“I want to thank you both for letting me come visit. I’ve always wanted to see my mother’s home and meet her family.” They both halted their tirades at my words. I hastened to reassure them that I wasn’t here forever and certainly wasn’t going to be a financial burden. “I’m hoping to visit here for three months. I have a return ticket for the end of August. I have my own money and would be happy to pay for my room and board.”
There was a horrified look on Aunty Matile’s face as she turned to answer me roughly.
“Don’t be foolish girl! You are our aiga, our family, and we would never expect you to pay us!”
I hated to remind her that she was the one who had made it clear that a loving welcoming family they were NOT. Uncle Tuala spoke.
“Leila – what your aunty is trying to say is that while she doesn’t think it’s a good idea for you to be here, we of course are happy to meet our ahem niece, and, of course, you will stay with us as our daughter until August.” Such a long speech seemed to go against the grain with him as Aunty Matile threw him a sharp glance. Or was she reacting to his use of the word ‘happy’? However, they both seemed to find comfort in the thought of this being only a temporary visit, grasping hold of the promise of my departure in August with relief. Matile spoke now with weary resignation.
“Well, yes, as your uncle says, you will be our daughter while you are here. We do have plenty of room and of course you must go to school. We are both working and I don’t want you home alone idle for so long.”
School?! I had not contemplated that possibility. I was no stranger to the angst associated with starting at a new school mid-year – I had done it before and I definitely didn’t want to even attempt trying my hand at a Samoan high school. No way. When I had walked out of the National Cathedral after graduation it was with the firm resolve that I was DONE with high school. I had come here to find out about my mother and her family (however unsavory they may be, I thought darkly), and I wasn’t going to waste any time with school, thank you very much. Before I could point all this out reasonably and politely, Uncle Tuala spoke pre-emptively.
“We know that children in America are raised differently from here. We are sure that our ways may seem a bit strange at first to you. But we must make it clear that while you stay, you will be our daughter, and so you will have to behave a certain way. Ahem, we have seen those types of young people that come here from America with their styles and their language and their disrespect. We hope you will not be like that.” He spoke firmly from the front seat, his gaze never wavering from the winding road and I had the sneaking suspicion that he was trying to be nice by warning me that what I probably took for granted as ‘regular’ behavior would be considered horrifying by Aunty Matile. I almost felt like, in him, I just might have an ally against the indomitable Matile who continued to sit straight backed, shoulders rigid.
I thought back to the teenagers on the flight from L.A.X. and cringed inwardly. Well, if that was what they were comparing me with, then I would have to allay their fears ASAP. I thought about Grandmother Folger and her strict expectations and how well she would probably get along with my Aunty Matile, and I hid a grimace. A deep breath.
“Please don’t worry, Uncle. I want so much to learn about my mother’s culture and her family. I’m certainly not here to cause trouble or to bring any disrespectful attitudes from America.” My tone was earnest. I wanted to find a place here. And I certainly didn’t need any conflicts with the two people who – let’s face it – were being very generous allowing me to stay with them – even though they didn’t have the slightest clue about me. If that meant enduring a new school in some third-world education system, then so be it. There was a slight relaxing of the tension in the front seat at my words. Feeling better about the next three months, I settled back in my seat to enjoy the sightseeing ride. Samoa was unlike anywhere I had ever been. Nigeria had been beautiful – in a stark, dry kind of way. Rolling hills and red earth. But the tired desperation of so many of the people we had met had gone a long way to obscure the land’s promise. It had been difficult too, to accept the appalling poverty of so many – contrasted with the sleek high-rise wealth of the cities.
