I love to listen to Mr. Lesole. Closing my eyes, I see mama baboons loping through clearings, with babies clinging to their bellies. Hippo pods sunning on the banks of a lazy oxbow. Vervet monkeys skipping up fever trees. Zebra grazing in wooded brush. Roan antelope dashing through thickets.
I wish I could see it in real life. Apart from bush rats, lizards, and a few warthogs, the game outside the parks was hunted out before I was little. Sometimes a bachelor elephant will roam beyond the park boundaries, but they disappear fast. Farmers burn old tires to keep them away, or poachers shoot them for their ivory tusks.
Mr. Lesole hates poachers. He reports every one he discovers. “Our animals are a natural resource,” he’ll say, “same as oil, copper, and diamonds. The tourist money they bring in helps keep our country alive.”
Mrs. Tafa couldn’t care less. When Soly and Iris mentioned Mr. Lesole’s fights with the poachers, she went berserk: “Those damn beasts,” she barked. “I’m glad they’re gone. When I was a girl in the country, elephants ruined our farms. They killed the trees, ate the bushes, and trampled the crops. If rich tourists want to spend their money to go to some park and take pictures, fine. But spare me tears about the hunt. Who wants lions attacking their cattle, or hyenas picking off their children? Heavens, what’s bush meat for, if not feeding the hungry? They don’t put leopards in jail for hunting. Why should animals have more rights than we do?”
How can I argue with that? I wasn’t alive in the old days. I can’t imagine what I’d do if wildlife took my food and threatened my family. But when I see the animals on the back of Mr. Lesole’s park map and hear his stories, I thrill with pride. Elephants, lions, giraffes and hippos—they’re part of what makes this place special. Blessed.
When I get back from the standpipe, I tell the kids that Mrs. Lesole gave them a personal invitation to today’s party. Their eyes sparkle, then Soly gets concerned. “Can we go early? Once the grownups show up, Mr. Lesole won’t be able to play.”
We head to the Lesoles’ midafternoon. Halfway, we smell the goat stew simmering over the firepit. Soly and Iris break into a run. “Mr. Lesole! Mrs. Lesole!”
Mrs. Lesole sits by the pot, wiping her forehead. Mr. Lesole is flopped in the hammock slung from his tree. He’s poured into a ratty khaki outfit, fanning himself with the old Tilley hat he retrieved from his camp’s lost-and-found box. His cheeks and chin are dotted with stray hairs; he doesn’t have much to shave, so when he’s on break he doesn’t shave at all. If I was Mrs. Lesole, it’d drive me crazy.
At the sound of the kids, Mrs. Lesole waves greetings with her stir stick. Mr. Lesole leaps out of his hammock and pretends to hide behind the tree. The kids drag him out, crying, “Let’s play Don’t Die! Can we? Can we? Please?” Don’t Die is a series of games Mr. Lesole invented to teach them how to survive in the bush. Naturally, he’s up for it.
They start with Soly’s favorite: Elephant Charge. Mr. Lesole lumbers around like an elephant, his arm-trunk twisting imaginary leaves to his mouth. When he goes near Iris, she freezes like she’s supposed to, then backs off slowly as if she’s moving downwind. Not Soly. He loses concentration and fidgets. Mr. Lesole rears back and touches his fingertips to his temples, making big imaginary ears with the spaces between his elbows and his head. He shakes his head so hard you can almost hear the big gray ears slapping. He rocks, swings a foot to and fro, stomps the earth, kicks it behind him. Then he raises his arm-trunk, trumpets, lowers his head, and charges. It’s too late for Soly to freeze, but he holds his ground, yelling and clapping. Mr. Lesole stops in front of his nose. A terrible pause. He moves off. Soly beats his chest and yodels.
“Well done, you two,” says Mr. Lesole.
“Elephants can’t talk,” Iris reminds him tartly.
Once, I asked if charges could always be stopped. “They’re usually for show,” Mr. Lesole said. “Whatever you do, don’t run. If you run, you’re jam.”
“Yes, but what if the charge is real?”
He grimaced. “If the ellie’s angry—ears flat back, trunk tucked under its chin—you’re in trouble. They can run twenty-four miles an hour. You can’t. They can barrel through thornbush that’d skin you alive. If you climb a tree, they’ll knock it down. Your only hope is to get downwind. But chances are, you’ll be dead first.”
I’m glad he didn’t tell that to the kids; Soly’d be wetting his mat forever.
