Chanda's Secrets

by Allan Stratton

  “Everything’s fine,” we repeat dully. “Mrs. Gulubane’s solved everything. She’s sent you to Tiro to break a spell.”

  “And what do you say to people who don’t believe in traditional doctors?”

  “You’re staying with our sister Lily. She’s had a new baby. You’re helping her out.”

  “Good.”

  The Tafas’ screen door bangs shut. We look over to see Mrs. Tafa coming our way. She’s hauling a picnic basket in one hand and a shopping bag in the other. “Lilian, I must be losing my mind,” she pants. “You’re almost away and I forgot to give you these.”

  She plants the bag and basket at our feet. First she raises the checked cotton cloth covering the picnic basket. Inside are things from the tourist shops—things we’d never be able to afford. Jams, jellies, chocolate bars, tinned meats, canned apples, fancy skin lotions and perfumes, and a bottle of aspirin.

  “You don’t want to show up at your relatives empty-handed,” Mrs. Tafa says. She reaches into the shopping bag and pulls out a brand-new dress. It’s a bright yellow covered in blue parakeets. “I want you to change into this at the last rest stop. If you don’t mind my saying so, the dress you’re wearing has seen its days.”

  “Oh, Rose,” Mama says, “this is too generous.”

  “Nonsense. Your Joshua always wanted you in new clothes, remember?”

  I want to give Mrs. Tafa a hug. I want to kiss her for being so good to Mama. But after Mama’s thank-yous and five minutes of chitchat, I start wanting her to disappear. She’s taking over our final good-byes with Mama—time worth more than all the jams and jellies in the world. I stare at her hard, to drill thoughts into her head. Thoughts like: “Go away, you stupid cow. We need Mama for us. Just for us.”

  Mrs. Tafa doesn’t get the message. Instead, she settles in. My stomach heaves, knowing she’ll be here till Mama’s gone.

  “I’ve put Chanda in charge,” I hear Mama say. “But I’ve said that if there’s a problem you’re right next door.”

  “That’s right,” Mrs. Tafa beams at Iris and Soly. “Your Auntie Rose will take care of you.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Tafa,” I say. “But I’m sure I can manage.” I’m not sure at all. In fact, I’m scared sick. But I don’t want Mrs. Tafa barging around with her nose in our business.

  Mama’s bus arrives.

  We all get up except Iris. Mama kneels down and gives her a hug. Iris hangs limp. Not Soly. He gives her a world of hugs. “I miss you already.” He closes his eyes tight.

  I help Mama to her feet. She grips my arms. “I’m counting on you,” she says, searching my eyes. “Keep them safe. Make me proud.”

  “I promise.”

  She gives me a squeeze. The driver and I help her onto the back of the truck. Mrs. Tafa passes up her bundle and the basket and shopping bag.

  “Don’t you worry, Lilian,” Mrs. Tafa says. “I’ll keep an eye on everything.”

  Mama smiles and ignores her. “I’ll be back soon,” she waves to us. “I love you.”

  And she’s gone.

  PART THREE

  27

  THE REST OF THE DAY IS STRANGE. When I pretend Mama’s inside resting, everything seems normal. But when I think of her on a bus hundreds of miles away, my insides ache to bursting.

  I have to talk to Iris. About her behavior. About her wild talk at the cemetery. But what do I say? What would Mama say? I don’t know. I can’t think. This is crazy. Lately I’ve done all the work around the house. But Mama was here in case I made a mistake. Without her, even the simplest chores seem enormous. I’m almost afraid I can’t boil water. What’ll I do if something important goes wrong?

  Before supper, Mrs. Tafa drops over with a chicken pie. She tries to act light-hearted, but it’s like she’s bringing food to a burial feast.

  “What did Mama tell you in the truck?” I ask.

  “Nothing for you to worry about,” she says and hurries off.

  The pie is good, but none of us eats much. After sundown, I put Iris and Soly to bed and tell them the story about the impala and the baboon. Then I go outside and sit on the ground, propping my back against the side of the house. The stars are clear. Most nights I think how beautiful they are. Tonight they just look cold and far away.

