Chanda's Secrets

by Allan Stratton

  I explain to the dealer about Sara’s death and how the burial is set for Thursday. Mr. Kamwendo says he’ll pass on the news to my mama-granny and asks if the family can call us at this number. I interrupt Mrs. Tafa’s prayers to check. She sighs heavily, but I can tell she’s happy as a cow dropping pies: she’ll get to hear our news firsthand.

  I hang up. Mrs. Tafa struggles to her feet, escorts me back outside, and drops into her lawn chair.

  “Thanks again for the use of your phone, Auntie,” I say. I lower my head. She gives it a peck. For a second I try to like her.

  “Your dear little Sara,” she comforts. “Her death’s a great tragedy, like my blessèd Emmanuel’s. At least they died pure.”

  My legs go hollow. “Pardon?”

  “They were innocents. No one can spread rumors about why they died. No one can point fingers at our families and whisper.” She taps her nose. “If you don’t mind me saying so, you be careful around that Esther Macholo friend of yours.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “May her parents rest in peace, but I hope she burned their sheets and buried their dishes.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “I don’t mean to be unkind,” she cautions, “but I keep an ear out.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with Esther. Her mama died of cancer. Her papa died of TB. They died like they said at the funerals.”

  “Of course they did, and you didn’t hear any different from me. Your auntie just wants to protect you, that’s all.” She winks slyly. “A word to the wise: there’s what people said, and there’s what people say.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, yes, you do,” she whispers. “Oh, yes, you do.”

  8

  MRS. TAFA IS RIGHT. I do know what she’s talking about. New cemeteries overflow as fast as they open. Officially it’s because of pneumonia, TB, and cancer. But that’s a lie, and everyone knows it.

  The real reason the dead are piling up is because of something else. A disease too scary to name out loud. If people say you have it, you can lose your job. Your family can kick you out. You can die on the street alone. So you live in silence, hiding behind the curtain. Not just to protect yourself, but to protect the ones you love, and the good name of your ancestors. Dying is awful. But even worse is dying alone in fear and shame with a lie.

  Thank god nobody whispered “AIDS” when Esther’s parents got sick. Her papa had a cough and her mama had a bruise. It started as simply as that.

  At first, Mrs. Macholo’s bruise was so small I hardly noticed it. It was months before I realized it hadn’t gone away. It had gotten bigger, darker—and more bruises had started to appear. Before I knew what was happening, Mrs. Macholo was covering her arms and legs with heavy shawls and long skirts.

  At the same time, Mr. Macholo’s cough got worse. Some days his lungs had a dry rattle. Other days they gurgled like they were full of thick soup. He’d heave up wads of mucous into a china bowl, hacking so fierce I thought his lungs would rip themselves inside out.

  I was visiting Esther the day of his last attack. We screamed for help as he thrashed around the floor gasping, choking, for what seemed like forever. He drowned in his own retch.

  Esther’s mama fell apart. It was as if she’d stayed alive to take care of him. Now she lay in bed refusing to eat.

  “There’s a tumor at her temple the size of an egg,” Esther wept. “It’s growing into her brain. She’s half-blind, sometimes crazy. She doesn’t know where she is anymore. She doesn’t even know I’m there.”

  Esther stayed home from school to look after her. I’d bike over at lunch to help. One day the street was full of gawkers. Mrs. Macholo was staggering around the front yard, swinging a rake, screaming that lions were eating her. It took me, Esther, and three neighbors to get her inside.

  Esther shoved the neighbors out when the doctor arrived.

  “It’s the devil come to get me,” her mama screamed. Then she burst into tongues.

  The doctor sedated her and gave her an examination, while Esther and I huddled with her brothers and sister on the floor of the main room. When the doctor came out of the bedroom, he pulled me and Esther aside. He thought I was family. Esther didn’t correct him.

  “Nothing can be done,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’d like to offer a bed at the hospital, but we’re full. Someone needs to be with her full-time, to take her to the toilet, wipe her, bathe her... Do you have an auntie who could stay here for a few weeks?”

  “I don’t know,” Esther said.