Mr. Lesole recuperates by stretching his lower back, while Soly and Iris prepare for the next adventure: Hyena Hideaway. Shouts of “We’re ready” fill the air. It’s time for Mr. Lesole to be a hyena and catch them sleeping outside their protective enclosure of thorny acacia boughs—here, made of chairs and benches. After Hyena Hideaway, there’s Hippo Highway, Crocodile River, and dozens of other life-and-death thrills. Mr. Lesole would make a great teacher. A great papa, too, if he wasn’t away so much.
When the games are over, Mr. Lesole flops back into his hammock. Iris and Soly pile on top, bounce on his belly, and pull his chin hairs till he tells them about his recent adventures. “Last month, there was this tough-guy tourist wanted a morning swim. We warned him the river was full of crocodiles. He didn’t listen. Snuck off when we weren’t looking. All we found were his sandals, a pair of sunglasses, and a beer can.”
The kids squeal, and I send them off to help Mrs. Lesole prepare for the feast. Before joining them, I decide to have some fun. “So,” I say, easy as a frog on a lily pad, “I hear-tell Mrs. Gulubane gave you a little bag of magic.”
Mr. Lesole falls out of his hammock. “You heard what?”
“A bag of magic.” I bug my eyes. “To protect you from the rebels of Ngala.”
He gets up, brushing the dirt off his pants. “Says who?”
I look up at the sky and hum.
“It was Rose Tafa, wasn’t it? That woman’s mouth is bigger than her backside!”
“Can I see the bag?”
“I lost it on a night drive.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Fine by me.”
I smile. “What’s in it?”
His eyes dart around the yard. “Nothing to laugh about, that’s for sure.”
The way he says it, I get a chill. “I’m not laughing. Show me.”
“This goes no further?”
“I promise.”
Mr. Lesole fidgets inside the collar of his shirt and pulls out the magic pouch, hanging by a cord around his neck. I peek inside. “There’s hedgehog and porcupine quills,” he says furtively, “the dried wing of a nightjar, a talon from some bird of prey, and a handful of roots and bark chips I couldn’t make out by the torch light. She ground them up in a skull with a pestle of bone. On my life, I won’t repeat the spell she chanted, or tell you what she did in her trance. If you say any of this, I’ll deny it.”
“My lips are sealed.”
“I’ve never gone near magic before,” he continues, “but this Ngala business is different. Things have been fine, our side of the mountains. We act like they always will be, to keep the tourists coming. But we’re whistling past the graveyard. Who knows what Mandiki will do next? Even he doesn’t. They say he worships the skull of a dead spirit doctor. Carries it around in an ebony box wrapped in a monkey hide. You were a kid when he was in power. You’ve no idea what he’s like.”
Mr. Lesole is wrong. I was barely ten when the civil war started in Ngala, but Mama and Mrs. Tafa used to whisper about it all the time when they thought I was playing with my dolls. Of course their whispers made me listen even harder. I remember Mrs. Tafa reassuring Mama that even if Mandiki crossed the mountains, he’d have the whole of Mfuala Park to travel through, and another forty miles of cattle posts, before he’d get to our relatives in Tiro. She was right. Mandiki’s guerrillas stayed in the park on their side of the border, launching attacks on their own people. Every so often there’s a headline in the market papers: “Ngala village torched; villagers burned alive,” or “Ngala farmer’s tongue cut out: a warning not to talk.” Worst of
all, Mandiki kidnaps children. He uses them as slaves, decoys, human shields. They become child soldiers. If they try to escape, they’re killed—kicked to death, or chopped to bits with machetes. One day, after I’d seen a newspaper picture of a farmer nailed to a tree, I asked Mr. Selalame if he thought the Ngala war would ever end. His shoulders slumped. “Nobody wants peace. If Mandiki loses, he’ll be executed. But if Ngala wins, the foreign funds it gets to fight terrorism disappear. Its leaders need that cash to pay for their limos and mansions.”
Neighbors start to arrive for the feast. Mr. Lesole slips the magic pouch back inside his shirt and greets them, while I collect the kids to go home. When we find Mr. Lesole to say goodbye, he’s at the side of the road talking with the Sibandas, who’ve hauled up pails of shake-shake in wheelbarrows. Mr. Lesole’s parties take away the night trade from their shabeen, but as long as they can sell their booze by his house, they’re happy. Mr. Sibanda ladles some brew into a recycled juice carton and hands it to Mr. Lesole.
