Chanda's Secrets

by Allan Stratton

  I whirl around. It’s Mama.

  “What are you doing out here?” I gasp.

  “Waiting for you.”

  “Where’s Jonah?”

  “I don’t know.” Mama’s voice is far away. “They say he wandered off at sundown.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “Mrs. Tafa.”

  My mind races. “Oh my god, Mama, he’s dead, isn’t he? Somebody came back and did something.”

  “Why would anybody do anything? He left on his own. He wanted to go. To be alone. Mrs. Tafa said so.” Mama leans heavily on her walking stick. “Now come inside,” she says. “We’ve got a visitor.”

  24

  OUR VISITOR IS MRS. GULUBANE. The local spirit doctor. She lives in the mopane hut across from the dump with her aging mama and a grown daughter, born without eyes.

  Normally Mrs. Gulubane wears a cotton print dress, a kerchief, an old cardigan, and a pair of rubber sandals. But tonight is a business call. She has on her otterskin cap, her white robe with the crescent moons and stars, her red sash, and her necklace of animal teeth.

  Our kitchen table and chairs have been pushed against the side walls. Mrs. Gulubane’s reed mat has been unrolled in the center of the room. When I come in, she’s sitting on it cross-legged. To her right is a whisk broom of yerbabuena stalks and a pot of water; to her left, a wicker basket and a handful of dried bones. This is how she presents herself on weekends at the bazaar, where she tells tourists their fortunes while her daughter hunches next to her weaving grass hats.

  It’s fun watching Mrs. Gulubane play with the tourists. Most traditional doctors try to keep their customers happy. Not Mrs. Gulubane. When she’s in a bad mood, she’ll tell them that their wives are cheating with the neighbors, and their children will be ripped apart by wild dogs. If they want their money back, her daughter rips the bandages off her eye sockets and threatens to attack them with her cane. It’s amazing how fast tourists can run—even when they’re loaded down with souvenirs and videocams.

  Tonight, though, I’m not expecting fun. Here in the neighborhood, Mrs. Gulubane takes her rituals seriously. So do a lot of people—even people who know better. No matter what sounds come out of her hut, nobody ever says a word. I don’t know how many people believe in her powers, but nobody wants to be at the end of her curse.

  Mrs. Gulubane stays seated. “Good evening, Chanda.” The lamplight shines off her two gold teeth.

  I bow my head in respect, but what I’m thinking is: Why is she here?

  She reads my mind. “There is bewitchment in this place. I have come to see what I can see.”

  I look uncertainly at Mama. Why did she ask her here? She doesn’t believe in spirit doctors.

  “It wasn’t your mama called me,” Mrs. Gulubane smiles. “I was sent for by a friend.”

  “Good evening, Chanda,” comes a voice from the corner behind me. I turn. It’s Mrs. Tafa. She closes the shutters.

  Mrs. Gulubane indicates the floor in front of her mat. “Now that the family is together, shall we begin?”

  Mama nods. She hands me her walking stick and takes my arm. I help her down and sit beside her. Soly and Iris squeeze between us. Mrs. Tafa sits in a chair; I suppose she’s afraid if she sat on the floor she wouldn’t be able to get up again.

  Mrs. Gulubane lowers the lamp flame. Shadows dart up and down the walls. She takes an old shoe polish tin from her basket. Inside is a small quantity of greenish brown powder. She chants a prayer and rubs the powder between her fingers, sprinkling it into the pot of water. Then, stirring the water with the whisk brush, she dances about the room flicking a light spray into the corners, and over and under the windows and doorways.

  I’m not sure what Mama is thinking, but Soly and Iris are frightened. “It’s all right,” I whisper. “It’s just a show.” Mrs. Gulubane stops in her tracks, tilts her ear toward us, and growls at the air. Soly buries his head in my waist.

  Mrs. Gulubane returns to the mat. She pulls a length of red skipping rope from her basket, folds it in two, and begins to whip herself. Strange noises rattle up her throat. Spittle flies from her lips. Her eyes roll into her head. “HI-E-YA!” She throws back her arms, stiffens, and slumps forward in a heap.

