Chanda's Secrets

by Allan Stratton

  I enter through the high wooden gate, bringing my bike with me so it won’t get stolen. To my right, people are sitting and gambling in the shade of a canvas tarp tied to the tops of three posts and a dead tree. To my left, others line up by a shed where Mrs. Sibanda sells cigarettes, Coke, and fried banana chips.

  But the center of attention is at the back of the property. It’s here that the Sibandas live with their children, in-laws, and grandchildren in a handful of huts as wobbly as the customers. It’s also here that Mr. Sibanda brews his shake-shake, and his clients crowd around, pick fights, and throw up, as they wait for the next tub to be ladled out.

  Mr. Sibanda’s tubs are as clean as any, but sometimes when he stirs up the sludge with the alcohol, a dead beetle floats to the surface. Also, depending on how hot the weather is, or how long the mabele’s been fermenting, a few glugs can knock you sideways.

  There’s a special buzz right now. Two of Mr. Sibanda’s sons have just hauled out a fresh tub. One of his granddaughters is pouring the brew into old juice cartons. The Sibandas have collected them from garbage bins and rinsed them in a pail of water.

  As I walk toward the crowd, looking for Jonah, I almost trip over two-year-old Paulo Sibanda. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of empty juice cartons and a grin. His feet are shoved into the cartons like they were shoes, only they’re bigger than his feet, so he keeps falling over, which makes him laugh.

  “Hey, Chanda!” The voice is loud. I turn around. It’s Mary. She’s propped against one of the shade posts, waving haphazardly. “Heard about Sara... Sorry, old friend.”

  Everyone is “old friend” to Mary. She knows the whole neighborhood. Or at least the whole neighborhood knows her. She went to school with my oldest brother. Back then, she was popular. She was fun and pretty and could sing and imitate people and wasn’t stuck-up or anything.

  Now she’s twenty-five, and has four kids being raised by her mama. She spends her days going from shebeen to shebeen, looking for free drinks. Whenever I see her, she’s wearing the same wool cap, pulled down to hide the scar over her right eyebrow. Today she’s wearing a pair of drawstring pajama bottoms; they cover the sores on her legs. After her front teeth were broken, she used to put her hand over her mouth when she talked; now she doesn’t bother.

  There’re rumors that when Mary’s passed out, men drag her into an outhouse and have their fun. She made a big scene last year, staggering up and down the streets banging on doors demanding to know who stole her underpants. Luckily for Mary, she never remembers anything. Or pretends that it’s all a big joke. Even now, a year later, people come up and say, “Hey, Mary, found your underpants?” Then they laugh. And she laughs with them. I wonder what she’s really feeling?

  Maybe that’s why I don’t blow up when I see Jonah’s head in her lap. Mary isn’t the first woman he’s messed with. She won’t be the last. Besides, he’s so juiced up he couldn’t do anything even if he wanted to. His eyes are crusty. He blinks to keep out the flies.

  Mary cradles him. “He hurts so much,” she says. “All he can say is, ‘Sara. Sara.’”

  Jonah rocks his head. “Sara,” he echoes, from some other world.

  “Chanda’s here,” Mary tells him.

  Jonah gets a puzzled look. His eyes drift shut.

  Mary sees me staring at a fresh gash on his forehead. “He took a rock an’ smashed his head to let the demons out,” she whispers.

  “He should have smashed harder.”

  At first Mary can’t believe her ears. Then she laughs. “I like you, friend. You always make jokes.”

  “Do I?” I kick Jonah’s leg. He surfaces. “Jonah,” I say, “Mr. Bateman is picking up Sara at one. Understand?”

  “Sara,” he murmurs.

  “Right. Sara. One o’clock. Home. Be there.”

  Jonah nods and passes out. I rifle through his pockets.

  Mary focuses fast. “What’re you doing?”

  “Nothing.” I find what I’m looking for. A small wad of cash, minus the elastic that held it together. The money from the hiding place. It’s almost all there. I get up to go.

  Mary shoves Jonah’s head aside and hurls herself to her feet. “Where you going with Jonah’s money?” she yells. At the word “money,” a circle of drunks forms around us.

  “It’s for the funeral,” I say.

  “Says who?” She takes a swing at me and almost falls over.

  “Settle down, Mary,” I say. “You don’t need to fight for drink money. Today Jonah will get all the free drinks he wants.”

