Chanda's Wars

by Allan Stratton

  “I can’t. Be nice.”

  Greetings and hugs as we get off the truck. Esther twirls me in a circle. “Thank god you’re home!” She kisses me on both cheeks.

  Mrs. Tafa throws her arms wide and wobbles the flab. “You’ve grown so big!” she teases the children. She tries to give them a peck on the cheek. They turn away. I’m embarrassed, but Mrs. Tafa just laughs. “The poor things are tired. They need a treat.” She claps her hands. “Leo!”

  As Esther leads us to benches and stools, the Tafas scurry next door. They return with two large pitchers of lemonade, a chocolate cake, and Mrs. Tafa’s lawn chair. Mrs. Tafa pours the lemonade into her best teacups and settles her rump.

  “A toast!” she says. “To the children’s safe return!”

  Everyone toasts and talks, except for Iris and Soly. They press together, holding their drinks between their knees.

  Mrs. Tafa cuts the cake. “It’s store-bought,” she beams. “Full price, too. I couldn’t resist.” She winks at the kids. “Would you like a corner piece?”

  “I don’t want any,” Iris says flatly.

  “Me neither,” Soly echoes.

  “But I got it specially for you,” Mrs. Tafa coaxes.

  “We said no!” Iris glares.

  “But—”

  “No!” Iris leaps to her feet. She throws her lemonade at Mrs. Tafa.

  “Iris!” I gasp. “Apologize!”

  Iris whips up her stool. “What do you know?” she yells at the circle. “What do you want?”

  Mrs. Tafa’s hankie flutters to her eyes. “We want for you to be happy.”

  “Then why are you staring?”

  “We aren’t.”

  “You are. Since we got off the truck.”

  “She’s right,” Soly says. “All of you. Staring. Staring. Stop it!”

  “Yes, stop!” Iris cries. “Leave us alone!” She throws her stool to the ground and races into the house with Soly.

  “Auntie Rose, Esther, everyone,” I sputter. “I’m sorry. Forgive us, please.”

  I run inside too. Soly and Iris are huddled in their room. I bang my hand on the door frame. “What’s going on? Those are our friends. Our neighbors. Esther. The Tafas. The Selalames. They’re all here. They love you. You know that.”

  “We don’t know anything,” Iris says. “You’re the ones who know things. Like those soldiers. Like that lady. She told you, didn’t she? You know. You act like you don’t, but you do. What did you tell Mrs. Tafa on the phone? What did you tell Esther? What are they saying about us? Why are they staring?”

  “Iris, you’re talking crazy.”

  “She’s not,” Soly gulps. “Where’s Mr. Lesole?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You heard him,” Iris demands. “Where’s Mr. Lesole? Why isn’t he here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You do too!” she says. “You know, but you won’t say.”

  “Like with us,” Soly echoes. “You know, but you won’t say.”

  “Know what?”

  “Mr. Lesole is dead,” he exclaims. “He’s dead!”

  “Who told you that?”

  “The boys from Ngala. They attacked a camp in the foothills. There was a scout with a boom box. They did things to him. It was Mr. Lesole, wasn’t it?”

  “He was attacked, yes,” I say. “But he’s alive.”

  “Liar!” Iris rages. “We saw what they do to people. To people like Mr. Lesole.”

  “We did more than just see,” Soly weeps. “The night people. The night people.”

  “Who?”

  Iris doubles over. “You know, don’t you?”

  “All I know is I love you. I always will, no matter what.”

  “You won’t,” Soly weeps, voice lighter than air. “You can’t.”

  Esther appears in the doorway. “Everyone’s gone. It’s our fault. We shouldn’t have done anything till you were settled.”

  “Never mind.” I run my hands over my face. “The children think Mr. Lesole is dead. They have to see him. Now.”

  Esther lowers her eyes. “They can’t.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “Two days ago…his mouth…it got infected bad. The safari company got him into the hospital. It’s serious. No visitors except for Mrs. Lesole. She’s staying on a cot beside his bed.”

  “He’s going to die,” Soly whispers. “He’s going to die like the night people.”