  A moment of silence. Then she sits up slowly and reaches for the bones. They’re flat and worn, sliced from the ribs of a large animal. Mrs. Gulubane takes three in each hand. Chanting, she claps them together three times and lets them fall. She peers at the pattern they make. Something upsets her. She puts two of the bones aside. More chanting as she claps the remaining four and lets them fall. Her forehead knots tighter. She sets a second pair of bones aside and picks up the remaining two. A final chant. She claps them together. One breaks into three pieces in her hand. The fragments fall on the mat. She studies them closely, muttering heavily and shaking her head.

  She looks up. Under the lamplight, Mrs. Gulubane’s face contorts into the face of an old man. Her voice changes, too. It’s low and guttural. She swallows air and belches words. “An evil wind is blowing from the north. There is a village. I see the letter ‘T.’”

  A pause. “Tiro,” Mama says. Her voice is tired, resigned.

  “Yes, Tiro. It is Tiro. Someone in Tiro wishes you harm.”

  “Only one?” asks Mama. I look over. Is there mockery in her voice?

  Mrs. Gulubane glares. “No. More than one,” she says. “But one above all others.” She moves the bones around, cocks her head, and makes a deep whupping sound. “I see a crow. It hops on one claw.”

  Mrs. Tafa’s breath seizes. “Lilian’s sister has a clubfoot,” she whispers from the corner.

  Mrs. Gulubane claps her hands in triumph. “The bones are never wrong. This sister of yours,” she says to Mama, “she has visited your home?”

  “She came for the burial of my child,” Mama replies. “And when I buried my late husband.”

  “Death. She has come for death,” Mrs. Gulubane growls. “And to steal for her spells.”

  “Lizbet?” Mrs. Tafa gasps.

  Mrs. Gulubane nods darkly. “When she has left, what things have been missing?”

  “Nothing,” Mama says.

  “Nothing you remember. But maybe an old kerchief? An old hankie?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The evil one is clever!” Mrs. Gulubane exclaims. “Each time she has come, she has taken a hankie, a kerchief, something so old it hasn’t been missed. And she has snipped a braid of your hair—oh yes, each time a single braid—while you lay sleeping. With these she has bewitched you. She has put a spell on your womb. Even as we speak, the demon is coiled in your belly.”

  Without warning, Mrs. Gulubane lunges across the mat and punches her fist into Mama’s guts. Mama howls in pain. The spirit doctor twists her fist back. Wriggling from her grip is a snake. She throws it against the wall and attacks it with Mama’s walking stick.

  The air is alive with magic. From every corner, animal noises blare, trumpet, and squawk. Mrs. Gulubane spins about, striking the reptile. Finally she leaps upon it, grabs it by head and tail and ties it in a knot. She lifts the lifeless body above her head. Its shadow fills the wall.

  “I have killed this demon,” she says. “But there will be others. The evil one has your hankies, your kerchiefs, your braids of hair, to make more spells. She has sewn the hankies into dollies, stitched on eyes and mouths, and filled them with cayenne. Therein the pain to your body. At night, she has singed your braids of hair. Therein the pain to your mind. Beware. You must retrieve what she has stolen or you and your children will surely die.”

  We stare in dumb silence as Mrs. Gulubane drops the snake into her pot, returns the pot, whisk brush, and tin to her basket, and rolls up her mat. She tucks the mat under her arm, takes the basket, and makes her way out the door.

  Mrs. Tafa rushes after her. “For your troubles.” She presses a few coins in Mrs. Gulubane’s free hand. “Tomorrow, I’ll have the family bring you two chickens for a sacrifice.”


  Mrs. Gulubane nods and vanishes into the night.

  25

  “WITCHCRAFT!” MRS. TAFA TURNS TO MAMA. “What did I tell you? We have to talk.”

  Mama gets up slowly and follows Mrs. Tafa outside. They huddle together on a pair of upturned pails. Mrs. Tafa waves her arms and babbles incoherently. Mama stares into the night.

  Soly and Iris watch her from the front door. “Is it true?” they whisper. “Are we going to die?”

  “No.” I pull them back inside. “None of us is going to die.”

  “But Mrs. Gulubane said—”

  “Mrs. Gulubane likes to hear herself talk.”

  “No,” Iris gasps. “She talks to spirits!”

  “She’s a fake. Sorcery is just in books. At school, Mr. Selalame tells us all about how traditional doctors do their so-called magic.”