  Mary’s arms fall to her sides. She rocks on her feet, laughs, and shakes my hand. “You’re a good friend, Chanda. A good friend.”

  “Right. Just make sure he’s home by one.”

  I shove my bike through the crowd. The crowd backs off, as if people are afraid I’ll hit anyone in my way. I will, too.

  6

  SOMETIMES I GET EVIL THOUGHTS. Just now, for instance. Checking Jonah’s pockets, all I could think was: “Jonah, why don’t you die? Our lives would be so much easier!” The priest says evil thoughts are as bad as evil deeds. They’re something we have to confess. I’ve been confessing this thought every week for the past two years. It’s getting embarrassing.

  But really, why is Mama with Jonah? Why couldn’t she be with somebody like my teacher, Mr. Selalame? He’s so smart, and funny, and kind. Handsome, too. Sometimes I sit in class and imagine him being my papa. Aside from my real papa, he’d be the best papa in the world.

  I see him in the market with his family. He and his wife whisper in each other’s ears and chuckle, as if they have a private world all to themselves. Once I saw him at a vegetable stand entertaining his son and daughter by juggling five potatoes and a turnip. He can do everything.

  The priest says jealousy’s another sin, and I have enough sins to confess as it is. So when I catch myself thinking about Mr. Selalame’s family, I work hard to remember good things about Jonah. How I didn’t always hate him. In fact, how I used to be glad he was with Mama.

  Most men don’t look twice at a woman who’s forty with three children. But Jonah didn’t care. From the very beginning, despite everything, he’s always loved Mama. He’s treated us kids like we were his own, too. When he moved in, Mama started to sing again—just sing for no reason. And for the first time since Papa died, I saw her dance.

  On his sober days, Jonah can still make Mama glow. He hugs her, and helps with problems, and plays with Soly and Iris. He works hard, too—fixing up the place, doing odd jobs, and repairing and selling things he collects at the junkyard. Best of all, he makes Mama laugh. I love her laugh. It’s stout and strong, like a mama with huge breasts, chubby thighs, and a round belly for babies to bounce on.

  Mama used to look like her laugh, but not anymore. She’s lost weight worrying about Sara. “I need to put on a few pounds,” she’ll say when she looks in the mirror. “Don’t be silly,” Jonah tells her. “You look perfect the way you are.” That makes her smile.

  When Jonah first moved in, those little things made me like him. Not now. Since Mama’s miscarriages, his good days—the sober days—have gotten fewer and fewer. Most nights, his friends ask him out for a drink. He always goes. Once, when Sara had a bad fever, Mama begged him to stay home. She even blocked the doorway. His friends laughed. Jonah said she was shaming him. He smashed some plates to show who was boss and went on a bender for a week.

  Esther says I should count my blessings. No matter how drunk Jonah gets, he never hits us. And he always crawls back full of tears and regrets.

  “So what?” I said. “When he drinks, he’s a whole other person. He falls down, he stinks, and worst of all he cheats on Mama.”

  “Don’t be a baby,” Esther said. “Lots of men cheat. All over the world.”

  “How would you know?”

  She got a funny look in her eye. “I just do.”

  Esther can act all grown-up if she likes. What I know is, if it was anyone else but Jonah, Mama wo
uld send him packing. But somehow Jonah gets away with everything. The night he smashed the plates I went crazy. “Why don’t you kick him out?” I demanded.

  Mama’s eyes flashed. “Never say that again, you hear? You’re talking about Sara’s papa. Show some respect!”

  “Why?” I demanded. “He doesn’t show any to us.”

  Mama got very quiet. “I know it’s hard. But forgive him. He’s in pain.”

  “Who isn’t?”

  Mama didn’t answer. She knelt down, gathered the bits of plate into her apron, and closed her eyes.

  The last few months, while Jonah’s been out with his friends, we’ve stayed up soothing Sara’s rashes with a tea of devil’s claw root. Whenever I’ve heard a drunken holler from outside I’ve jumped up ready to scream. Not Mama. She’s never taken her eyes off her work. “Jonah’s promised to quit drinking,” she says. “He will one day. You’ll see.”

  I know it’s important to believe in things. All the same, love makes people stupid.

  7

  AS SOON AS I GET BACK FROM THE SHEBEEN, I go next door to see Mrs. Tafa. I have to ask her to use the phone to let our relatives know about Sara.

