Chanda's Secrets

by Allan Stratton

  Mama and Mrs. Tafa sit on the chairs as Dr. Chilume puts on the lab coat lying across his desk. He starts his examination by asking Mama her particulars, and having her stand on the scales. Then he opens a desk drawer and fishes a stethoscope from a tangle of catheters. After checking Mama’s pulse, he looks up her ears and nose with a flashlight.

  Meanwhile, my eyes have gotten used to being out of the sun’s glare. I look at all the things hanging on the walls. There’s a poster of the human body, like the one on the bulletin board in science class. There’s an out-of-date calendar with a photograph of Vic Falls. Lastly, there’s the six medical degrees that Mrs. Tafa talked about.

  Even from across the room they look impressive in their black metal frames. It’s too bad the protective glass is covered in grime; it makes them hard to read. But nothing can disguise the elegance of the lettering and the richness of the decoration. Each of the documents is covered in sweeping squiggles and swirls and there are gold seals and red ribbons, just like Mrs. Tafa said. As Dr. Chilume takes Mama’s blood pressure, I wander over for a closer look.

  At first, I imagine the words must be in Latin because the lettering’s so fancy. But as I stare through the dirt I realize they’re in English. The one on the left says: “This is to certify that Mr. Charles Chilume attended the fourth annual Herbatex Company showcase at the Holiday Inn Conference Centre, Johannesburg, South Africa, August 8–10, 1995.” It’s signed by a “Mr. Peter Ashbridge, Head Herbatex Sales Rep, S.A.”

  Heart pounding, I examine the other “degrees.” All of them say: “This is to certify that Mr. Charles Chilume is a licensed and authorized dealer of Herbatex Company products.” Even worse, I realize they’ve been run off on a photocopier. The gold seals in the corners are just shiny stickers. And the red ribbons are only that: red ribbons, cut with a scissors and stuck to the paper by the stickers.

  “Doctor” Chilume went to Jo’burg for medical training, did he? Hah! He went to a pill convention. He’s no doctor. He’s a salesman. A liar! Trading on fears of disease and death. Preying on folks like Mrs. Tafa who can’t read.

  “I diagnose insomnia, depression, and a swelling of the joints,” he tells Mama. “But don’t you worry. I have the remedies. You’ll be feeling better in no time.”

  I swing around prepared to expose him, but I can’t. For the first time in ages, Mama’s eyes are full of hope.

  “To soothe the agitation of the nervous system, I prescribe Lactuca virosa and Passiflora,” Mr. Chilume continues. “They come in tablets to be taken twice a day. For the joints, I prescribe a morning tablet of poke root, bogbean, and celery seed. Finally, to cleanse impurities from the bowel, I prescribe a purgative pill of buckthorn, elder, and senna leaves.”

  “How much will all that cost?” Mama asks.

  “Thirty American dollars to start.”

  Mama lowers her eyes. “I can’t afford it.”

  “You can’t afford not to afford it,” Mrs. Tafa whispers, giving her an elbow in the ribs.

  I get an idea. “Doctor Chilume,” I interrupt, pointing at his Herbatex souvenirs, “are these your medical degrees?”

  Mr. Chilume’s eyes twitch. “Yes.”

  “They’re very impressive,” I smile sweetly. “By the way, do you get your pills from Herbatex?”

  Mr. Chilume chokes. “Yes, Herbatex tablets. Imported from Switzerland. The best herbal medicinal tablets money can buy.”

  “I’m sure they are,” I say. “But with all your qualifications, couldn’t you mix Mama a treatment from the herbs on your table?”

  Mr. Chilume clears his throat. “Herbatex tablets have a secret coating to let them dissolve in the intestinal tract. Nonetheless,” he adds quickly, “I can prepare an alternative.”

  “Just as effective?”

  “Of course.”

  “And affordable?”

  “Absolutely.” He turns to Mama. “Your daughter’s loyalty touches me deeply. So deeply I’ve decided to give you a free month’s treatment.”

  “Seeing as I’m such a loyal customer,” Mrs. Tafa interrupts, “maybe you could give me a discount on my cystosis tablets, too.”