  “But the animal sounds—”

  “Mrs. Gulubane makes them herself. It’s a cheap ventriloquist’s trick.”

  “But the snake—”

  “Hidden in a pocket up her sleeve.”

  “Then why didn’t her sleeve wriggle?”

  “The snake was dead the whole time. She made it look alive the way she flicked it with Mama’s stick.”

  “But—”

  “But But But But But!” I explode. “You’re not going to die, and that’s all there is to it. Now brush your teeth and go to bed!”

  As I tuck them in, I curse Mrs. Gulubane. And I curse Mrs. Tafa for bringing her. Thanks to those old crows, Soly will be peeing his diaper forever. I give them a big hug and a kiss. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

  “That’s okay,” Iris says. For a change, her arms stay tight around my neck. “Chanda, please don’t get mad again—but if Mrs. Gulubane is a fake, why does Mama believe in her?”

  “Mama doesn’t believe in her,” I say. “Mama just pretended to believe in her so she’d go away.”

  Iris considers this. “If Mama was just pretending,” she whispers, “why is she still outside with Mrs. Tafa?”

  “She’s being polite.”

  Iris frowns. So does Soly.

  “Would you like a lamp?” I ask.

  They nod.

  By the time I have them settled, Mama’s come in and gone to her room. The curtain is drawn across her doorway.

  “Mama?”

  When she doesn’t say anything, I peek inside. She’s crumpled on her mattress. A pillowcase stuffed with clothes is sitting next to her.

  “I’m going to Tiro tomorrow,” she says.

  I clutch the door frame. “What?”

  “I have to. Mrs. Gulubane read the bones.”

  “No, she didn’t. She repeated gossip. Things she could have heard from Mrs. Tafa or anybody.”

  Mama rubs her temples. “This house is bewitched.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “Don’t I?” Mama dares me. “Then look me in the eye and tell me why my Sara died. Tell me why my Jonah is dying. Tell me why my joints ache and my head splits apart.”

  My mind burns with the truth. I long to take the dare—but saying it will make it real. Here. Now.

  “Mrs. Tafa’s offered to keep an eye out,” Mama says. “She’ll help you with Iris and Soly.”

  “No, Mama. You’re not going anywhere. You’re not well enough.”

  “Nonsense. The fresh air will do me good.”

  I’m about to beg when I smell smoke. Hear a crackling of burning wood. It’s coming from the front of the house. I race to the window of the main room. The wagon by the road is ablaze.

  I run into the yard, Mama beside me, Soly and Iris too. The street is empty. Whoever did this has fled into the night. I look to Mrs. Tafa’s house. Her shutters are closed. So are the shutters of all the neighbors up and down the street. They’re watching from the darkness—I can feel it—but none of them come out.

  Mama throws back her shoulders like she did the day we left Isaac Pheto’s. She tosses away her cane. “Let the wagon burn,” she says. She turns as powerful as a queen in the firelight and leads us back into the house.

  Once Soly and Iris have been comforted back to bed, she collapses. I sit at the side of her bed and hold her hand.

  “You see, Chanda?” she says. “It doesn’t matter what I believe. Mrs. Gulubane has paid us a visit. If I don’t go to Tiro like she says, who knows what some lunatic may do next?”

  26

  SATURDAY NIGHT TURNS TO SUNDAY MORNING.

  We sit at the kitchen table eating our porridge in silence. I clear the dishes and Mama tells Soly and Iris she has an important announcement. Before she can say another word, Iris says: “You’re going away, aren’t you?”

  “Just for a little,” she nods.

  Iris turns to Soly. “I told you.” She shoves her chair away from the table and heads to the front door.

  “Iris, come back, I haven’t finished,” Mama says.

  Iris ignores her. She flounces outside and flops cross-legged on the ground.

  I get up. “Mama’s talking to you, Iris.”

  Iris pays no attention. She talks to the chickens who strut around looking for feed. I’m about to drag her back in, but Mama stops me.

  Meanwhile, tears roll down Soly’s cheeks. They drip off his chin. He doesn’t bother to wipe them.

  Mama wraps her arms around him. “It’s only a trip,” she comforts.

  His little shoulders heave. “When people go on trips, they don’t come back.”

