“Mama says she’s not old enough.”
“According to adults we’re never old enough. For anything.” She lands her third in a row. “If it weren’t for me, my brothers and sister would still be asking when they’re coming home.”
Esther’s forehead wrinkles up. She’s with me in body, but her mind is far away. We sit like this for awhile, Esther thinking and me watching her think. At last I say: “Any news from your brothers?”
Esther shakes her head. “It’s not like the cattle posts have phones.” She looks away. “Anyway, maybe not hearing from them is better. I hate when blind Auntie travels to town with my little sister. When they go to leave, my sister hangs off my neck crying, ‘Keep me with you!’ I tell her I can’t, but she doesn’t understand.” Esther gets up and pitches a stone as far as she can. “Well, things are going to change. I have a plan. This time next year we’ll all be together.”
“How?”
“It’s a secret.”
“Tell me.” But before I can get her to explain, she’s let out a hoot and begun to run back to her parents’ gravesite. “Race you to the bikes!”
“No fair,” I yell. “You have a head start.”
We say a good-bye to her parents and begin the long ride home. At the crossroads leading to Esther’s section, we stop for a final chat, rocking on our bike seats, touching the ground on tiptoes. We’re talking about nothing in particular, when Esther says: “I’m sorry your mama’s not feeling well.”
“Who says she isn’t?”
“Nobody,” Esther says carefully. “I just see her using a cane.”
“It’s not a cane. It’s a walking stick.”
“Whatever you call it, she uses it all the time.”
“So what? She doesn’t want to sprain her ankle. It’s pretty rocky around here. Besides, she likes it.”
Esther takes a long pause. “I’m only going to ask this once,” she says, “and please don’t take it the wrong way, but you’re my best friend, and I really love you, and I don’t want anything bad to happen to you, and—”
“And and and. What are you trying to say?”
Esther looks down. She twists the rings on her fingers. “Does your mama have a will?”
For a second I can’t breathe.
“Well, does she?”
“Why would you ask something like that?”
“No reason.”
“There’s nothing the matter with Mama.” My palms sweat against the handlebar grips.
“All right, I believe you,” Esther presses. “It’s just—if there was an accident or something, who’d get the house? Who’d get the garden?”
“Stop it. Talking about death and wills is bad luck.”
“That’s what Mama and Papa used to say.”
“What do they have to do with my mama?” I wipe my hands on my skirt.
“Nothing,” she says. “It’s only, at Sara’s funeral I remember your Auntie Lizbet. I hope the rest of your relatives are nicer.”
“Shut up, Esther. I hate you.” I punch her hard. She topples over onto the ground.
I can’t believe what I’ve done. “I’m sorry,” I blubber. I help her up. Her hands are scraped. I’m certain she’ll want to fight, but she doesn’t. She checks her elbows. There’s a trickle of blood. I pull out a tissue but she won’t take it. She gets back on her bike and rides off without saying anything.
“Esther, don’t go!” I shout. I cycle hard to catch up with her. “Don’t go till you tell me everything’s okay between us.”
She slams on her brakes. Her bike skids on the gravel to a sideways stop. “Fine,” she says. “Everything’s ‘okay,’ Chanda. Everything’s perfect. Happy? Now leave me alone.”
17
I HATE HAVING FIGHTS WITH ESTHER. When she decides to get mad, she can stay mad forever. And she hates to apologize for anything—even when a fight is partly her fault.
In the old days we never used to fight. At least not about anything important. It was always over little things. Such as, once before high school I told her she should spend less time on her looks and more time on her books. She made a face and told me if I didn’t stop reading I’d go blind.
“Good. Then I wouldn’t have to look at your stupid clothes,” I shot back. “All those big clunky heels and halter tops. The least you could do is cover your navel. You’re going to get a reputation.”
“All the better to get kissed,” she squealed.
I said she was a flirt, she said I was a nun, and that was about it.
Since high school the fights have gotten real. A few months after Sara was born there was a dance. Esther ran up the next day all excited and told me what she’d done with her date in the bushes behind the soccer field. I was half-horrified, half-curious: “I hope you’re making that up.”
“Why would I make it up?” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with a little fooling around. Just because Isaac Pheto was a pervert doesn’t mean you have to hate men.”