  43

  BEDTIME COMES AND goes. The children won’t sleep. I tell them over and over that Mr. Lesole will be all right, but they don’t believe me. Iris covers her ears and wails, and Soly keeps moaning about “the night people.” Only he won’t say who they are—or what. Just howls and beats his head with his fists.

  By morning, they’ve exhausted themselves. While Sammy and Magda leave for school and Esther heads to the Welcome Center, they lie passed out on a corner of their mat, tangled up in their sheet. I let them rest.

  Mrs. Tafa drops by on her tour of the neighborhood. I motion to her that the kids are sleeping, and she invites me over to her place for a lemonade. I only mean to be away a few minutes, but before I know it I’m pouring out my heart about the last few days. When I get home, the children are gone.

  Mrs. Tafa and I search everywhere. Outhouses, chicken coops, and dry cisterns up and down the road, the rocks around the sandlot, and the junkyard with its abandoned well and piles of truck tires, ovens, iceboxes, sinks, and washtubs. Nothing. We return hours later to find Soly and Iris in their room, cut and bruised.

  Esther’s standing guard. “I passed them, biking back from the Center,” she says. “They were a mile off at the riverbed, throwing stones at each other. One at a time, in turns, like it was a game.”

  I whirl on the children in disbelief. “What kind of craziness is this?”

  Soly covers his head and trembles. Iris looks up at me, helpless, dried blood on her cheek.

  I try to calm down. “For now, just play in the yard. And no more stones. All right?” I edge out of their room, pretending everything’s fine.

  I pretend for the rest of the day. And the next day, too, when I take them to school. I have a word with the principal about starting back to work in a few weeks. Then I peek into their classrooms. They’ve run off. I find them at the Sibandas’ shabeen, shoving Ezekiel Sibanda’s head in a pail of shake-shake. The drunks are laughing. I grab my babies and drag them home.

  I give them a talking-to, then rake the yard to calm my nerves. Mrs. Tafa waves me over to the hedge. “Soly and Iris. They’re not right,” she mutters darkly. “You should take them to Mrs. Gulubane.”

  “Why? Her spells didn’t help Mr. Lesole.”

  “They most certainly did,” Mrs. Tafa huffs, scratching her back with a lemonade straw. “He may have lost his tongue, but without that magic pouch he’d have been killed.”

  I keep the children inside all afternoon. Their eyes light up when Esther brings news from the hospital that Mr. Lesole’s out of danger; he’ll be released in a day or two. Apart from that, they brood. Every so often Soly bursts into tears about the mysterious night people. Each time he does, Iris flies into a rage and screams, “Shut up, Soly. It didn’t hurt.”

  I can’t breathe. I’m losing them. Not to Mandiki, but to the demons he’s unleashed. There’s only one place I can go for help. “Esther, keep the children close,” I say. I run to my bike and pedal hard to the high school.

  Mr. Selalame is alone in his classroom, hunched over a pile of marking. He barely has time to say hello before I’m rocking at my desk, pacing the aisles—babbling, babbling. Now I’m leaned out the window, banging his blackboard erasers. I look like a fool. I don’t care.

  “Something happened in the bush. Something worse than anything I know about. Soly and Iris, they won’t say what. I’m afraid they’re going to hurt themselves. Really hurt themselves. Or hurt somebody else. They need help. But who? I don’t trust Mrs. Gulubane, and I can’t afford a psychiatrist. I’m s
cared. What do I do? How can I find out what’s wrong?”

  My arms are too tired to whack anymore. Mr. Selalame takes the erasers and returns them to the ledge under the blackboard. He gives me a tissue to wipe the chalk dust from my hands, and another to wipe the tears from my eyes. Then he thinks a bit, clicking his tongue against the back of his teeth.

  “Whenever I’ve been to your house,” he says slowly, “I’ve noticed you’ve put the children’s drawings on the walls.”

  I nod. “Mama taped up everything they brought home from school. I’ve done the same.”

  Mr. Selalame goes to his filing cabinet and pulls out a stack of blank paper. He gets a box of colored chalk ends from beside the old globe in the corner, and a rainbow of pencils from the top left drawer of his desk. “Give these to the children. See what happens.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He winks knowingly. “Soly and Iris have a lot on their minds. They won’t talk. But they love to draw.”