  “Painkillers will have to be rationed,” the doctor continued. “I’ll arrange for a harness. She’ll need to be restrained. I’ll also arrange for some bleach and a box of rubber gloves. You’ll all have to wear them when handling her.”

  “She’s our mama,” Esther said. “We won’t treat her like garbage.”

  “It’s for your own protection. There’ll be body fluids. Feces.”

  “Who cares? We’ll wash our hands. You can’t catch cancer from germs.”

  The doctor paused. “I think this is more than cancer. I want to do a test for the HIV/AIDS virus. You and your brothers and sister should have one too.”

  “No,” said Esther, terrified.

  “It’s best to know the truth.”

  “Don’t insult my mama. Don’t insult my family.”

  “I’m not insulting anyone.”

  “Yes, you are.” Esther raised her fists. “You’re saying my family is dirty. That my papa cheated. Or Mama’s a drug addict.”

  “I’m saying nothing of the kind.”

  “Then how could she have the virus?”

  “Miss Macholo,” the doctor protested, “I only care about what she has. Not how she got it.”

  “Get out of here,” Esther screamed. “Get out of here now.”

  When the doctor left, Esther looked at me in horror.

  “Don’t worry,” I whispered. “I won’t say a word.”

  I kept my promise. I acted like everything was normal. Maybe it was, for all I knew. Cancer is cancer, and lots of miners get TB. That’s what everyone said at the burial feast. In the words of the priest, “Death tiptoed through the door when no one was watching. It could happen to anyone.”

  Each month since Mrs. Macholo’s funeral I’ve breathed easier. By now, I was certain Esther was safe behind the curtain. But if Mrs. Tafa is whispering, how many other whispers are in the wind, spreading like germs, infecting minds? How soon before the curtain blows open? And then what?

  I leave Mrs. Tafa’s yard with an extra swing in my step, so she won’t know how much she’s upset me. Iris and Soly are crouched at the side of the road in front of our place.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Looking at ants,” Iris says without looking up. “They’re pulling a dead fly.”

  Soly nods. “It’s a parade.”

  “It’s not a parade,” Iris corrects. “It’s a funeral. They’re taking him to the fly cemetery to bury him.”

  “That’s no fun. I say it’s a parade.”

  Iris glares at him. She picks up the fly by a wing and shakes off the ants. Then she heads down the road with Soly in pursuit. “There’s no parade. We’re having a funeral. Understand? I’m the priest, I get to say prayers. You’re a mourner, you get to cry.”

  I leave them arguing and turn into our yard. My heart stops. Esther is lying on the ground by the cactus hedge, her bicycle on one side of her, her school bag on the other. She must have arrived while I was inside Mrs. Tafa’s.

  Why is it that people always show up when you’re talking about them? It’s like they’re ants with antennae that can pick up their names from miles away.

  “Dumêla!” I call out as I approach.

  Esther gets up, rubs her eyes, and waves. The bracelets on her arm flash sunlight. “I came as soon as I heard,” she says, and hugs me.

  Back in her lawn chair, Mrs. Tafa sends us the evil eye.

 
“Let’s go for a walk,” I say.

  We head arm in arm to the park. All the way I’m thinking: How much did she hear? Was she asleep when Mrs. Tafa attacked her family?

  The park is an empty sandlot with a few patches of weeds, a set of swings, and a teeter-totter. We sit on the swings and twirl around until the chains are knotted up. Then we take our feet off the ground and spin. Esther laughs. She still likes to get dizzy.

  When the swings are still, we stare at the ground, scuffing our toes in the sand.

  “Chanda,” Esther says at last, “you know I’ll always be your friend, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I mean, even if people say awful things about your family ... even then I’ll be your friend.”

  I feel a chill. “What are people saying?”

  “Nothing. But if they ever do.” An awkward pause. Then Esther says, “What if people spread rumors about my family?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You heard me. If people spread rumors about my family, would you still be my friend?”

  I try not to blink. But the way she says it, I know two things. Esther heard everything Mrs. Tafa said. And what Mrs. Tafa hinted is true.

