They’re not alone. Neighbors dot the front yards along the street. They pretend to garden, to simmer seswa on their firepits, or to chat across their hedges; but they have an eye out, curious about who or what “those kids and the hooker-girl” are waiting for.
When the van stops by our gate, they begin to drift over. They stare at the rubber gloves on the clinic helper. They stare at the tubing and the IV drip bag attached to Mama as he slides her from the rear of the van onto a stretcher-trolley.
The one neighbor missing is the one neighbor who knew we were coming. Mrs. Tafa. I picture her hiding behind her shutters, afraid of living next door to an AIDS family.
Soly and Iris run up to me. I hug them. “Mama’s very sick.”
“Is she going to get better?”
“We can hope.”
Holding hands, they follow the helper and me into the house and on to Mama’s room. There’s a homemade frame with baby pictures of us kids hanging above her bed. I take it down and we use the nail to hang up the IV bag. We lift Mama from the trolley onto her mattress, and pull up her cover.
Iris, Soly, and I each give her a kiss on the forehead. Mama’s unconscious, but she seems to know what’s happening. A smile crosses her lips and for a moment the lines around her eyes and forehead soften.
“You rest now, Mama,” I whisper.
I walk the helper back to the van. I pretend not to notice that the neighbors haven’t budged. The helper hops into the van and starts the engine, then hands me a box of rubber gloves through the window. He edges the van through the crowd and is gone.
Everyone’s staring. I want to close my eyes and make the world disappear. I want to recite the alphabet until my brain melts. But I don’t. I force a smile. “Thank you for coming,” I say.
Silence.
I know each of these people—I’ve known them since we moved here. They’re good people, fine people. But they look at me like I don’t exist. A million terrible thoughts fill my head. Are we without friends from this moment on? Cut off? Shunned? Left to live and die alone?
It’s now that a miracle happens. A screen door bangs shut on the other side of the hedge. All eyes turn. Striding toward me, twirling her floral umbrella, comes Mrs. Tafa. She marches up as bright as a sunrise and kisses me on both cheeks.
“Welcome home,” she says. She nods to the crowd. “I don’t know what the rest of you folks are doing here, but I’ve come to say hello to my good friend Lilian.”
The crowd blinks.
“Is something the matter?” Mrs. Tafa demands.
There’s a low rumble.
Mrs. Tafa arches an eyebrow. “I know what goes on behind each of your doors,” she says, sizing them up one by one. “This is the best family on the block. If any of you disagree, I’ll be happy to share your secrets.”
Some nervous coughs. A few wives give their husbands the evil eye. Young men look down, toe the dirt. And from all around, voices begin to break the silence.
“Glad to see you back,” says old Mr. Nylo the ragpicker.
“You’re in our prayers,” say the Lesoles.
Under the watchful eye of Mrs. Tafa, they each come up to give their regards or shake my hand. As soon as they leave, some of the shakers wipe their hands on their pants and dresses. It doesn’t matter. The Keeper of Scandals has spoken. The curse has been broken.
42
WHEN MRS. TAFA AND I ENTER THE HOUSE, Esther whisks Soly and Iris to their room. I close the front door and Mrs. Tafa starts shaking. She looks out the window to make sure everyone’s truly gone. Then she clutches her hand to her chest and collapses in a chair at the kitchen table. “Water! Water!”
I bring her a glass. She gulps it down and has another.
“Mrs. Tafa,” I say, “thank you for what you did out there.”
She gives me a wave of her hankie as if it was nothing. “Is it all right if I see your mama?”
I nearly fall on the floor. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard Mrs. Tafa ask permission for anything. “Come,” I say, and take her into Mama’s room. We sit together by the side of the bed. As I watch her watching Mama, she doesn’t seem so fierce anymore. Instead she seems like I feel: scared and alone.
“Chanda,” she says at last, “forgive me. Your mama and me, we thought we knew best. We thought if the traditional doctor came, your mama would have an excuse to disappear, to pass in secret. Your mama thought she’d spare you shame. Me, I just thought about myself. People knew we were friends. To have her die here... like this... after everything I’d said about the sickness... I was afraid.”