  By the time I get home, everyone’s eaten. Esther’s sitting by the cistern watching Sammy and Magda play in the twilight. Iris and Soly are inside on their mat whispering. Strange, they used to like to play apart; now they’re inseparable. I set the paper, colored chalk, and pencils on the floor against the side wall of their room and leave without saying a word.

  “What’s that for?” Iris calls after me.

  “Whatever you want,” I shrug. “I thought you’d be bored.”

  “We’re not.”

  “Then they can just sit there. I don’t care.”

  I go outside and have a bowl of seswa left warming over the firepit. Esther puts Sammy and Magda to sleep, then the two of us talk. And talk. Finally Esther heads to bed. I stay propped against the cistern, looking up at the stars, thinking of Mama, Nelson, Granny, and above all, the children.

  I drift to sleep. When I wake up, it’s the middle of the night, but there’s light coming from the main room. I peek between the window slats. Inside, Iris and Soly are sitting at the table, coloring furiously, drawings scattered at their feet. The oil lamp glows between them.

  I open the door. The flame flickers. The children look up, startled. At the sight of me, Iris grabs her work, crumples it into a ball, and runs into their bedroom. Soly stays at the table. I move toward him slowly. When I reach his chair, I kneel down. His arms are over his paper. He stares at the red pencil in his hands.

  “Can I see what you were drawing?” I ask quietly. He doesn’t answer. I stay very still. “You’re such a good drawer. I’d really like to see.”

  Soly hesitates. He moves his arms off the paper. It’s a mass of scribbled color. Red, orange, and black.

  “That’s a lot of orange,” I say simply.

  Soly rolls the pencil between his fingers. “It’s fire.”

  “Fire?”

  He nods. “They put the night people in the house. It’s all on fire.”

  “Of course. Yes.” I pause. “And those red parts on the sides?”

  “Blood.” He looks anxiously at the bedroom and whispers in my ear. “When the night people come out the windows, the men shoot them.”

  “Why do the night people use the windows?”

  “Because.” His face crinkles up with pain. “Because.”

  And suddenly I understand. I was there the next morning, after the waterhole. “There’s a wagon in front of the door, isn’t there?”

  Iris comes out of their room, the crumpled drawings hanging from her hand. “The General, he made us put rocks on the wheels,” she says. “Rocks, so it wouldn’t move. That’s when he set the roof on fire.”

  “The night people screamed,” Soly cries. “They wouldn’t stop screaming.”

  Iris beats her chest with the drawings. “They burned to death. They hurt so bad. We killed them.”

  “No,” I say. “Whatever happened out there, it wasn’t your fault. It was the General. You couldn’t stop him. You know that.”

  “Don’t tell us what we know, what we saw, what we heard,” Iris wails. She hurls the drawings into a corner and runs into the night.

  I race after her with the oil lamp. “Iris?” I hear her whimpering behind the chicken coop. “I have a little sister,” I call gently. “I love her very much.” Silence. I set the lamp on an upturned pail and sit on a nearby chair. “Iris? I’m here. Whenever you need me, I’m right here.”

  Soly comes outside. He curls up by my feet. Iris remains hidden behind the coop. We stay like that all night.

  44

  AT DAWN, I collect Iris. She’s curled up, deep asleep. Her arms wrap around my neck as I lift her up and carry her inside to her mat. I tuck her sheet around her, smooth the kerchief over her shaved head, and tiptoe to the counter to make breakfast. All the while, Soly follows me like my shadow. As I cut the maize bread, I feel his fingers on the back of my dress. His touch is cautious, like he’s making sure I’m really here. I glance down. He runs to his room.

  Esther arrives with Sammy and Magda for breakfast. They eat in the yard while I scatter feed for the chickens and check their nests for stray eggs. Then Sammy and Magda go to school and Esther bikes to the Welcome Center. I go back inside, intending to lie down in my room.

  I don’t get past the doorway. Iris’s crumpled pictures stare at me from the shadows in the corner. It’s like they’re calling to me: We’ve waited here all night, waited for you to pick us up. To look at us. Now you’re alone. What are you going to do?