  “Just this once,” Mr. Chilume says grimly. “But don’t let it get around or I’ll be out of business.” He pulls a handful of plastic sandwich bags from his filing cabinet and asks us to step outside while he mixes the herbs. As we leave the shed, I take care to block Mama’s view of his official documents. Unlike Mrs. Tafa, she can read, too.

  Outside, Mrs. Tafa waddles around in circles. Sitting on the low chrome chair has bunched her underwear up her bum cheeks. “How do you know about Herbatex?” she demands, struggling to wriggle them back into place.

  “From school,” I lie. “I was in the library researching a science project on herbal remedies. Herbatex was mentioned in a Reader’s Digest article.”

  “Is that so? Well, all the same, you have some nerve,” Mrs. Tafa scolds as she twists and turns. “Interrupting a medical consultation to ask a doctor about his supplier. I hate to be unkind, Lilian, but is that how you taught her manners?”

  “Hush up,” Mama says. “I think Chanda did well for herself.”

  “Do you now?” Mrs. Tafa gives up trying to be dignified. She braces herself against a nearby tree, reaches up under her dress and gives her underwear a good hard yank.

  Mama bursts out laughing. It’s a huge laugh, the laugh she had when she was well. Mrs. Tafa and I look at her in amazement. Then we start laughing too. The air dances!

  19

  WE’RE ALL IN A GOOD MOOD as we arrive home. Iris and Soly run up to the truck to greet us. Mama gives them a hug, then goes over to Mrs. Tafa’s for some tea. She holds her herb bags tight to her stomach.

  The minute she’s gone, Iris pulls a scrap of paper from her pocket. “This is for you. It’s from Esther. She just left.”

  I grab the note.

  “Soly ripped the paper from one of your binders. I told him not to, but he did anyway.” She smiles brightly. “Are you going to spank him?”

  “No,” Soly pleads. “It was Iris’s idea.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say.

  Esther’s note is written on the back of an old sheet of math homework: “Chanda, Where were you? I waited at the cemetery. I’ll bike over later this week. Have to race now, scrub outhouse. Don’t want another beating. Esther”

  I frown.

  “What’s wrong?” Soly asks.

  “Nothing,” I say. “Everything’s fine.” Everything’s fine. I’m starting to sound like Mama. I tell them they’re free to play, we won’t be going to church today.

  “Can I put on my Sunday School dress anyway?” Iris asks.

  “No. You’ll just get it dirty.”

  She puts her hands on her hips. “No, I won’t. Besides, I have to wear it now. In a few months it’ll be too small for me.”

  Iris makes me laugh. “All right,” I say. “But only for ten minutes. And stay inside. If Mama knows I said yes, she’ll kill me.”

  Iris runs indoors happy as a bird. I re-read Esther’s note, her fear of “another beating.” I remember her black eye last week. If I hurry, maybe I can get to her before her auntie, uncle, and the brats get back from Bethel Gospel Hall. We have to talk. We have to do something. I don’t know what, but the beatings have got to stop.

  It’s a ten-minute hard bike to Esther’s. As I whiz along, I hear swearing rippling over the walls of shebeens, and tambourines and singing from inside cement block churches. Twice I stop and bow my head as funeral processions pass. I spot grannies and grampas hunching under trees with their clay pipes, and front yards with Mamas washing children in tin tubs.

  How I hated sharing bathwater at the cattle post! As the littlest, I had to wait till my older sister and brothers were done. By the time the water got to me, it was always dirty gray, and the tub was rimmed with soap scum. I remember being happy once because my bath was warm. I stopped being happy when I saw the smirk on my brother’s face, who’d jus
t gotten out. But now’s not the time for remembering. I’ve arrived.

  If Esther’s auntie and uncle were home from church, their kids would be outside playing. But the place is quiet as a tomb. I open the gate and roll my bike over to the shed. This is where they put Esther on account of the house was full.

  It’s exactly like when I last saw it, the day she moved in. The tin roof’s covered in broken barrels and sections of rusty pipe. Esther says the weight of the junk is all that keeps the roof from blowing off. I believe her. A few shovels, a rake, and a hoe are propped against the walls. An overturned wheelbarrow rests on one side of the door beside a couple of buckets.