  I’m nervous. Mrs. Tafa and I don’t get along anymore. I told Mama I wanted to stop calling her “Auntie.” Mama said that would hurt her feelings. “Fine,” I said, “then I won’t call her anything.” I don’t know if I’ve changed, or if she’s changed, or if I just see her differently.

  All I know is, Mrs. Tafa would like to run the world. Since she can’t run the world she’s decided to run our neighborhood. Especially me and my family. Before the sun gets too hot, she makes a grand tour with her flowered umbrella, a matching cotton hankie up her sleeve. She pretends she’s just going around to be sociable, but it’s really to tell everyone how to raise their children or plant their vegetables. “If that one was mine,” she’ll say to a mama whose baby is teething, “I’d have it suck a carrot.”

  Mrs. Tafa makes a special point to end her travels at our place. Mama’s expected to stop her work and fetch her a cup of tea and a biscuit. This is because Mrs. Tafa gave us a place to stay when we were desperate, and because Papa and her first husband were friends, and because we’ve always been invited to her celebrations. I’ve asked Mama if that means we’re stuck with her forever.

  “Hush,” Mama laughed. “We’re neighbors.”

  At any rate, Mrs. Tafa sits in the shade of our house, eating, drinking, and daubing her forehead with her hankie, while she fills Mama in on the latest gossip, and makes Soly and Iris fan her.

  Luckily I’m at school during the week, but on weekends and holidays I’m expected to join them. I sit on the ground and read a book or do my homework. Mrs. Tafa’s such a goat I try to ignore her. But I can’t help listening when she and Mama tell stories from when we lived at the mine.

  Most of the stories are funny, such as the one about Papa going on night shift after Mama’d fed him three plates of black beans. “Twenty men crammed in that elevator,” Mrs. Tafa roars, “and your Joshua passing more gas than a pipeline! Serving black beans before night shift? What were you thinking, girl? My Meeshak was passed out for a week!”

  Mama laughs so hard the air shakes. “Speaking about your Meeshak,” she exclaims, “remember the time you scrubbed the floors and he marched over them in his workboots? I’ll never forget the sight of you chasing him up and down the street with that mop!”

  Mama and Mrs. Tafa remember other kinds of stories too. Mama tells about the extra shifts Papa worked so we’d have new clothes when we’d visit our relatives in Tiro: “Joshua made sure our heads were held high.” And Mrs. Tafa recalls the millions of toasts he was asked to make at anniversaries, birthdays, street parties, and Independence Day celebrations—not to mention his practical jokes and victories at leg wrestling competitions.

  They talk about Papa’s bravery too. How he helped Meeshak rescue an old woman trapped in a fire at the town hall. And about his long struggle to help organize a union for the miners. “Those bosses and their damn thugs would’ve killed to know where the union had its meetings,” Mrs. Tafa slaps her knee. “It was your Joshua who kept them in the dark, with his secret code of village songs and bird whistles.”

  I know all the stories by heart, but I can’t hear them enough. Each time I hear them, it’s like Papa’s alive again.

  If only Mrs. Tafa could stick to telling stories. But she can’t. She always has to ruin everything. Before leaving, she’ll peer around the yard and say: “If you don’t mind my saying so...” or, “A word to the wise...” or, “I don’t mean to be unkind, but...” Then she’ll add something rude about how Mama is dressed, or keeps house, or looks after Iris and Soly and me.

  Mama cuts her off with a smile. “Now, Rose,” she says, “I thought we agreed not to talk about that.”

  “I’m only trying to be helpful,” Mrs. Tafa protests. Then she hoists herself to her feet, gives her umbrella a twirl, and swings her big fat bum out the gate.

  One time I asked Mama why Mrs. Tafa’s so mean.

  Mama laughed. “She’s not mean. She’s Mrs. Tafa. Pay no attention. She means well.”

  I’m sure pigs mean well, too, I thought to myself, but they’re still pigs.

  Mama caught the look in my eye. “Save your anger to fight injustice. Forgive the rest,” she whispered, stroking my cheek. “Remember, everyone has problems. Mrs. Tafa’s problem is, she needs to feel important.”