  So what? I think. Deep down, I already guessed her parents had AIDS. So nothing’s changed. But if nothing’s changed, why am I scared?

  “Tell me,” she presses. “Would you still be my friend?”

  “Stop talking crazy. It’s bad luck.”

  “Answer my question.”

  I know the facts from school. You can only catch AIDS from blood and semen. All the same, if people say you have it you can be shunned. Your family and friends can be shunned, too.

  Esther gets off her swing and comes toward me. “Would you still be my friend or not?”

  I jump up and back away. Her eyes fill with tears. She turns and starts to run.

  “Wait!” I catch up to her, whirl her around, hug her, and plant a kiss on both cheeks. “Of course I’d still be your friend. Your best friend.”

  Esther squeezes me hard. “I knew you’d say that,” she laughs. “We’re best friends forever. No matter what, you’ll never let me down. I knew it!”

  But the truth is, she didn’t.

  And until right now, neither did I.

  9

  MAMA IS WAITING AT THE ROAD when Esther and I get back. She whispers that she wants Iris and Soly to be away when Mr. Bateman comes. Esther offers to take them downtown to the YMCA lunch counter for some seswa and a Coke.

  When they get the news, Iris and Soly practically do somersaults. They think bus rides are the biggest adventure in the world. And they love Esther. She lets them wear her costume jewelry. It may be fake, but they don’t care. It’s bright and colorful, and they spend whole days pretending they’re kings and queens, or acting out legends I bring home from Mr. Selalame’s English class.

  I give Esther a few extra coins and tell her to take them to the bazaar afterwards; one of the street sellers might have a little toy to keep them busy over the next few days, or a couple of rings to have for their very own.

  Once they’re gone, Mama goes back to Sara, and I start to prepare soup stock for supper. I put two pails in the wheelbarrow and go to the standpipe to fetch water. The lineup isn’t too bad. People have heard about Sara and say a few words of sympathy.

  When I get back, I make a small fire in the pit, fill the pot with water, toss in a few bones and root vegetables, add a little dried chicken meat hanging from the wire by the kitchen window, and set the pot over the fire to simmer for the afternoon. Then I rake the dirt by the front door, so everything will be nice when Mr. Bateman gets here.

  After that, there’s nothing to do but sit on a stool and wait.

  Mr. Bateman arrives at one-thirty. I run to his car and slip him his money. “Sorry I’m late,” he says. “I got held up by a last-minute client.”

  He’s not the only one who’s late. Jonah still isn’t back. Am I surprised?

  Mama greets Mr. Bateman at the door and takes him to the bedroom. Sara is laid out in her good dress. She’s holding a flower from the garden. She looks so tiny and cold.

  “What a dear, sweet thing,” Mr. Bateman says. “It’s such a pity.”

  He wraps Sara in a thin cotton sheet, sews the sides together with a loose stitch, and writes a number across the center with gray chalk. “We’ll take good care of her,” he promises. “You can pick her up at three, day after tomorrow.”

  Mama nods silently. She kisses the bundle, and watches Mr. Bateman lay it in the back seat of his car. As he drives down the road, she waves good-bye. When the car turns the corner, she stands there, lost.

  “Mama?” I whisper. I want to hold her, but she raises a hand and shuts her eyes. A deep breath, and her eyes open. Staring into space, she wanders into the house and closes the door. Inside, I can hear her howling.

  Iris and Soly arrive home with yellow tin rings and a new toy. It’s a coat hanger bent into a square with pop cans for wheels. Soly insists it’s a truck. Iris insists it’s a bus.

  I invite Esther to stay for supper, but she says she better get back to her auntie’s or she’ll get a beating. We hug and she bikes off, promising to return Wednesday to help cook the burial feast.

  Once she’s left, I lift the soup and we gather around the table for supper. Mama’s eyes are closed. Iris and Soly pretend not to notice. They’ve gotten very quiet since coming back.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask.

  Iris stares at her spoon. “Where’s Sara?”

  I look to Mama for an answer. She doesn’t move.

  “Sara’s gone on a trip,” I say carefully. I see Mama nod slightly.

  A pause.