  The loneliness makes it hard to breathe. I try to get up, but my knees won’t let me. I wish the earth would swallow me up. It’s now, when everything feels so completely hopeless, that I realize I’m not alone. A stork is peering at me from beside the wheelbarrow. Its white feathers glow in the moonlight.

  I can’t believe my eyes. Storks sleep at night. And they don’t come into town. They stay near water where they can feed on fish. How far has this one traveled? At this time of year, the likeliest spots are the marshes around the Kawkee dam. But they’re miles away!

  I whisper greetings. “Dumêla, mma moleane.”

  The stork tilts its neck. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was smiling.

  “What brings you here?”

  The stork cocks its head to one side.

  “Are you a good-luck angel?” As I hear the words come out of my mouth, I feel foolish. I’m too old for make-believe. But the stork doesn’t care. It takes two steps toward me and pauses, its leg in the air, while it considers a third.

  We stare at each other. Time disappears. I feel the world turn calm. My shoulders melt. I close my eyes. I see Mama, big the way she used to be. Her arms cradle me. I hear the sound of her laughter, rich and round. My heart glows with her warmth.

  When I wake, the stork is gone. It doesn’t matter. The joy of my dream flickers inside me like fireflies. I smile, rub my eyes, and stretch. Then I go inside, taking care to tiptoe so I won’t wake my babies. My babies—that’s what they’ve become, my brother and sister. At the door to the bedroom I hear them whispering to each other under their sheet. I stay very still and listen.

  “Chanda’s papa’s dead,” Iris is saying. “Your papa, too. But my papa’s alive.”

  My heart stops. Iris knows about Isaac Pheto, but she’s never talked about him. Tonight’s different. “My papa’s alive,” she whispers again to Soly. “If everybody dies, I’m going to live with him.”

  “How do you know he’d want you?” Soly whispers back.

  “He tells me. He has a great big house and he says I can have any room I want. Just for me.”

  “Liar. You never even see him.”

  “I do too.”

  “Where?”

  “At kindergarten. He visits all the time and takes me for rides in his big yellow car. He buys me ice cream. He flies an airplane. He’s very rich. He’s the biggest boss at the mine.”

  “So why doesn’t he ever come here?” Soly challenges.

  “Because of Mama. She ran away with your papa. But your papa died, so ‘ha ha’ on her.”

  “That’s mean.”

  “So what?”

  Soly gets very quiet. “Iris... if everybody dies and you leave with your papa... what’ll happen to me?”

  “How should I know?”

  Soly begins to sniffle. “Take me with you?”

  “We’ll see. But only if you stop peeing the bed.”

  I stick my head in. “Is everything all right?”

  Soly’s about to say something, but Iris kicks him under the sheet. “We’re fine. Soly’s just lonesome.”

  “Me too,” I say. I wait, hoping they’ll say more, but they don’t. “’Night then. I’ll be coming in to bed soon.”

  “Night.”

  The minute I’m gone, Iris whispers to Soly: “Keep your mouth shut about what I said, or I’ll tell my papa and you’ll be all alone forever.”

  28

  NEXT DAY AFTER DOING THE BREAKFAST DISHES, I walk Soly over to Mrs. Tafa’s hedge. She told Mama she’d look after him in the morning while Iris and I are in school. She offered to look after Iris in the afternoon too, but on account of Iris’s imaginary friend, I’ve decided to stay home to watch her.

  So
ly’s been very quiet this morning. I think about what Iris told him. On the way to the hedge I make him stop, and pretend to wipe some dirt from his nose. “In case anybody ever tells you different,” I say, “you’ll never be alone. Mama loves you and she’ll be home soon. Mrs. Tafa loves you and she’s right next door. I love you and I’m not going anywhere.”

  A pause. Soly looks up. He grins shyly: “Except to school.”

  “Except to school.”

  “And except to the standpipe.”

  “And except to the standpipe.”

  “And except to—”

  I knuckle his head and pass him over the hedge to the waiting arms of Mrs. Tafa. Then I go back, pack my schoolbooks in my carrier, and adjust Iris’s combs.

  “My braids are too tight,” she whines.

  “Want me to make them tighter?” I give the combs a little twist and she shuts up.