But here, while many of the houses were humble, there was an unabashed cheerfulness about the scenery. There was green everywhere. Every house surrounded with multi-colored bushes and flowering trees. We passed a pool of fresh water, encircled with rocks where half-naked children splashed and waved at us as we passed by. Further along the road, a group of women swept cut grass into piles with long-handled brooms – scattering chickens and shooing gamboling dogs. People walked alongside the road as if they owned it – not the cars that frequently slowed to let them cross, or swerved to avoid clusters of youngsters sitting on the tar-seal. I was starting to realize why Samoa needed such a slow speed limit! Grateful for the cool escape of the air conditioning, I closed my eyes, allowing the tiredness of eighteen hours of non-stop travel to lull over me.
I awoke with a start at the sound of the car door slamming shut. We had arrived. Uncle Tuala was struggling with my suitcase at the back of the pick-up while Aunty Matile was shooing an enthusiastic canine. It had to be the ugliest dog I had ever seen. Splotchy black and brown fur, missing half his tail and one ear ripped to shreds but his coat was sleek and shiny and he was far too fat to be a stray. I watched fascinated as Aunty Matile bent to embrace him, ruffling his fur and hushing him with half-muttered endearments. Aha, she can’t be that bad if she loves such a hideous beast I thought to myself with some triumph.
I alighted from the truck, stiff muscles aching for a stretch, and examined my new temporary home. It was a solid brick box house with faded orange paint and a green tin roof. A steel rail encircled a verandah overflowing with pot plants. Exuberant bougainvillea trailed from hanging pots, vivid orange and flame red. A row of tiger orchids danced in the afternoon breeze. The garden was a riot of color and texture, so many different plants that even I couldn’t identify them all. Gracing the front yard was a sweeping frangipani tree thick with fragrant white blossoms. I took a few steps closer to its hanging branches and was assailed by the sweet scent of my dad’s favorite. I wasn’t prepared for the wave of emotion that swept over me and I fought the tears that threatened to spill. Struggling for control of my emotions, I hastily turned my back on Uncle as he took my bags to the front door. This was the land of my mother. This was the home of her sister. This was the place where my dad fell in love with the woman who would captivate him long after her premature death. I took a deep breath and reached with trembling fingers to pick a single white frangipani from the boughs above me. Aunty’s stern tones startled my reverie.
“Frangipani, we call it pua in Samoan. You like plants.” It was a statement, not a question.
I nodded, unwilling to trust my voice. As if sensing my fragility, Aunty’s voice softened.
“You have come a long way. To be with people you know nothing about. That, at least, took courage.”
I was taken aback by her compliment. Kindness would only loosen my hold on the floodgates though, so I simply shrugged, not trusting myself to respond.
“Come inside. You must be tired. And thirsty.”
Aunty Matile beckoned for me to follow her, snapping sternly at the dog as he made a cheerful lunge for me as I walked past.
“Terminator! Halu! Sit!”
I loved dogs. Even ugly ones. We could never have one since Margaret our long-suffering housekeeper had been allergic to them. It was a thrill to kneel beside Terminator and hug his wriggling body.
“Hey boy, you’re so beautiful, you gorgeous thing, you wanna be friends? Huh?”
He licked my face, his pungent fishy breath wrinkling my nose. “Eww .”
For the first time, a smile cracked the rock expression on Matile’s face. “He’s a very naughty dog. Don’t give him too much attention or he’ll expect you to adore him all the time.”
Uncle Tuala’s guffaw held disbelief. “Ha! As if he isn�
��t spoiled enough as it is by you, Matile!”
She only pursed her lips and marched into the house, Uncle following with a gleam of satisfaction in his eye. I, too, hid a smile as I walked in slowly behind them. Clearly, Aunty wasn’t such a dragon and she did have her soft spots. My steps lightened.
The front room was a spartan affair. A sofa set, the obligatory television, a woven mat on the floor. It was the pictures lining the walls that stood out. Christ looked down at me from every angle – all the sober, suffering pictures of Him. Dying on the cross, praying in the garden, breaking bread with his disciples. Clearly in this house, Jesus was a serious matter. Past the living room, through the kitchen and down a bare hallway was my room. Four walls. A bed draped with a mosquito net. Drawers. Another woven mat. A mirror. Windows overlooking the backyard where chickens roamed and a cluster of baby pigs snuffled happily under a breadfruit tree. Thankfully, I noted the ceiling fan as Aunty pointed further down the hall.
