyone’s buzzing with plans. “I have a daughter in Rombala, holding her water for days,” Mrs. Jaworka says. “I’m driving down at dawn, middle of the night if she goes into labor.”
“Could you take us as far as Tiro?” I ask. “We have relatives killed in the attack three nights ago. Our family was planning funerals for tomorrow.”
She stops. “Oh, you poor things, of course. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Soly tugs my hand. “Who all is alive then?”
“Almost everyone,” I say. “Granny, Lily, Uncle Chisulo, Auntie Agnes, Uncle Enoch, Auntie Ontibile, your cousins—”
“Auntie Lizbet?” Iris asks. “They hit her with rocks. She fell down. Did she get back up?”
“No,” I say softly. “I’m afraid Auntie Lizbet passed. Grampa too. They’re the ones being buried. We’ll have a chance to say goodbye.”
Iris’s lip quivers. I go to wrap my arms around her, but she pushes me away. Mrs. Jaworka gives a knowing look and I back off. Iris walks the rest of the way on her own, off to the side, staring ahead. Every so often, she slaps her thigh.
At last we reach Mrs. Jaworka’s. It’s a good-sized property with a large, cinder-block house, a garden, and a rusty Corolla by the toolshed. The yard is full of children waiting in line for soup ladled out by volunteer neighbor ladies. “A lot of the kids have grannies to go to at night,” Mrs. Jaworka says. “For those that don’t, we lay out groundsheets under the tree.”
“Their parents…did they die of AIDS?”
“Yes, most of them,” Mrs. Jaworka nods, “but nobody calls it that here.”
“My mama passed of AIDS.”
“Ah.” She gives my shoulder a squeeze.
Thanks to public donations and church groups, the center has electricity, running water, a large gas stove, and a phone. I use the phone to call Mrs. Tafa and Esther. “We’re safe,” I tell them. “We’ll be back the day after tomorrow.” I don’t know who to call in Tiro now that Mr. Kamwendo’s passed, but Nelson thinks to phone the rest house. The hotel owner knows our families; he promises to send a runner over to Granny’s and Nelson’s sisters-in-law to say we’re fine and will be there for the burials.
After we’ve eaten, Nelson tells stories to the kids while I help Mrs. Jaworka wash the soup bowls in the kitchen. I tell her about my dreams for an AIDS center in Mama’s memory, something like she’s got here, and ask her how she got started. She fills me up with ideas, then says: “I wish you the best. But maybe you should wait a few years.”
“Why?”
She lowers her voice. “Your little ones have been with Mandiki. I have a cousin in Ngala. She’s seen kids who’ve escaped. They’re a handful.”
“Ours were only with him a few days.”
“It doesn’t take long.” Mrs. Jaworka puts down her dishrag. “The thing is, you don’t know what they’ve seen. You don’t know what they’ve done.”
My mouth goes dry. “What do you mean, ‘what they’ve done’? Soly and Iris haven’t done anything.”
“I’m not saying they have, but…” Mrs. Jaworka cups her hand to my ear.
A voice from the kitchen doorway: “What are you talking about?”
I turn with a start. It’s Iris. “Nothing,” I say. “We’re not talking about anything.”
�
��Then why are you whispering?”
“Private things, that’s all. Grownup things.”
Her eyes are a volcano. How much did she hear?
“It’s time for bed,” I say. I bring her back to the living room and get us organized, rolling out spare mats next to the couch. Iris nods at Soly and Pako; they nod back. It’s like they share a silent language. What are they thinking? What do they suspect?
We wake to the smell of fresh biscuits being lifted from the oven. “Thought I’d leave a batch for the morning volunteers to pass around,” Mrs. Jaworka smiles. She has us in her Corolla before the first rooster crow.
The car is an old standard. Pako sits on Nelson’s lap in the passenger seat, while I sit on the bump in back, Iris and Soly under my arms. The streets are empty, except for the odd cart coming to market from the country. By the time the air turns pinky-blue we’re on the highway.