  I tap at the door. “Esther?”

  I get an answer. But not from Esther. Instead, there’s a huge barking from the scrap pile behind the house. I look up. Her uncle’s dogs are tearing around the corner. They charge straight at me. I scramble for a shovel. I trip. Before I can get up, the dogs are all over me. I cover my head with my hands. I bunch up tight.

  But they’re not biting. They’re sniffing. They want to see if I have food. I pat their heads. They wag their tails. I get up.

  Esther should have come at the sound of the barking, but no. So where is she? I go to the house and peek through the window slats. “Esther?” Again no answer. I head around back to the outhouse. From twenty feet away I almost throw up. No wonder Esther’s auntie told her to clean it. No wonder she didn’t.

  I re-read Esther’s note. She said she had to go home or she’d be beaten. But if she’s not in the shed, the house, or the outhouse—where is she? And where’s her bike? I get a sick feeling in my stomach. Did something happen to her between my place and here?

  Don’t worry, I think. Esther likely put her bike in the shed for safekeeping. She’s probably at the standpipe getting water for cleaning. No, wait—if she went to the standpipe, why are the wheelbarrow and buckets by the shed?

  I don’t have any more time to think. The dogs have been playing around my feet and knees. Now there’s a sound at the front gate; they run to check it out. So do I, expecting to see Esther. Instead, I come face to face with her auntie, uncle, and cousins.

  Her auntie’s in a green robe and headdress, with a white shoulder cape and sash. Her uncle’s robe is also green, capped by a bishop’s crown of cloth on cardboard. The little ones are in yellow with green trim. They’re at the shed staring at my bike. When they see me coming, their eyes narrow.

  “Who are you?” her uncle demands.

  “Chanda Kabelo,” I say. “We met at Mrs. Macholo’s laying over? I helped Esther move in?”

  “What do you want?” from her auntie. Her arms are crossed.

  I try to think of a good lie, but there aren’t any. “I’m looking for Esther.”

  “Then what are you doing here?” her auntie snorts.

  “I thought this was where she lives.”

  “Is it?”

  “Isn’t it?” I shift my weight.

  “Esther shows up now and then,” her auntie says coldly.

  I want to yell—“You’re lying. Esther slaves for you, you beat her”—but that would only get her in trouble, so I stay shut up. There’s an awful silence.

  “We don’t like strangers in the yard,” her uncle says at last. “Least of all strangers who circle our house. How do we know you’re not a thief?”

  “I told you—I’m a friend of Esther’s!”

  “Like I said,” he replies grimly.

  My cheeks flush.

  “You better go,” says her auntie.

  “And don’t come back,” her uncle adds. “Next time we’ll send for the police.”

  “Go ahead,” I think. “While they’re here, I’ll tell them you beat my friend.”

  Esther’s cousins move away from my bike. I lift it up and walk it to the road. Then I get on and turn back. I clear my throat. “Since Esther’s not here, do you have any idea where I could find her?”

  “Plenty,” her auntie adds. “None fit to repeat.”

  Her uncle takes off his bishop’s hat and wipes his forehead. “Try the Liberty Hotel and work your way down from there.”

  “If you see her, tell her we’ve had enough,” her auntie says. “Either she lives right or she’s gone. It’s hard to keep our little ones from sin when they live with a whore.”

  20

  I PEDAL HARD TO THE LIBERTY. Esther a whore? It’s a lie. An evil lie. She only lets tourists take her picture. Or maybe pictures count as whoring to the holy hypocrites at Bethel Gospel Hall.

  All the same ... why did Esther lie about going home? What’s the real reason she made me promise not to visit her place?

  I think about the Polaroids. I think about the men who take them. Who give her name to their friends. Who write her on the Internet. Esther laughed when I got upset about it. But I’m right. Tourists can take pictures of anyone. They don’t need to send e-mails for that.

  I think about the rumors. What Mrs. Tafa’s said. And Mama. And the boys at school. The girls too. I’ve always taken Esther’s side. But what if they’re right? What if I’m a fool? No, stop it, stop it. If I think like that, what kind of a friend am I?

  I wheel around the Liberty’s circular drive. No Esther. What a relief. Or maybe not.