  I walk her to kindergarten, rolling my bike between us. Iris acts like I don’t exist. When we near the playground, I say: “Soly was very upset last night. Were you making up stories?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Everything’s my business.”

  “You’re not Mama!” she taunts.

  “Yes, I am,” I say. “While she’s away, I make the rules. That’s rule number one. Rule number two: Be nice to Soly. Rule number three: Be home right after school. No excuses.”

  “Make me.” She tosses her head and runs over to a group of friends.

  I want to yank her back by the hair. But then what? If she runs off laughing, I’ll look like a fool. But if I do nothing I’ll be a fool. I see her skipping. I do nothing. I’m a coward.

  The early bell rings. I’m nearly late for my own school. I take a quick look for her teacher, Mrs. Ndori. Maybe I can ask her to keep a special eye out. I check at the office. She hasn’t arrived yet. I can’t wait. Maybe it wouldn’t have done any good anyway. Mrs. Ndori went into teaching when her husband died. She has a heart of gold, that’s about it. Her students run wild. There’s a rumor she drinks.

  I get to class just in time. My hardest subjects—math, physics, and chemistry—are in the morning. The ones I’m good at—English, history, and geography—are in the afternoon when I’ll be home. Skipping shouldn’t be a problem.

  At lunch, I knock on the staff room door.

  I’m not sure what my teachers have heard about the weekend commotion. If they gossip about students like we gossip about them, they’ve probably heard plenty. Thankfully, they don’t let on.

  I tell them I have to be away. They’re sympathetic, but concerned. “So many students only plan to miss a week or two,” Mr. Selalame says. “Then it turns into a month. Then they drop out. You’re so close to graduating, Chanda. So close to a scholarship. Take care. I worry about you.”

  “Well, don’t. I won’t let you down. I have dreams, remember?”

  There aren’t enough textbooks for me to have my own, but there’s a copy of each one in the library. I promise to come early and do the readings before morning class. Also to do all the assignments at home. If there are special tests and exams, well, hopefully Mama will be back by then.

  Mr. Selalame gives me a bookmark with a picture of a ripe sun rising over the plains. “If you need any extensions, just ask.”

  The talk with my teachers takes longer than expected. As I bike past the elementary school, I see morning classes are already out. I pedal fast, expecting to catch up with Iris, but she’s nowhere to be seen. I get a horrible feeling. The second I’m home, I drop my bike and race in the door.

  “Iris?”

  She’s not inside.

  “Iris??”

  Did I push her too hard?

  “Iris???”

  Did she run away? Have I messed up? I barrel outside in a panic.

  Mrs. Tafa waves at me from across the hedge. “Chanda, yoo hoo. Iris is over here. She and Soly are having a bowl of seswa.”

  I hop the hedge. Iris is sitting on the ground beside Mrs. Tafa’s lawn chair, munching happily. “You’re late,” Iris says.

  “I had to talk to my teachers.”

  “Oh,” she replies smugly. “I didn’t think excuses were allowed.”

  My insides boil. But what makes it worse—Mrs. Tafa laughs. “What a sharp one,” she hoots. “Quick as a whip.”

  Iris bats her eyes and snuggles closer to Mrs. Tafa.

  “By the way,” Mrs. Tafa continues, “your mama called from the general dealer’s to say she arrived in Tiro safe and sound.”

  “When’ll she be calling next?”

  “She didn’t say. But don’t you worry. I’ll pass on any messages.”

  “Thanks, but I’d like to talk to her myself.”

  Mrs. Tafa considers my request. “Well, if you’re home,” she says.

  I walk Iris to school for the rest of the week, but keep missing Mrs. Ndori. I finally bump into her on the playground Friday morning. “I’ve been away sick with a cold,” she apologizes, blowing her nose. “The teacher in the next classroom has watched the children, though. I’m sure everything’s been fine.”

  “I hope so,” I say. “But I’m not here about that.” I explain how Iris has been difficult lately and hand her a piece of paper with my name, and Mrs. Tafa’s phone number. “Could you please call me if you notice anything unusual?”

  Mrs. Ndori squints at the paper. She seems a bit confused. “Certainly,” she says, and sneezes. She wipes her nose and crumples the paper into her jacket pocket along with a wad of tissues. A stray soccer ball bonks her on the back of the head. “Boys!” she hollers and storms off to scold a crowd of children pointing at her and laughing.