I went crazy. I called her names, wrestled her to the ground, and ripped the combs out of her hair. “I should never have told you about that!” I cried.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.” It’s the one time she’s ever apologized right away.
“It’s not like you’re right, either,” I said, when things had settled down. “What Isaac did gives me nightmares. But I loved Papa more than anything, not to mention Mr. Dube and my older brothers. Then there’s Soly, Mr. Tafa, Joseph and Pako from math class—and Mr. Selalame, of course. I like lots of men.”
Esther paused. “So why don’t you ever go out?”
“I’m busy. Haven’t you noticed? My new sister’s got colic, and Mama needs help. Iris and Soly are no use, Jonah never lifts a finger, so that leaves me to do everything.”
It’s been two years since I said that, and I’m still stuck. I try not to think about it, but sometimes I get mad at Mama for being tired and leaving me to take care of everything. Then I feel guilty for being selfish. Then I get mad for feeling guilty. What’s the matter with me?
Anyway, it was easy to patch things up when Esther came to school. Seeing each other all day, I’d know when it was safe to start talking again. Now I have to guess. But what if I guess wrong? I’ve promised never to go to her auntie and uncle’s. So if she’s still angry and I bike over, she’ll bite my head off. Or if I stake out the Liberty, she’ll accuse me of spying.
That means I’m left waiting for her, wondering if she’s forgiven me yet. The not-knowing makes me anxious. Which makes me upset. Which makes me mad at her all over again.
Right now I’m really mad. It’s been almost a week since I shoved her off her bike. I didn’t expect to see her on Monday or Tuesday, and I understood her staying away on Wednesday and Thursday. Even on Friday. But now it’s Saturday morning. Is she really angry or just punishing me? Either way, it isn’t fair. I shouldn’t have pushed her, but she shouldn’t have talked about Mama as if she was dying either.
I think about this as I plant bean rows in the garden. Who does Esther think she is, anyway? A doctor? Since when does using a walking stick mean you’re sick? Honest to god, Esther makes me so mad I wish she was here just so I could tell her to go away.
I drop bean seeds into the new holes and count my blessings. Mama got one of her headaches on Thursday and she’s still in bed. The last thing I need is for Esther to know that. If she can see death in a cane, think what she could imagine in a headache. Aren’t there enough real problems in the world without people like Esther imagining pretend ones?
Maybe Mama is right. Maybe I shouldn’t be her friend. I jab my spade into the ground over and over and over. ABCDEFG, ABCDEFG, ABCDEFG.
“Chanda!”
I’ve stabbed my spade beside Mrs. Tafa’s foot. I look up. She balloons over me; her dress is like a floral parachute with legs.
“You’re quite the whirlwind,” she says. I freeze. Whenever Mrs. Tafa gives a compliment, it pay
s to be suspicious. “The speed you dig, no wonder your mama doesn’t need to garden anymore.”
“Thank you, Auntie,” I say. “But Mama works twice as hard as me.” I pretend to get back to work.
Mrs. Tafa doesn’t take the hint. After staring at me for a quarter row, she says: “She’s having another sleeping day, isn’t she?”
“No,” I lie. “As a matter of fact, she’s inside sewing.”
“Well, if she’s up, I’ll pop in to say hello.” Mrs. Tafa heads toward the front door.
I get in her way. “Auntie, I don’t mean to be unkind, but Mama doesn’t want visitors today.”
Once upon a time, Mrs. Tafa would have patted me on the head and brushed me aside, but I’m bigger now. She steps back. “Nothing serious, I hope.”
“Just a headache.”
Mrs. Tafa taps her nose slowly. “A word to the wise,” she whispers. “These headaches have got to stop.”
“She doesn’t get them on purpose. They’re on account of her grieving.”
“Grieving or not, people talk.”
A sliver of ice shoots up my spine. “No one has the right to gossip about Mama.”
“Folks say what they say, whether they have a right or not.” Mrs. Tafa lowers her voice. “Enough silly games, girl. I know who can cure your mama’s headaches. Now let me in.”
My insides are churning. Mama needs her rest, but if Mrs. Tafa knows someone who can make her pains go away, well... I let her pass. She marches through the door and straight into Mama’s bedroom. Mama is curled under a blanket, her head covered by a pillow.