The whole drive, we keep telling the kids that the General’s dead and any surviving rebels are running back to Ngala. All the same, they sit low in their seats, barely daring to peek out the windows at the countryside. We slow down approaching the place where the flatbed truck was ambushed. Pako slides into the space under the dashboard to hide, gripping Nelson’s calves. The flatbed’s hulk has been moved to the side, but the sun glints off shards of metal and glass littering the road. Two drivers have pulled over: one to patch a flat tire punctured by the debris, the other to rummage around the hulk for scrap.
The sun’s hot by the time we near Tiro. “Granny and the others will be so glad to see you,” I say, squeezing Soly and Iris’s shoulders. Soly is soft and pliable; Iris is hard as carved rock. “It didn’t hurt,” she murmurs to herself. “It didn’t hurt.”
“What didn’t hurt?”
She gives me a frightened look, hunches her shoulders, and shrinks inside her dress.
We leave the highway and enter Tiro. The smell of smoke and explosives lingers in the air. The windows of Mr. Kamwendo’s store have been boarded shut; a couple of soldiers lean against the crumbling stucco. Across the road, a tent’s been set up next to the empty clinic.
Nelson directs Mrs. Jaworka to our families’ compounds. Last night, the bodies of the dead were returned from the morgue for the laying over. Friends and relatives who slept in our yards are readying themselves for the services. Mrs. Malunga, Runako, and Samson are being buried in the Tiro cemetery. My Auntie Lizbet and Grampa will be laid to rest with the ancestors on the cattle post.
Mrs. Jaworka brakes in front of Granny’s place. The children cringe at the sight of our family’s homes. The collapsed roof beams have been cleared to the junk piles back by the outhouse, but the blackened shells are still full of rubble and ash, visible through the charred window and door frames. The plywood coffins are visible too, resting across sawhorses inside the ruins.
Soly sees Granny and runs to her, burying himself in her skirts. Iris marches after him, arms rigid at her sides, staring away from the devastation. The rest of us leave the car too. Except Pako. He stays pressed under the dashboard.
“You don’t have to see Runako or Samson,” Nelson whispers in Pako’s ear. “I’ll make sure their coffin lids are closed.”
“But I see them already, every night,” Pako whispers back. “They come for me in dreams, like Papa. Get the spirit doctor. Put a spike through their skulls, and magic. Nail their spirits in the ground.”
Mrs. Jaworka and I pretend not to hear. While Nelson coaxes his brother from the car, I take her over and introduce her to my family. They embrace me like I’ve risen from the dead. “I promised we’d stay away,” I say. “But with Mandiki dead I hoped it’d be okay. We needed to say goodbye to Auntie Lizbet. To Grampa, too.”
Granny’s eyes glisten. “They’d want you here. We all do. You’re family.”
Mrs. Jaworka says her goodbyes. She accepts our thanks, but refuses the offer of gas money. We wave as her car putters down the road. I’ll probably never see her again.
I look over at Nelson’s yard. He’s talking with his sisters-in-law, a firm grip on Pako’s arm, as if he’s afraid his brother will run off. I long to be with him; strain to hear the flavor of his voice. Will he disappear from my life like Mrs. Jaworka?
There’s no more time to think. A handful of pickup trucks arrive to take us to our family’s funerals. I pay attention as Uncle Chisulo organizes us into groups.
We drive up the highway to the cutoff for our cattle post. Someone’s scythed the grasses over the old cart trail. My uncles and male cousins carry the coffins, while the rest of us walk behind, clapping and singing prayers. Before it seems possible, we’re at the abandoned ruin. Soly and Iris have never been here before. At first, they cling tight: Soly cowering, Iris with clenched fists. But soon the light and the crowd take away the scariness.
I’m relieved too. I’d been afraid the place would bring back memories of the rebels, but all trace of them has vanished. The grasses have righted themselves, and Mandiki’s altar of family burial stones has been dismantled. Uncle Chisulo and Uncle Enoch know which stone belongs to which ancestor going back to the first generation, and have returned each marker to its proper place.
“The air feels clean,” I say to Uncle Chisulo, as we gather in a circle for the funeral.