  I’m afraid. Soly just scribbles colors; Iris draws images. I’ve seen enough. I don’t want to know any more. I want to rip the pictures up. To throw them away. But I can’t. The children’s lives are on those pages. I need to be in the drawings with them.

  The air around me disappears. Nothing exists but that ball of paper. I bring it to the table and separate the sheets, slowly, slowly, chanting the alphabet as I smooth each one flat in front of me.

  From the corner of my eye, I catch Soly and Iris in the doorway. They stare at me, shy, defiant, and awkward, all at once.

  “I’d like to tape these up in my room,” I say.

  Iris frowns. “Why?”

  “I want to understand.”

  A pause. “Do what you want,” she says, and closes their curtain.

  In the afternoon I fix up the garden, clean around the outhouse, and have Mrs. Tafa watch the yard while I get a sack of chicken seed at the feed lot. When I return, I go to my room to lie down. There’s a dozen new drawings on my mat.

  After the sun’s gone down, Esther and I put the kids to bed and talk outside in the low glow of the firepit. Around midnight, she nudges my toe and nods toward the overturned wheelbarrow. Soly and Iris are peeking out from behind it.

  “I know you’re hiding.” I wave them over.

  Iris approaches warily, then plunks herself down between us. When Soly sees everything’s all right, he comes and snuggles beside me. We sit in silence. After a while, I realize Soly and Iris aren’t staring at the logs. They’re staring at Esther. The flickering light plays tricks across the scars on her face, the shadows turning the thin lines into a map of gullies and riverbeds. I remember back to before Tiro, way back to the night she showed up at our door, raped, her head swollen, the cuts and stitching fresh with pain.

  “What are you looking at?” Esther asks.

  “Your scars,” Iris says simply. “Do they hurt?”

  Esther’s eyes stay fixed on the firepit. “Depends what you mean by hurt. I don’t feel them anymore. Except when I laugh. Then there’s a little pull, and a tingle at the bottom of my lip.”

  Iris thinks for a longtime. “Esther…”

  “Yes?”

  “Esther…do you mind being ugly?”

  Esther grips her knees. “Sometimes,” she says. “Sometimes I see myself in a mirror, and I wish I was dead.”

  Iris nods gravely.

  “But that’s only sometimes,” she adds. “Other times, I think these scars are part of me. They’re part of my life.” She hesitate
s. “Do they bother you?”

  “No,” Soly shakes his head. “You’re Esther.”

  “Good.” Her eyes mist over. She brushes them with her wrist. I put my hand on her shoulder. “It’s just the smoke,” she says.

  There’s a pause, then Iris whispers: “You’re brave. Soly and me, people talk about us too. Yesterday when we went back to school, Ezekiel Sibanda whispered about our bush brands. He said everyone knew we had them. He said we’re animals. The General’s animals.”

  “It hurts, doesn’t it?” Esther says. “The talk.”

  Iris and Soly bite their lips.

  Esther’s voice goes low. “When people say bad things, I remember the night I got cut up. I was so ashamed. Now I think, My scars are a badge. They prove I can survive anything.”

  There’s a crackle from the firepit, but none of us move. Esther takes Soly and Iris by the hand. “Here,” she says. She runs their fingers gently over the crevice that runs from her forehead, across her eyebrow, cheek, and nose, over her lips and chin, and onto her throat. There’s a silence as holy as the moon.

  Soly and Iris look at Esther and me. “Would you touch our bush brands?”

  Esther and I kiss our fingers and gently touch our kisses to the hurting place. The children’s eyes well up, but they don’t cry. They cup their hands over ours and press them tight.

  “Thank you,” Iris whispers. “Thank you.”

  45

  NEXT MORNING, AN ambulance brings Mr. Lesole home from the hospital. Mrs. Tafa’s finishing her grand tour when it arrives at his door. She scurries up the road into our yard, dabbing her forehead with her hankie. Esther and I rush to get her a chair and a glass of water. The children hide behind us.

  “How’s Mr. Lesole?” I ask.

  “Who knows?” Mrs. Tafa pants. “His wife bundled him inside with his safari jacket over his head.”

  “It was like that after the attack,” Esther says. “They brought him into the house covered up in a bloody coat.”

  I can’t believe my ears. “You mean no one’s seen him since he got hurt? Not once?”