  Iris frowns. “Why didn’t we get to go with her?”

  “You were on a trip with Esther.”

  “Oh.”

  Another pause.

  From Soly, “When’s she coming back?”

  “You’re awful nosy,” I say. “Did you like the bus ride downtown?”

  “It was okay.” They start to fidget, full of questions, but it’s clear nobody’s going to answer them. It’s also clear that they aren’t really sure they want an answer.

  We watch our soup get cold. Finally I get up and pour our bowls back into the pot. “Supper’s over,” I say.

  Iris and Soly drift into a corner and play with their toy. I do the dishes, light the lamps, and change the bedding on the mattress where Sara lay. Then I settle down to try to read my book for English class. Only the words won’t stay still; they swim off the page until I’m all mixed up.

  Iris tugs at my elbow, Soly beside her. “What’s wrong with Mama?” she whispers. I look over. Mama’s still at the table with her eyes closed.

  “Mama’s fine,” I whisper back. “She’s just thinking, that’s all.” Iris isn’t convinced. “You’ve seen Mama thinking before,” I tell her.

  “Not like this.”

  “Tonight she’s just got more to think about, is all.”

  “Like about what?”

  “Like about things that are none of your business.” I stroke her cheek. “Don’t worry. Everything’s fine. Mama won’t be thinking much longer.”

  I’m right, too. There’s a sudden rapping at the front.

  “Ko ko, it’s only me,” Mrs. Tafa calls from outside.

  Mama’s eyes snap open. She taps the hollows of her cheeks, squares her shoulders, and answers the door.

  Mrs. Tafa gives Mama a big hug. “So you’re finally up for visitors!” She cups a hand to Mama’s ear. “Oh, Lilian, I know what it’s like, losing a child. When my Emmanuel passed, I wanted to throw myself into the grave with him.” She steps back. “At any rate, I won’t keep you. Just wanted to let you know, your relatives have phoned from Tiro.”

  “I’ll be right over,” Mama says.

  “No need. I took a message,” Mrs. Tafa beams. “After all, what are friends for?” She waltzes past Mama and plunks herself down at the table. “Your sister Lizbet
will be representing the family. She’ll be down on tomorrow’s bus. The rest of your brothers and sisters send their love and regrets, but they can’t make it, it being such short notice, and no one to look after the cattle. Now what am I forgetting?” She taps her head. “Oh yes, your daughter Lily and her husband wanted to come, but Lily’s belly is full—congratulations—and she’s afraid she might give birth en route, the roads being how they are. And your mama’s taking care of your papa. He’s laid up in bed with bad bones, but you’re not to worry.”

  She pours herself a glass of water. “All the same,” she continues, “they want to contribute to the feast. They’re sending sacks of cornmeal, onions, carrots, and potatoes with Lizbet. Also salt. They expect your man is providing the cow. Oh, and by the way, who’s Tuelo Malunga?”

  “A family friend,” Mama says tightly.

  “Well, your papa says, ‘Tell Lilian, Tuelo Malunga sends his condolences too. Also tell her how he and his wife have just had their eighth boy.’ All boys in that family, your papa says. He must be quite the man, that Tuelo Malunga.”

  “Papa always thought so.”

  Mrs. Tafa glances at Iris and Soly. “By the way,” she whispers, “have you found a place to put the little ones during the you-know-what?”

  “Jonah’s sister Ruth will take them in, most likely.”

  “Good.” She hesitates. “I don’t mean to be unkind, but where is Jonah?”

  By the time Mrs. Tafa leaves, we all have headaches. At least her visit’s brought Mama back to normal. She pats Iris and Soly on the head and tells them to do their bedtime business. After they’ve cleaned their teeth, gone to the outhouse, and washed their hands, she tucks them under their sheet.

  Iris won’t let go of her arm. Her bluster’s disappeared.

  “What’s the matter?” Mama says.

  “Nothing,” she answers.

  Mama rubs noses. “Can you tell me about this nothing?”

  Iris trembles. “Did you give Sara away?”

  “Yes,” Soly echoes. “Did you? Are you going to give us away too?”