“Thank our local spirit doctor,” my uncle whispers. “He did a ritual yesterday so the ancestors could sleep again. See him over there with the priest? They’re cousins. They like to stay up all night arguing about whose prayers are stronger.”
The services are filled with stories and song. Granny talks about Grampa on their wedding day, his tenderness, and how lucky they were to have had so many years together. My uncles tell tales of his bravery in the bush. My aunties remember his practical jokes. Grampa just passed a few days ago, but in so many ways he’s been gone for years. Here, today, he lives as bright and alive as in the days of his youth.
Auntie Lizbet is remembered too, for the tireless way she worked about the compound, the pride she took in her biscuits, and for her love and devotion to family. There’s a moment of silence. Then Granny tells the story of Auntie’s death, and of the heroism of her end. As her coffin lowers into the ground, Soly holds my hand. Not Iris. She stands apart, in her own little world, and sings the harvest song.
I talk to Granny at the burial feast. “If staying in Tiro is ever too hard,” I say, “come live with us in Bonang. The aunties and uncles are welcome too.”
“Bless you,” Granny smiles, “but this is our home. Tiro is where we belong.”
That’s pretty much what Nelson tells me too. The next morning, he waits with my family for the new flatbed that’ll take Soly, Iris, and me back home. My relatives fuss over the kids, while the two of us walk up the road apiece.
After all we’ve been through, I’m not sure what I’m expecting. But it’s not this. Nelson keeps his hands in his pockets the whole time. He hardly looks at me.
“You don’t have to go,” he says.
“I do. I have people waiting. Come with us. You and Pako. There’s room.”
“What would we do in Bonang? I have my sisters-in-law to take care of. Their babies. The cattle. It’s only me at the post now. Well, Pako too, but…” His voice trails into silence.
“I’ll be back,” I say quietly.
He looks off. “Sure.”
“I will.”
“Sure.”
The truck arrives. I go to hug Nelson. Instead, he sticks out his hand. We shake awkwardly. Uncle Chisulo hoists Soly and Iris onto the flatbed. I follow. The truck pulls out. Everyone waves, except Nelson. He won’t even look up. Maybe he can’t. Before we hit the bend at the highway, he’s turned to go.
42
THE FLATBED’S PACKED. With the highway closed the past few days, people have things to catch up on. Family affairs, trips to trading posts. We get stuck between a man with three goats and a couple with live chickens hanging upside down from a pole.
We approach Bonang. The children get anxious. Thei
r feet tap the flatbed floor like elephant shrews.
“What’s the matter?” I ask. “You’re going home.”
“No one’ll want us,” Soly says.
“Of course they will,” I laugh. “Why wouldn’t they? Our relatives did.”
“They had to. Granny was in the bush too.”
Iris crosses her arms. “What did you tell Mrs. Tafa and Esther?”
“That you were kidnapped. That you’re safe.”
“What else?”
“Nothing else.”
“Oh?” she challenges. “What did you say to that lady in the kitchen? What did she whisper to you?”
Soly rocks back and forth. “Did you talk about the night people?”
“Shut up, Soly.” Iris punches him.
I grab her arms. “Stop that!”
“Make me!” She spits in my face. Kicks and hollers. The man with the goats tries to hold her down. She bites him. The couple on the other side protect their chickens. Then, out of nowhere, Iris lets out a bloodcurdling scream and goes limp. The man with the goats wipes his forehead. “That girl’s possessed.” He makes the crazy sign.
“Don’t you talk about my sister!” I raise a fist. He backs off as if I’m possessed too. I lean over Iris. “Shh,” I soothe. “It’s all right.”
She trembles. “It’s not all right. It’s not.”
Mrs. Tafa and Esther have been busy. Our house, shed, and garden are festooned with bright strips of colorful rag. Mrs. Tafa’s hung her Christmas ornaments on the quills of the cactus hedge. As the truck pulls over, they run up to greet us, along with Mr. Tafa, Sammy and Magda, Mr. Selalame and his wife, and neighbors from around.
Iris frowns. “What do they want?”
I give her a friendly nudge. “They’ve missed you, just like I said.”
“Tell them to go away.”
Chanda's Wars Page 20