“There’s no use pretending you’re asleep,” Mrs. Tafa barks. She sits on the edge of the bed. “When the accident killed my Emmanuel, I took to bed just like you. What saved me was a cure better than devil’s claw root. I got it from a doctor the other side of Kawkee. Far enough away, no one ever knew I needed help.”
Mama rolls slowly onto her back. She listens hard.
“His name is Dr. Chilume,” Mrs. Tafa continues. “He’s smart as a whip. When I first walked into his office, he showed me his medical degrees. He has six of them, all framed, with gold seals, red ribbons, and the fanciest lettering you could imagine. Tomorrow, instead of touring the cemeteries, we’ll pay him a visit.”
Mama’s too tired to talk, but there’s a glimmer in her eyes. She nods.
Mrs. Tafa strokes her shoulder. “Don’t you worry, Lilian. Dr. Chilume will have you clicking your heels in no time. He’s a miracle worker.”
18
THE VILLAGE OF KAWKEE is an hour’s drive from Bonang. Forty minutes, if you’re Mrs. Tafa. I asked Mama if she was up for the trip. “Yes,” she said, “yesterday’s lie-down did me a world of good.” All the same, she’s brought along a plastic bag in case of travel sickness.
I’m glad she’s seeing a doctor, but as we get in Mrs. Tafa’s truck, I wish we were going to the cemetery first. I’d have had the chance to clear things up with Esther. I picture her waiting for me and worrying about why I haven’t come. Part of me feels guilty for making her dangle. The other part of me thinks it serves her right for staying away all week.
Mrs. Tafa guns the pickup and suddenly I have other things on my mind. Such as—did I say I wished we were going to the cemetery? The way Mrs. Tafa drives we may end up there after all. Only permanently. She veers around oxcarts at full tilt, even when we’re going up hills. She only slows down once—when the road takes a ninety-degree turn and I yell, “Look out! A tree!” Then she jams on the brakes and I grab Mama to keep her from pitching through the windshield.
It doesn’t get any better when we leave the paved highway at the Kawkee turnoff. The dirt road is so bumpy our heads nearly bounce through the roof. Worse, it narrows to a single lane. Mrs. Tafa doesn’t care. In fact, she hits the accelerator. I scream as children on bicycles head for the ditch to avoid being run down. Mrs. Tafa just laughs and stuffs her face with banana chips.
Mama closes her eyes and holds her stomach.
“Dr. Chilume’s the younger brother of the local chief,” Mrs. Tafa blabs between mouthfuls. “You ever hear of Chilume Greens?”
“Of course,” I say. Does she think I’m stupid? Everybody knows Chilume Greens. It’s the company that grows morogo for the supermarket chains.
“Well,” Mrs. Tafa winks, “it’s Dr. Chilume’s family that owns it. He started out running his brothers’ farms. Only he was so smart the family sent him to Jo’burg to study herbal medicine. That’s where he got his degrees. Cancer, colitis, TB—there’s nothing he can’t fix. He’s even cured folks of that other thing.”
My jaw drops. “You mean AIDS?”
At the sound of the word, Mrs. Tafa chokes on her banana chips. “That’s what I said,” she recovers. “He has a secret tonic.”
Can that possibly be true? I know there are herbal remedies that work: cinnamon cloves take away toothache pain, mint tea works for constipation, garlic is good for colds, and devil’s claw root works for skin and arthritis. But a cure for AIDS? If Mrs. Tafa’s right, Dr. Chilume is a genius. I think of Esther’s parents. I imagine them alive.
We reach the schoolhouse on the edge of Kawkee. Mrs. Tafa tosses her empty chip bag out the window and turns left. We drive through a forest of jackalberry bushes and mopane trees. It opens up on a dam rimmed by concrete pilings and reed beds. Clusters of men sit on the pilings, or stand waist-deep in the water, fishing. On the other side of the dam, lush green fields dotted with low-lying whitewashed barns spread out to the horizon.
I’m amazed that crops are growing in the dry season. Then I see the haze of rainbows sparkling everywhere. An enormous sprinkler system’s been connected to the dam.