  I head to the side streets. At night they’re alive with whores in short skirts and bright plastic knee-highs who hop into cars at stop signs. By day they’re quiet. Clients are shy of the light, so the action moves into the Sir Cecil Rhodes Commemorative Garden. That’s what the guidebooks call it. We just call it hooker park.

  It’s five blocks long, three wide. There’s rapes and murders, but it’s okay in the afternoon if you stick to the main sidewalk. Hookers hang out on the benches soaking up sun or catching some sleep. If a guy’s interested, they go into the bushes. Or if he’s a trucker he’ll take them to his van. That’s what they say at school, anyway.

  The park’s surrounded by a stone wall. I go in by the iron gate on the south side and ride around the main route—it’s a large figure eight—taking a quick peek up the side trails. At the north end, there’s a gully and the sidewalk turns into a footbridge. I hear noises underneath, but I’m smart enough not to stop. The third time I bike around, a man is scrambling up the embankment in a hurry. Below, a woman is wiping the inside of her legs with a rag.

  I start to relax. Three times around and no sign of Esther. I say a prayer of thanks. What was I thinking? I feel so guilty. I heard a nasty lie and all of a sudden I turned into Mrs. Tafa.

  I decide to go to the Red Fishtail Mall. I’ll drive in front of Mr. Mpho’s Electronics, then check the Internet cafe.

  That’s my plan at least, but I don’t get very far. As I leave the park, a limo with tinted windows stops at the side of the road ahead of me. Someone’s getting out of the back seat. Someone very familiar.

  “Esther!”

  “Chanda!”

  The limo takes off. Esther stands in front of me holding a plastic grocery bag. Inside the bag, I see her regular clothes. They’re bright as usual, but nothing like what she’s wearing now. A ribbon of orange vinyl mini-skirt and a pink lace bikini top. Her face is covered in cheap makeup. The lipstick is smudged.

  “What are you doing here?” I say, as if it isn’t obvious.

  “None of your business,” she snaps. “How dare you spy on me?”

  “I’m not. I got your note. I went to your place.”

  “I told you never to go there!”

  “I was worried.”

  “Who cares? You promised you wouldn’t. You lied.”

  “I lied?” My eyes pop.

  “Anyway, I don’t know why you’re so upset,” she says, more defiant than ever. “It’s not like I’m doing anything. I’m giving guided tours, that’s all. I take people around the city. Show them places of interest. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing, if it’s the truth. But it’s not.”

  “How do you know? I thought we were friends. Friends are supposed t
o trust each other.”

  “Trust!” My eyes fill up. “Do you know how stupid you sound?”

  “Me? Stupid?” Esther reaches into her panties and pulls out a roll of paper money. “Does this look stupid? You don’t make half this in a month selling your eggs and vegetables. I make it in an afternoon. And you think I’m stupid?”

  I look from her eyes to the money and back again. The air leaves my body. I totter on my feet. “I believed in you,” I whisper. “When people called you names, I always took your side.”

  Esther’s face crumples. “It’s easy for you,” she says. “You have your mama, your sister, your brother. My mama’s dead. My brothers and sister are scattered all over. I want my family. I need the money to get them back.”

  “By doing this?”

  “How else can I get enough to support us? To rent a room? Buy food?” She tosses her arms in the air, flops on a nearby bench and turns away.

  I lean my bike against a tree and join her. We sit for a long time without saying anything, her wiping her eyes, me staring at the ground.

  “How long have you been hooking?” I say at last.

  “A few months.”

  I swallow hard.

  “Not every day,” she says quickly. As if that reassures me.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Her voice gets very small. “I didn’t think you’d be my friend anymore.”

  “You know me better than that.”

  She sniffles. “Who knows anybody?”

  Another long pause. “You must have guessed I’d find out.”

  “Why?” She wipes back a tiny river of mascara. “There’s so many rumors about me, I figured you’d just think it was another one. Besides, folks our way don’t come here much. If they do, they don’t want to be seen either. Anybody normal, well, I figured I’d duck in the bushes. Or tell them I was a guide. Or...” She shrugs, hopelessly. “I don’t know. I tried not to think about it.”