“It’s all right,” I say.
The minute I say it’s all right, Mrs. Tafa buries her head between her knees and wails. I put my arm around her shoulder. She grabs hold of me and blubbers like a baby.
“You thanked me for what I did out there,” she weeps. “It’s not me you should thank. It’s my son. My Emmanuel.”
But Emmanuel’s dead, I think.
“When you called from the hospital,” Mrs. Tafa continues, “I was so terrified. I closed the shutters and hid behind the closet curtain. When the van drove up, I peeked between the shutter slats. I saw the neighbors coming. I went back to hide, to leave you to face them alone. That’s when I saw the shrine to my Emmanuel sitting on the side table. His baptismal certificate, funeral program, envelope of baby hair, and in the middle of it all, his photograph. His eyes called to me from the grave, ‘Mama, for my sake, you know what to do.’ He was right. I knew. And this time I didn’t betray him.”
“But you’ve never betrayed him.”
“Oh, yes, I have. Ever since he died.” She wrings her hankie. “When Emmanuel won his scholarship to study law in Jo’burg, we were all so proud. He’d never been one to waste his time on girls. Only on books. Now his studies had paid off. I remember the last time we spoke. He was at a phone booth on his way to his doctor to take the physical for his travel documents.”
“Just before his hunting accident, right?”
She shakes her head. “My boy didn’t hunt. There was no accident. He shot himself.”
My head swims. “What?”
“As part of the physical, his doctor gave him an AIDS test. The test came back positive. Emmanuel borrowed a rifle from a friend. He went into the bush, put the rifle in his mouth and blew his head off. You see, he didn’t know how to tell us, my husband and me. He was afraid we wouldn’t understand. He was afraid we wouldn’t love him anymore.”
“But that’s crazy.”
“Is it?” She wipes her eyes. “Then why have we dishonored his death with a lie?”
We sit very still.
“I won’t tell anyone,” I whisper.
“It’s all right if you do,” she says. “Seeing how you’ve stood by your mama, well, it’s how I want to stand by my Emmanuel. Facing the neighbors today, I’ve never felt so tall. I hope my boy was watching.”
Before Mrs. Tafa goes, she takes my mama’s hand and whispers in her ear: “Oh Lilian, you have such a daughter. Such a daughter.”
43
TWO DAYS LATER, MAMA SLIPS INTO A COMA.
Esther looks after Iris and Soly, while Mrs. Tafa organizes different neighbors to bring food and help with chores. I stay with Mama the whole time, changing her, and turning her over to keep away bedsores. At night I pass out on a mat beside her. I’m glad I don’t have time to think. If I did, I’d go crazy.
In the middle of the week, I get a visitor. Mr. Selalame. Without thinking, I throw myself into his arms. “Oh, Mr. Selalame, I’m frightened.”
When I settle down, I have Esther sit with Mama, and Mr. Selalame and I go for a walk. We end up at the park around the block, sitting on the swings.
“I’m sorry about school,” I say. “I’m sorry for letting you down.”
“You didn’t.”
I wipe my eyes. “I don’t think I can go back. When this is over, I’ll have to work.”
“I know.” He pauses. “Chanda, this isn’t the righ
t time to make decisions. But I want you to know I’ve made enquiries. A lot of teachers are sick. There aren’t enough qualified replacements. You were one of my best students. I’ve recommended you at the elementary school. When you’re ready—if you’re interested—the principal says you can have a job as a supply.”
I know this is wonderful news. Working supply will help us get by—and I can keep an eye on Iris—Soly too, he’ll be starting school next year. All the same, I think of my dreams. How I wanted to graduate. Get a scholarship. Be a lawyer. A doctor. A full teacher. My dreams are over. I choke up.
Mr. Selalame knows why I’m crying. He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Chanda, you keep your dreams alive, you hear? This is only for now. Dreams are for your whole life.”