  Mama’s too kind. Mrs. Tafa doesn’t have a problem: Mrs. Tafa is a problem. She’s so puffed up on herself, I picture her turning into a hot air balloon and sailing into the sunset. If she floated up to heaven, she’d tell the angels how to clean their clouds. And she’s getting worse.

  The reason she gets away with it is because she’s rich, at least for around here. The Tafas have rented all the rooms that Mr. Tafa built, and on top of that, Mr. Tafa’s been promoted to head bricklayer with United Construction. With all the extra money, they’ve got themselves a phone, electricity, and running water.

  Mrs. Tafa brags about how her husband gets to go on the Internet with his company’s computer, and how they send e-mails to friends and relatives who’ve emigrated to North America and Europe. As if this isn’t enough, Mrs. Tafa has hired a cleaning lady who comes once a week. She says that organizing her cleaning lady is exhausting. But the truth is that all Mrs. Tafa does is sit on her lawn chair and drink lemonade. I hope she drinks so much she gets stuck there.

  The priest says that thinking hard thoughts hurts the person who thinks them. All the same, it’s hard not to think hard thoughts about someone who’s rich and pushes everyone else around. Especially when that someone is Mrs. Tafa.

  As I come through the gate, Mrs. Tafa is sitting under a tree on her lawn chair, with a pillow plumped behind her back. Her daughter’s dropped off some grandkids. They sit at her feet gulping juice from plastic cups. The oldest fans her with an oversized fly swatter. Iris and Soly are watching through the cactus fence that separates our yards.

  Mrs. Tafa hollers a greeting: “Dumêla!”

  “Dumêla,” I say back. I nod to her grandkids: “Dumêlang.”

  Mrs. Tafa doesn’t bother getting up, just points to the bench opposite her. “I dropped by this morning,” she says, “but no one would open your door.”

  “I’m sorry.” I sit. “Something awful’s happened.”

  “So I hear.” I’m not surprised she’s heard. She has the ears of an elephant.

  I glare at Iris and Soly. “Stop eavesdropping. Go pile stones.” They do. “Mama doesn’t want them to know,” I whisper.

  “She’s right,” Mrs. Tafa nods approvingly. “There’s no need to involve little ones with things like that.” She shoos her grandchildren away. “So... you want to use my telephone?”

  “If it’s all right, yes, please. I need to let Mama’s people know.”

  “It’s your mama who should call.”

  “She wants to stay with Sara.”

&nbs
p; “I see.” A pause. Mrs. Tafa stretches her arms and wobbles the flab. “A lot of folks want to use my telephone,” she says at last. “If I let everyone use it, I’d never get any peace.” She tilts her head and wipes the dribbles of sweat from under her chins.

  “I know, and I’m sorry for bothering you.” I take a deep breath. “It’s just... I hoped you wouldn’t mind... you being my ‘Auntie’ Rose.”

  Mrs. Tafa smiles. She sucks the end of her lemonade through a straw. “Who’s doing the arrangements?”

  “Mr. Bateman.”

  “Ah.” The way she says “Ah” makes me feel like dirt.

  “I tried the other mortuaries,” I lie, “but they were full up.”

  “No need for excuses. People will understand,” Mrs. Tafa says. “Besides, Mr. Bateman did up the Moses boy, no complaints. All the same, you should have come to me. I have connections.”

  “Sorry, Auntie.” I shift in my seat. “So, about your telephone...?”

  “How many calls do you want to make?”

  “Just one. To the general dealer in Tiro. He can get the word to my mama-granny, Granny Thela. She’ll see to the rest.”

  Mrs. Tafa sucks her teeth. “Tiro. That’s two hundred miles away. Calls to Tiro don’t come cheap.”

  “Mama will pay you back.”

  Mrs. Tafa waves her hand. “Don’t be silly. I’m your auntie. Glad to help.” She heaves her rump out of the chair and leads me into her house.

  While I wait for the operator to connect me, “Auntie” dusts the shrine on the nearby side table. It’s to her youngest son, Emmanuel: his baptismal certificate, undergraduate photograph from university, funeral program, and an envelope of baby hair. Emmanuel died two years ago in a freak hunting accident, just weeks after winning a scholarship to study law in Jo’burg. It was a closed casket. Life isn’t fair.

  The general dealer, Mr. Kamwendo, answers his phone. Mrs. Tafa kneels by Emmanuel’s photograph and pretends to pray, but I can tell she’s listening in.