“The bathroom is down here. It’s best to shower early because the water usually goes off in the evening. We have a water tank but the pressure isn’t strong enough for a shower. You’ll have to use a bucket and bowl if you bath late. Once you get settled come and have something to eat in the kitchen.”
With that invitation, she left me to unpack. I sat gingerly on the bed, looking around my surroundings. Funny, the room didn’t look lived in. The sheets crackled with newness and the mat was pristine. There wasn’t a cobweb or speck of dust anywhere. Some effort had gone into preparing for my arrival and I was touched by the thought. It lessened somewhat the awfulness of my airport welcome. My travel weariness faded – replaced with an eagerness to explore.
I showered, gratefully replacing sweaty sticky clothes with knee-length shorts and a cotton tee, pulling my long hair up into a ponytail. I paused for a moment in front of the mirror, tilting my head to one side at my reflection. I was a ramshackle collection of ‘too.’ Too tall. Too broad. Hair too bushy - untamable dirt brown hair that only redeemed itself slightly by having gold highlights in the sun. Too wild, Brooke Shields eyebrows to match. Dark eyes set too deep into a forehead too wide. Lips too thick – lips that my dad called “luscious,” but who was he kidding? Legs too skinny and gangly that loved to run but didn’t do too well in high heels. Too brown to be white but too white to be brown. Ugh. I rolled my eyes at myself, wondering why I even bothered with mirrors. It’s not like I was going to look any different the more I looked! With a parting wrinkle of my nose, I went out to the kitchen.
Uncle Tuala sat reading a newspaper while Matile bustled around with dishes and serving spoons. They both looked up at my hesitant entrance.
“Ah Leila, come have something to eat. Your aunty was cooking all morning. She wasn’t sure what American children like to eat. Sit.”
I pulled up a chair as Aunty Matile put a plate in front of me, overflowing with food. Steam rose in tantalizing swirls and the aroma had my mouth watering. I had only nibbled on the cardboard airplane meals, and I realized I was famished. Picking up my fork, I dug into the most recognizable item on the plate – fried rice – and took a huge mouthful, burning my mouth in the process. Aunty smiled at my enthusiasm.
“You are too skinny, Leila. So skinny. Oka! Does nobody cook good food for you in America? Your grandmother - what does she cook for you?”
I choked on a piece of chicken at her words and paused to take several gulps of ice water. No-one had ever called me too skinny. And the idea of my elegant, Vogue magazine, grandmother actually cooking anything was enough to make anyone who knew her hysterical.
“Umm, no. My grandmother doesn’t cook. But she has a very nice lady – Maria – who made our meals.”
“So why are you so thin, then? While you’re here, we need to make sure you eat good food and put on some weight. Need to get healthy. Here, try some of my chop suey.”
Aunty scooped a pile of noodles onto my plate. I started on the other unfamiliar foods - chunks of grey potato-like stuff covered in a thick white sauce. Gingerly, I took a small bite and was surprised by the rich creaminess.
“This is good!” I exclaimed, and was answered with a beaming smile from Aunty.
“That’s kalo, taro. In coconut cream. Makes our Manu Samoa boys big and tough!” Uncle Tuala offered helpfully.
I smiled with a mouthful of rugby player food as I made a mental note NOT to eat too much taro – I certainly didn’t need to grow any more. Aunty handed me a steaming mug of thick black liquid that I regarded with some mistrust. It looked like engine oil, thick enough to harbor state secrets. But the aroma of roasted chocolate made me bold. The first sip confirmed for me what I had always suspected. White people drank dirty water. Brown people? Now they KNEW how to make cocoa.
“This is amazing stuff, Aunty. I’ve never tasted anything like it back home.”