  Sunday, Iris and Soly watch Mr. Tafa fix the thatching on his tenants’ roofs, while Mrs. Tafa and I do the cemetery tour. She tells me funny stories from our days at the mine. Without Mama here to laugh it’s not the same. I sit quietly while her stories turn to her son Emmanuel.

  “Such a clever boy. When he was little, he tried to teach Meeshak and me how to read, so we could read him bedtime stories. We never got the knack of it. Not like your mama. Oh my, so gifted. All those brains. I don’t know where he got them from.” Mrs. Tafa wipes her eyes with her hankie. “There’s so much dust around here.”

  She drives me to the Macholo gravesite. For the second week in a row, Esther’s nowhere to be seen. I know Mrs. Tafa’s dying to lecture me about Esther being a bad influence, but she doesn’t. Why is she being so nice? It makes me nervous.

  “It’s been a week. Mama should be back by now,” I say.

  “Child, the more you want to hurry life up, the slower it gets.” Mrs. Tafa braces herself and hits the accelerator.

  After supper, I sit out front and listen to the music blasting from the Lesoles’ boom box down the road. Mr. Lesole’s on an extended leave from the safari camp and he’s making the most of it. Mrs. Tafa comes over to the hedge.

  I imagine she’ll say what she always says: “Those Lesoles and their street parties. They should keep it down once in awhile, so folks can make music someplace else.”

  But tonight she surprises me.

  “You should get yourself down there, girl. No sense you dragging about like a cart with no wheels.” She sees me hesitate. “Go on now. I’ll watch the children. You have yourself some fun. You don’t want folks thinking there’s a problem here, do you?”

  She’s right. When folks think there’s a problem, they talk. I put on my cheeriest face, and head down the road. Before I know it, I’m at the Lesoles, surrounded by laughter and dance. “Dumêla!” Mrs. Lesole calls out, bouncing over to embrace me.

  “Dumêla!” Mr. Lesole pipes as well. “We hear your mama’s up north.”

  “Yes,” I shout over the music. “She’s gone to help my big sister with her new baby.”

  “Good for her,” Mrs. Lesole shouts back. “New mamas need all the help they can get.” She gives her husband an affectionate elbow.

  “Your mama’s so lucky! All that fresh country ai
r!” Mr. Lesole adds heartily.

  Their next-door neighbor comes up to show off his new kite. He’s made a long, shiny tail out of pop-can tabs. We all admire it, and then I mingle through a crowd of friendly neighbors. It’s like that day with Jonah never happened.

  At last it’s time to go. By the open gate I find Mr. Nylo sitting in a wheelbarrow with a bag of freshly collected rags. He gives me an excited wave. “I hear everything’s fine with your mama,” he says. “Mrs. Tafa’s passed the word.”

  “Yes!” I exclaim. “Everything’s fine!” As I head home, music ringing in my ears, dances tickling my toes, I almost believe it.

  If only she’d call.

  I’m not the only one waiting for Mama to call. Before supper on Monday, Soly’s sitting at the side of the road. He’s been going there to wait for Mama ever since she left.

  I watch him from the window. He sits patiently. Then a butterfly will flutter by and he’ll chase it. Or he’ll squat down and stare at an anthill or do a somersault. Or make up a song.

  That’s what he’s doing now as I sneak up behind him. It’s a simple song: “Oh, I’m waiting, I’m waiting, I’m waiting, I’m waiting, I’m sitting here waiting for Mama, just sitting here waiting for Mama, just sitting here waiting, and waiting, and waiting...”

  Hearing his thin, tiny voice waver in the breeze overwhelms me. Soly catches me listening. He stops singing, and stares at the ground as if he’s been doing something bad.

  “What’s the matter?” I sit beside him.

  A pause. Then he says in a quiet voice, “I was singing.”

  “I know. It was nice.”

  “It was?”

  I nod.

  His forehead wrinkles up with questions. “You mean it’s all right to sing...to play...to have fun...with Mama gone?”

  “Yes.” I squeeze him. “Mama wants us to be happy.”

  Another pause. “Chanda...why hasn’t she called again?”