Mrs. Tafa makes a wide sweep with her hand. “All those fields belong to the Chilumes. They manage the water for the town. That’s the doctor’s place.” She points across the dam to a modern two-story, stucco house with a tiled roof. “You don’t get rich by being stupid,” she says.
“I thought we’d be going to a hospital or neighborhood clinic,” I say.
“Dr. Chilume’s much too good for that,” Mrs. Tafa sniffs.
We drive to where the dam narrows. There’s a wooden bridge with no railing. The water’s low. Despite the algae, I can make out shapes on the silt bottom. The biggest is a van that went over the edge. Its antenna breaks the surface, glistening in the sun.
“Maybe we should walk from here,” I say.
Mrs. Tafa takes that as a challenge. She revs the engine. Mama and I hold on for dear life as we clatter across. The rattling boards disturb flocks of birds nesting in the supports. They fly up from everywhere. Meanwhile, the men along the shore shake their fists at us, angry that we’ve scared away the fish. Mrs. Tafa finds their shaking fists funny. She rolls down the window and waves at them, whooping and honking her horn. I cringe under the dashboard.
Safely on the other side, we ride to a gravel parking lot near the farmhouse, pulling up beside a tractor, three flatbed trucks marked Chilume Greens, and a Toyota Corolla.
Before getting out of the pickup, Mrs. Tafa puts on some lipstick, checking herself in the rearview mirror. “You’ll want to give your hair a brush, Lilian,” she says to Mama. “And as for you,” she turns to me, “there’s a patch of dirt on your cheek so big I’d swear you rolled in mud all the way from Bonang.”
I wipe the smudge, but that’s not good enough for Mrs. Tafa. She whisks her hankie out of her sleeve, spits on it, and daubs my face. No one’s done that to me since I was a baby; it nearly makes me sick.
“Don’t make such a fuss,” Mrs. Tafa says. “I’m your auntie, after all.”
A couple of dogs come running toward us. They’re called off by a large bald man in an open-necked white shirt, work-boots, and jeans. He’s got big ears and even bigger hands.
“Dr. Chilume!” Mrs. Tafa calls out.
“Rose. What a surprise,” the doctor calls back. He strides up, hitching his jeans up under his belly. “You came in the back way.”
<
br /> “I wanted to show off your dam to my friends.”
“You mean the Kawkee dam,” he grins. “What can I do for you?”
“I could do with a refill of cystosis tablets,” she says. “But the real reason I’m here is on account of my friend.” Mrs. Tafa introduces us, explaining how Mama’s been feeling poorly on account of Sara’s death.
“It’s a terrible thing, the loss of a child,” Dr. Chilume nods. “All the same, sister, life is for the living. Let’s see what we can do.”
He leads us to a shed near the farmhouse. It’s made of cement blocks with a corrugated tin roof, like something our neighbors might live in, except it has a window with glass panes. “HERBAL CLINIC” is painted in capital letters on the side wall. Underneath, I read the words “Specializing in cures for...” followed by a long list of diseases. Like Mrs. Tafa said, the list includes HIV/AIDS.
My forehead tingles. I point at the sign. “How many AIDS patients do you have?”
Mrs. Tafa gasps as if I’m being rude, but Dr. Chilume just leans against the door frame and smiles. “Too many to count,” he says.
“How many do you cure?”
“All of them.” He scrapes the mud off his boots. “At least all of the ones who come to me in time. Some folks hold back on account of the cost. They see me when it’s too late. My remedy’s expensive, but if it’s taken early enough, it’s guaranteed to work.”
“What’s it made of?”
“Sorry. I can’t say a word until I get my patent.”
“Don’t mind Chanda’s questions,” Mama apologizes. “She always wants to know everything about everything.”
“Good for her,” Dr. Chilume laughs. He ushers us into his shed.
Despite the window, the light inside is dim and there’s not much space. A desk, a filing cabinet, and two chrome chairs with plastic-covered cushions take up half the room. The other half is filled by a couple of card tables and a wall of wooden shelves. The shelves are crammed with half-empty pill bottles and battered boxes of bandages, hypodermic needles, and cotton balls. The card tables are a clutter of stuffed brown paper bags, each with the name of a herb written on it in felt marker. Under the tables are stacks of dusty pamphlets, beer cases, and a bathroom scales.
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