  “Well, I’m coming back. I just have to see some relatives in Tiro. Isn’t that right, Chanda?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Soly’s eyes are so big I think they’ll fall out of his head. “Promise?”

  “Promise.” Mama kisses his forehead. “While I’m gone, Chanda will be in charge. She’ll need your help. Can you help her for me?”

  He nods, his breath catching as if it’s all too much to bear.

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” Mama continues. “If worst comes to worst, Mrs. Tafa’s next door with her phone.”

  “When will you be back?” he asks.

  “A few days. Maybe a week.”

  A pause. “How long before you go?”

  “This afternoon sometime. After the cemetery tour.”

  “Can I go with you?”

  “Tiro’s pretty far for a little man.”

  “No, but to the cemeteries. I want to be with you as long as I can. Please? Chanda gets to go. Why not Iris and me?”

  Mama looks to me.

  “They’re old enough.” I shrug. “Besides, it might help somebody deal with S–a–r–a.”

  Mama fetches Mrs. Tafa for the cemetery tour, while I get Soly and Iris ready. I thought this would be an adventure for them—a sign they were all grown-up—but Iris stays bratty: “I don’t want to go to any cemeteries.”

  “If you come, you can wear your Sunday School dress.”

  “I hate my Sunday School dress.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Yes, I do. It’s not really mine, anyway. It’s from the church bin. It’s somebody else’s who didn’t want it. I don’t want it either.”

  I cross my arms. “Iris, you’re coming and that’s that. Now get up and get moving.”

  Iris stops arguing. In fact, she stops doing everything. She stands in her room like a rag doll and makes me dress her, one arm and leg at a time. I even have to bend her knees and elbows.

  She’s no easier on the drive. Mama talks privately with Mrs. Tafa in the cab, while Iris, Soly, and I squat on the flatbed. For once, Mrs. Tafa drives like a human being. Maybe she’s quiet on account of Mama’s conversation, or what happened last night, or not wanting to send us kids flying. Whatever the reason, I only have to knock twice on the rear window to get her to slow down.

  The ride distracts Soly. He points at birds and waves when we pass children traveling by foot, bike, and buggy. Head over the side of the flatbed, the wind in his face, he’s king of the county. Iris, on the other ha
nd, is queen of the grumps. She doesn’t even get excited when we pass a three-legged dog running around a warthog.

  At Papa’s cemetery, I lift Soly off the flatbed. I go to help Iris down, but she refuses to budge. “Why can’t I stay in the truck? He’s not my papa.”

  “Do it for Mama and me.”

  She wrinkles her face. “My stomach hurts.”

  She’s the same at Mr. Dube’s. Even at Sara’s.

  Mama gathers us around Sara’s marker. “This is where your sister lives,” Mama says. “This is where we come to be with her and to remember happy times.”

  While Soly copies everything Mama does, Iris acts like she couldn’t care less. She rocks on her heels. I yank her out of earshot.

  “Show some respect,” I say. “Sara’s resting there.”

  “No, she isn’t,” Iris says. “Sara’s someplace else.” In a quiet singsong voice, she chants: “I know something you don’t know. I know something you don’t know.”

  “If Sara isn’t there,” I say, “where do you think she is?”

  She puts a finger to her lips. “It’s a secret. I promised her I wouldn’t tell.”

  I thought Iris’s imaginary friend had disappeared, but she’s back with a vengeance. I want to tell Mama. I should. But I can’t. The worry would drive her crazy. A hole opens in the pit of my stomach. I bottle up the terror.

  Back home, Iris, Soly, and I wait with Mama for the bus. The wagon’s stopped smoking, but there’s a smell of charred wood in the air.

  Mama pretends not to notice. She tells stories to make us laugh. We try, to make her happy, but laughing’s too hard. Even breathing is hard. Soly looks like he’s going to cry. Mama catches him. “Soly, what did I tell you?”

  “‘Never let them see you cry,’” he whispers.

  “That’s right,” she says gently, wiping a tear from his eye. “You can cry in the house. But not outside. People will think something’s wrong. We don’t want that, do we?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Good.” Mama adjusts his jacket. “If you feel the tears coming, just close your eyes and tell yourself a story. A little dream can make the world a happier place.” She looks at us solemnly. “Now, one last time before I go: People may tease you about why I’m away. If neighbors ask questions, what do you say?”