At night I sit with Mama after everyone’s asleep. I hold her hand and tell her what Mr. Selalame said. “It’s not perfect,” I say quietly, “but there’s always the future. And meanwhile, Soly and Iris and I will be all right. We’ll survive.”
They tell me Mama can’t hear me. All the same, when I say my news, her body relaxes. She begins to rest easy.
She stays with us for one last day. Iris and Soly know what’s coming. They sit beside her and tell her stories. I say that even though Mama’s sleeping, deep inside she knows they’re there.
Every so often, one of them cries. I try not to show how afraid I am. “It’s all right,” I say. “I’ll be with you.”
“But we want Mama. We don’t want her to go.”
“She won’t be gone. Not really. Whenever you miss her, just close your eyes. She’ll be as close as your nearest thought.” I hope that’s true. Even if it isn’t, I don’t know what else to say.
People think I’m imagining things when I tell them this, but I don’t care. It’s what I know:
The end came in the middle of the night. I was on my mat next to Mama. Soly and Iris were in the other room with Esther. For some reason I woke up. Mama was looking at me.
I raised myself on an elbow. Mama’s in a coma, I thought. Am I dreaming?
“Don’t worry,” she said. “You’re awake. I’ve just come back to say good-bye.”
“No,” I pleaded. “Not yet. Please, not yet.”
“You’ll do fine,” she laughed gently. “I believe in you.”
And she passed.
I went to get Iris and Soly. At the door to their room, I saw them standing at the window with Esther.
“They just woke up,” Esther whispered.
I was about to tell them about Mama when Iris called out, “Chanda, come quick.” She was pointing at something outside.
I hurried over. There, perched on the wheelbarrow, was my stork. It craned its neck toward us. Iris and Soly waved. The stork raised its right foot as if giving us a blessing. Then it arched its back and began to fly, circling the yard three times before disappearing into the night.
I held my babies close.
“That was Mama, wasn’t it?” whispered Soly.
My mind said no, but my heart said, “Yes.”
“She’s gone now?”
“Yes.”
EPILOGUE
IT HASN’T BEEN EASY SINCE MAMA DIED. Some days I’m so tired I can barely move, and the pain of Mama’s death is so big I don’t know where to put it. I try to keep busy, like she did.
The Tafas looked after the funeral expenses, including a moriti.
“I’ll pay you back,” I said.
“No,” Mrs. Tafa insisted. “We’re paying you back.”
The whole community came to the burial feast. For once, nobody had to lie about the cause of death. We could breathe freely.
Every so often someone came up and whispered: “I have a parent who’s sick.” Or a grandparent. Or an aunt, an uncle, a cousin, a best friend. “You’re the first person we’ve been able to tell.”
Before Mama left for Tiro, she’d written a will. One copy was left with Mrs. Tafa, a second with the priest. Mama gave everything—the house and her belongings—to me in trust. I was put in charge of Iris and Soly.
I asked Esther to move in permanently and to bring her brothers and sister along. One brother was happily settled with her Uncle Kagiso, but the other brother and sister came. The house was crowded for awhile, but Mr. Tafa built a pair of extra rooms at the side.
We’ve also increased the size of our chicken coop and vegetable garden. Weekends, we all chip in on the chores. Weekdays, most of the housework is done by Esther while I do supply work at the elementary school.
The hardest time was when I took Soly and Iris to the hospital to see Nurse Viser. Esther came, too, with her brother and sister.
“Awhile ago, you asked if I wanted to be tested for AIDS,” I said. “I wasn’t ready then. I am now. This is my family. We all want the truth.”
The tests came back negative. Except for Esther’s. We held each other and cried.
Nurse Viser put Esther on a list to get anti-retroviral drugs through a relief agency. “The bad news is, the list is long and it’ll take awhile for your name to get to the top,” she said. “The good news is, your health is excellent and you may be able to get treatment before you’re sick. Remember, new drugs are discovered each year. Don’t give up hope.”