“You’re welcome to stay for the party, Chanda,” Mr. Lesole says.
“Thanks. But I have to get the kids to bed.”
“It’s too early,” Iris pouts.
“You listen to your big sister,” Mr. Lesole smiles. He gets down on his knees and gives the children a cuddle.
“I hate it when you leave for the bush,” Soly says. “Can’t we go with you? I want to see the animals.”
Mr. Lesole knuckles his forehead. “One day, when you’re big, I’ll get you a job as a busboy. How’s that?”
“Really?”
“Sure thing. That’s how I got started. In the meantime, here’s a little something for your very own.” He pulls a worn copy of the park map from his hip pocket. “Next time you miss me, just look at this map, close your eyes, and imagine me tracking a leopard. I’ll give you a wave in your dreams.”
“What do I get?” Iris demands.
“Iris!” I say. “Mind your manners.”
Mr. Lesole just laughs. “You get this.” He plops his Tilley hat on her head. It droops over her nose, but she’s delighted.
“What do we say?” I prod.
“Thank you.”
“Oh, and here’s something for the big kid.” He grins, and offers me a tiny pair of binoculars. “They call them ‘opera glasses.’ Some American lady brought them on safari. They fell out of her bag, and the jeep ran over them. One of the lenses is cracked, but it still works, sort of. Take it on a walk. Or spy on Mrs. Tafa.”
Mrs. Lesole gives me a bowl of stew, maize porridge, and bread to take home. What a relief not to have to cook supper. I give thanks, promise to return the bowl first thing in the morning along with some fresh eggs, and we say our goodbyes.
As we head up the road, I see Mrs. Tafa at our gate, her cell phone pressed to her ear. She waves us to hurry. Who’s she pretending to talk to this time? I wonder. The President? The Pope?
But when we reach her, Mrs. Tafa does something strange. She hands me the cell. “It’s for you.”
7
“CHANDA?” THE VOICE coming out of the phone is familiar, but I don’t recognize it. “Chanda?” it says again.
The connection is bad. It sounds like the call is coming from far away. I press the phone to my ear and plug my other ear with my finger. There’s talking in the background. The loud cling and clang of an old metal cash register. Oh my god. I’m talking to Lily, my older sister who stayed in Tiro when the rest of us came south. She must be using the phone at the general dealer’s.
But why is she calling? How did she know the number to reach me?
I glance at Mrs. Tafa. She’s staring at me like I’m her evening’s entertainment. Suddenly, everything makes sense. Mrs. Tafa’s called Tiro and left a message about my dream. She’s arranged for Lily to call collect. I glare at Mrs. Tafa, turn my back, and move off a piece.
The line crackles. “Chanda, are you there?”
“I’m here,” I say tightly. “If this is about my dream, I’m hanging up.”
“Granny’s standing beside me.” Lily says. “She’s wanted to talk to you for a long time.” The noise in the background is suddenly muffled. It’s like Lily’s cupped her mouth to the phone, so Granny won’t hear. “When your neighbor called about your dream, Granny said it was an omen. If I put her on the line, will you be nice?”
“It depends.”
“She’s been crying since Mama died. Please. Be nice.”
“Fine.”
The receiver is passed to Granny. I hear Lily’s voice in the background: “Granny, you have to talk into this part here.”
“Hello?…Hello?…Chanda?” It’s Granny. She sounds lost.
Mrs. Tafa’s breathing over my shoulder. I give her a look. She backs off.
“Hello, Granny. It’s me, Chanda.”
“Chanda…” Granny’s voice is so old. It was old before, but never like this.
There’s a lot of static. “Granny, I’m sorry, I can’t hear you.”
“I’m sorry too,” Granny says. More static. “Things got said that should never have been said. Things got done that…Chanda, I want to see you.”
My head swims.
“Chanda, are you there?”
“I’m here.” My eyes well. My knees are jelly.
“Please come visit,” Granny says. “Please. Your grampa and me, we’re too old to travel down.”
I can’t think. I can’t see.
“We want to bless our grandchildren before we die. We want to heal the family curse.”
“Granny…” The words choke out. “Granny…I can’t talk…I’m sorry…I…”
I drop the phone in the dirt and run toward the house. Esther’s in the yard with Sammy and Magda, back from visiting their uncle. I wave them off, run into my room, and cover my head with my pillow.