“Kokosamoa. Made from the roasted coco bean. I make it myself from our tree out back.” Aunty spoke with pleasure, as if unused to receiving compliments on her cooking. “Plenty of sugar to make it sweet. I put five spoons in your cup. Is that enough?” She looked worried.
I spluttered on my mouthful of koko. FIVE spoons of sugar!? HELLO – this stuff was diabetes waiting to happen.
Uncle Tuala spoke. “Your grandmother would like you to call her. To let her know that you have arrived safely and are settled.”
Only a tremble of my hand betrayed my shock at this unexpected news. I took a deep breath to steady myself before answering, ennunciating each word carefully to emphasize my calmness.
“My grandmother? You spoke to my grandmother?”
Uncle sounded surprised. “Well yes, of course. She called us, a few days before your arrival. While we have never met, we were in complete agreement about the foolishness of this visit of yours. However, she seemed resigned to the fact that young people will do what they want to. Especially one as strong willed as you appear to be.” A slight smile softened his words somewhat, but I was still reeling at finding out that, far from being an independent force taking on the big wide world on my own, I was, in actual fact, on a journey that had been somewhat ‘sanctioned’ by Grandmother Folger. How deflating. Thinking of the old woman sitting in her Potomac mansion, reaching out with money-driven tentacles to control me, even now. Even here, thousands of miles away in Samoa. I began to seethe.
Aunty chimed in. “Your grandmother and I agreed there must be some rules for your stay with us. Rules that will ensure your safety.”
My dad would have seen my exceptionally polite tone for what it was. An indicator of my raging inner storm of anger. “Really? Rules. Rules you discussed with my grandmother. And what might these rules be?”
Aunty was pleased with my apparent acquiescence. “Well, both Tuala and I work all day at the church offices so you will need to be responsible and trustworthy. My cousin Falute comes every day to help with the house and the cooking so you will not be alone here. Also, Tuala has a nephew, Kolio, who works in the yard and he will help Falute to keep an eye on things around here when we are at work. It’s not decent for a young woman to go around unsupervised in this country. You will take the bus to school and back. But you will not venture anywhere else. School and home. Oh, and church on Sunday, of course.”
“Of course.” I reiterated dryly, clenching my palms tightly under cover of the table.
“You can enroll at school under our last name – Sinapati – it will make the process easier. We would rather keep your visit here as low key as possible. Oh and please, you will refrain from discussing your parents with anyone outside this house.”
“Excuse me?!” The first few rules I had expected, but this? This was insane.
Uncle shifted his feet awkwardly and stared out the window as Aunty Matile continued.
“Leila, you must try to understand. There are things you don’t know. About life here. And it would not be a good thing for your presence here to become common knowledge. It could be awkward.” Matile halted, as if unsure how to proceed.
“Oh – I wish you would reconsider staying here. This can’t end well. It won’t end well. This place is too small. Oh, how can we possibly keep this quiet?” Her voice rose one hysterical notch and for one awful moment, it looked as if she were about to cry. Uncle took over, placing a comforting hand on hers.
“Leila, what your aunty means is that you are here in a strange place that you know nothing about. There are different customs and … and expectations here that may seem strange to you. We are responsible for your safety. And your behavior will be a reflection on us – your aiga. We wish to ensure that your stay here is as uneventful and peaceful as possible. That means working hard at school, going to church on Sunday like a good girl, and not roaming about like some manner-less child with no parents.”
I winced at his phrase. A child with no parents. My rage seeped away, my body wilting in the late afternoon heat as I mulled over those words. What else had Grandmother Folger told him? About my fighting at school? My nightmare-filled nights? The psychiatrist the school had insisted I go to after my dad’s death? The medication I had refused to take? The long days filled with crying? The failing out of most of my classes? I thought I would escape all that, here in this tropical paradise. But who was I trying to fool? Even here, I was Leila Pele Folger. A child with no real family. No friends. An anger management problem.
Telesa - The Covenant Keeper Page 2