Nurse Viser also arranged for Esther to meet with the counselor at the Thabo Welcome Centre. Esther carries on as if she’s fearless. But it’s only an act. The day of her appointment she was terrified.
“Would you like me to go with you?” I asked.
“Are you sure?” she hesitated. “People may think you have AIDS too.”
“So what? I don’t care what people think anymore.”
Esther squealed and danced me around the room. “You’re my best friend forever!”
When people first go to the Welcome Centre, they usually enter through the back door, checking over their shoulder to see if anyone’s watching. Not us. “If people are going to talk, let’s give them something to talk about,” I said. Esther put on a bright skirt and a polka-dot blouse, and I got into the yellow dress with blue parakeets that Mama got from Mrs. Tafa. We sang all the way as we biked the ten miles to Section Ten and marched in through the Welcome Centre’s front door.
A large white bedsheet was draped along the entrance hall. Beside the sheet, a felt marker hung from a string. Dozens of people had used it to write sayings on the sheet: “Everyone is either infected or affected”; “We can’t change the past, but we can change the future”; “Where there is love there is life. Where there is life there is hope”; “Live now.”
We walked down the hall, past a counseling room, into an open meeting space. In the corner, a group of women, all different ages, and a couple of men, sat around a coffee table next to a piano, having tea and biscuits. Some of them looked healthy; others were very thin. They greeted us with a smile: “Dumêlang.”
“Dumêla,” Esther said in a loud voice. “I’m here for my appointment.”
A large woman got up from the group. She gave Esther a big squeeze. “Dumêla. I’m the counselor, Banyana Kaone.”
My jaw dropped. “So this is Banyana Kaone,” I thought. “The AIDS Lady in the newspaper who hands out condoms. Up close she doesn’t look old and weird. She looks like a mama.” Next thing I knew, she was hugging me, too, and suddenly the Welcome Centre felt like home.
Esther and I have been coming every week since. Sometimes more. There’s singalongs and card games and potluck suppers. Most of all, there’s companionship, the comfort of being with friends who’re going through the same thing.
“I’m not alone,” says Esther. “I’m alive again.”
Mama said I should save my anger to fight injustice. Well, I know what’s unjust. The ignorance about AIDS. The shame. The stigma. The silence. The secrets that keep us hiding behind the curtain. The Welcome Centre throws back that curtain. It lets in the fresh air and light.
But it’s the only center for miles and miles. No wonder going there seems strange and scary. There need to be centers everywher
e.
I think about this as I sit outside, staring at the moon, unable to sleep. I close my eyes and I picture a center in my very own front yard. The Lilian Kabelo Friendship Project.
I burst out laughing. It’s a crazy idea. But it’s not stupid. I don’t need a building. Not right away. I just need a place for people to meet. And I have this yard.
The Lilian Kabelo Friendship Project.
Dreams, dreams, dreams...
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALLAN STRATTON IS AN AWARD-WINNING and internationally published and produced playwright and novelist. In preparation to write Chanda’s Secrets, Allan traveled to South Africa, Zimbabwe, and Botswana, where various agencies introduced him to those living with and working to fight HIV/AIDS. He was invited into homes, aid and education organizations, and mortuaries in city, village, and cattle post. This book was made possible by the guidance and encouragement of the people he met there, including everyone at the Ghetto Artists in Francistown, who do street theatre on HIV/AIDS testing and prevention; the Tshireletso Shining Stars AIDS Awareness Group, an HIV/AIDS day-care centre; COCEPWA (Coping Centre for People Living with HIV/AIDS); the Light and Courage Centre; PACT (Peer Approach to Counseling by Teens); The Kagisano Women’s Shelter Project; and the Coady International Institute. Allan lives in Toronto.
© 2004 Allan Stratton
Line drawings by Warren Clark
Editing by Barbara Pulling
Copy editing by Elizabeth McLean
Design by Irvin Cheung / iCheung Design
Cover image used with permission of Bavaria Film International/Bavaria Media GmbH
All rights reserved. No part of this work covered by the copyrights hereon may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic, or mechanical—without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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