Outside, I hear Esther soothe Soly and Iris.
“What’s wrong?” they ask.
“Nothing,” Esther says. “Your sister’s just thinking. You know what it’s like when you need to think?”
They sound uncertain. When Esther has them ready for bed, they call for me to tuck them in. I do. Then Esther and I step into the yard. Esther sits cross-legged on the ground, her back slouched against the cistern. I rest my head on her lap, look up at the moon, and tell her about Granny’s phone call.
Esther strokes my hair. “I think you should go,” she whispers. “And not just for a few days. A month at least.”
“Never. I made a vow.”
“People can change their minds.” She smooths out a tat.
“Anyway, I can’t go. If I went, what would happen to you?”
“Chanda, I can manage. Really.” She cups my face in her hands. “My health’s been good. And if I get sick, or something happens, I’ve got friends at the Welcome Center. I can count on Mrs. Tafa, too.” Her eyes twinkle. “She can’t stand me, but she’ll do anything to get you to Tiro.”
We smile.
Esther hesitates. “Chanda, I used to have fights with Mama and Papa about boys. I gave them a hard time. But when the end came, they knew I loved them.”
“What does this have to do with me and Granny?”
Esther pauses. “When your granny and grampa pass, they’re never coming back. If you don’t go to Tiro, how will you feel when the priest puts them in the ground? How will you feel, knowing you kept Soly and Iris from receiving their blessing?”
I think hard all Sunday. Then Monday, I go to the secondary, early-early.
I find Mr. Selalame in the staff room. He makes us tea and sits on an armchair with the stuffing coming out, while I sit kitty-corner on what used to be a sofa. I pour out my heart, letting him know about everything: Mama, Tiro, Granny’s call, and what Esther said.
Mr. Selalame blows gently on his tea. “So how would you feel, if your grandparents passed before giving their blessing?”
“Terrible,” I say. “Terrible and guilty, knowing my pride kept Soly and Iris from getting something special. But how
do I forgive what they did to Mama?”
Mr. Selalame takes a long, slow sip from his mug, then carefully sets it down beside the pile of essays on the coffee table in front of us. “You loved your mama very much.”
I nod.
“Do you ever think maybe she loved her mama, your granny, the same way?”
“I guess. I don’t know,” I say, so quiet there’s hardly a sound. “Probably.”
“Probably, yes?”
“Yes.” The room is so still I can hear the clock on the far wall.
“Your granny and your mama had a falling out,” Mr. Selalame says at last. “It hurt your mama to her dying day.” I lower my eyes. He waits till I look up. His eyes are deep pools filled with everything I’ve said. “Chanda,” he continues, “what would your mama have done if your granny’d called and said she was sorry? What would she have done if your granny had offered a blessing?”
I can’t breathe. “She’d have been on the next bus to Tiro.”
8
WE PACK THE evening before we leave. If we didn’t, I’d be awake all night worried that we’d forget something. Mainly we fill our pillowcases with clothes, but I find a place for the spyglasses from Mr. Lesole. They’ll be something for Soly and Iris to play with. I also slip in the bookmark Mr. Selalame gave me last year when Mama was sick. It’s got a picture of the sun rising over the plains to remind me there’s hope in new beginnings. Lastly, I hide some green plastic feed sacks to put over Soly’s diaper-towel.
The kids are bringing mementos too, tucked in their “treasure chests,” a pair of old metal lunch boxes, painted black. Iris fills hers with ebony combs from Mrs. Tafa, paste jewelry from Esther, a few crayons, and her swath of torn mosquito netting. (Some days, she pretends it’s a bridal veil, other days that it makes her invisible.) Soly packs his with stones he’s collected on the way from school, the sock puppet he likes to sleep with, and Mr. Lesole’s map of Mfuala Park. To make sure the map is safe, he rolls it inside the lunch box thermos.
I was worried the kids would be scared of the trip. They’ve never been outside Bonang, except as babies, and the only relative from Tiro they’ve met is Auntie Lizbet, who came down a year ago for our baby sister’s funeral; they remember her “funny shoe,” meaning her club foot, and that’s about it. I didn’t have to be concerned. They’re head over heels with excitement. Mr. Lesole’s park map has a mini-map of the country in the top left corner. On the mini-map, Tiro is only a quarter inch from Mfualatown. Soly and Iris think they’ll be seeing giraffe and zebra from Granny Thela’s front door.
Chanda's Wars Page 4