by Paula Leyden
“No.”
“Then who did? Ifwafwa?”
“No, he doesn’t come here because my mum is scared of snakes, so Dad has to kill them all. She is also scared of him – of Ifwafwa – because she says he lets the snakes out of his bag and then pretends he’s found them in the house. She thinks his bag is full of the same snakes, all the time, and that they are tame and just do what he tells them to do.”
“That’s not true,” I said. “But it doesn’t matter. How does your great-granny know about us asking Ifwafwa?” I didn’t really want an answer and I didn’t get one, anyway, because Fred’s mum and dad came back at that moment and I didn’t want to wait around to hear what they had to say. Or rather what his dad had to say – because all we would get from the mum would be a silent scurrying past us.
Some Independence Day.
Ifwafwa
I saw small Winifred today. She sat inside the window of their house and watched everyone who passed by. She did not move. Only sat, holding her chin in her hand, waiting for nothing. I do not think she will run away, this one. She looks too tired, there is no hope left in her. I saw her mother again as well. In her face there is a memory of a smile, but I do not know if it will ever come back. Then I saw the uncle, the father’s brother, with his friend. Laughing and showing their teeth. Off to the tavern to drink into the night, like every night, as if there is nothing better to do. I will be patient and wait for them. Not tonight, but tomorrow when the moon is beginning.
This is the time when the night shows itself only to those who know. For those who cannot see, the night will be dark and strange shapes will appear. Fear will eat away at their insides and their legs will go weak. That is a good time for me. I see everything, because the young moon is my friend.
Tomorrow night it will be so. Then I am done here.
Bul-Boo
Today feels different from most days. Most days, even during the rainy season, the first thing I hear when I wake up is the cicadas, who sing from the time the sun goes down until the early morning. The first thing I see is the sky and it is almost always blue: a Zambian blue. We once went on holiday to Ireland to visit our granny and grandad. The blue of the sky there is very different from here. It’s as if someone has washed some of the colour out of it. It is a watery blue, which makes sense I suppose because of the rain. The sky also feels low in Ireland, more like a painted ceiling than a sky. Here the sky is big.
Today when I woke up, the sky wasn’t blue and the cicadas were quiet. The clouds had gathered very early, much earlier than they should. Normally they start gathering in the afternoon so that by four o’clock they’re ready to burst. Then the rain comes down so hard that it stings you if you stand outside. (Which would not be a good idea anyway because the lightning would get you, and that is much worse than a sting.) Mum says she misses the gentle rain of Ireland because it is soft on your skin. I think I prefer rain that comes and goes. After a storm here you only have to wait a few minutes before going outside, because the sun arrives and begins to dry everything off, leaving it steamy and warm. I prefer that kind of rain to cold rain, however soft.
Today it’s not going to be like that. It is a funny day and it feels heavy.
Ifwafwa
The name these girls have given me, Ifwafwa, is true in many ways. The puff adder is a slow snake, like me. It does not trouble anyone, or anything, unless it has to. It is happy to bake in the sun, on a rock or the road, or next to a river bed. But then, when it has to stir itself, it does. So quickly that it takes everything by surprise. And then nothing or nobody should be in its way.
I do not want to strike. I would be happy to be left alone so I could live my life in peace. But there are many people who do not want me left in peace. Mainly there is Winston, who has taken from me the ones that I love. Winston, with his cruel, small brain. Now there is this old man, who wants to disrupt the life of a child whose father has gone. I must stand in for the father as he sleeps in the ground. Maybe this way the mother will learn that the most important thing for her to do in this world is keep her child safe. She will learn to say no when a wrong is being done to her and her daughter. Maybe this way the mother will gain the strength to tell the uncle that what he is doing is wrong. He came for one night and stayed for a lifetime. It is not our way.
So, because of this, I must strike. I must call on the pale one, who will listen to me and do what I ask. When I have done that I can go back to my home village and hear from Winston where my mother and grandmother lie unburied. I will go there when this thing is finished. I am ready now.
Winifred
It feels as if the life is running out of me. As if I have no time left to be me, Winifred, myself. Ma told me that the old man wants this marriage thing to happen sooner, but that she said no. I’d thought she had forgotten how to; I’d thought she had lost her voice. Maybe she only says no to the small things, like whether something will happen sooner or later, not to the one thing I want her to say it to, the marriage itself.
Uncle is not like Father. He does not listen to her, he thinks she has nothing to say. His ears are closed and his mind is dull. I sometimes think he can’t be Father’s brother – I don’t see how two children so different could come from the one mother. But he is. Ma’s so different now, with him. From the beginning she got smaller around him, silent and sad. It is as if she grew older when Dad went. It’s not right: she’s giving me away as if I am a chicken or a goat. It’s not that she’s lost her voice, it’s that she’s lost her mind. I’ll have to find a way to escape on my own, there’s no use waiting for Bul-Boo or Madillo or even Fred. What can they do?
Tomorrow I’ll leave. I will wait until the night time, until all the little ones have gone to bed and Ma is asleep. I will wait until Uncle has drunk so many beers that he cannot walk straight, then I will go. Maybe I’ll go to Sister Leonisa at school and she’ll take pity on me. Maybe she’ll make me a nun, then I won’t have to marry anyone. I don’t really want to be a nun, but it would be better than this. Even if I had to listen to Sister’s stories every day it would still be better than this.
The sky is so heavy today that people are moving slowly. The air has stopped moving and it feels as though the world has forgotten how to spin. Sister showed us her globe once. She plugged it into the wall and it lit up, a glowing earth. Then she spun it faster and faster, round and round. She said that if the earth started spinning a little bit faster each day, soon it would go so fast that we would all fly off into space. When we were in space we’d just float around until we eventually found our way to heaven. She says she wouldn’t mind at all if it started spinning faster, because she’s looking forward to going to heaven – and so should we be.
I’m not happy that the air is so still now. I wish today would be the day that the earth decided to start spinning at high speed, then I could fly off into space and never come down here again. Never see the old man with his dirty teeth. Never hear him and Uncle talking about me as if I’d had my ears sewn up and couldn’t hear them. Never hear Mama crying to herself about this life which has made my father die and her unable to speak. Never again watch Sister Leonisa looking at me as if I am one of those lost souls she talks about, the ones who sit between heaven and hell for the whole of eternity. Never again be Winifred who must get married. I could just float until I felt like going up to heaven, and when I arrived, everything would be different.
Sister tells us that in heaven, if you want a sweet it just appears in front of your eyes. All you need to do is pluck it out of the air. Everyone in heaven is kind and no one shouts or says ugly words; no one goes hungry or thirsty; the roof does not have holes in it where the rain can come in. And everyone is the same. The most important thing is that no one dies in heaven, because they are all already dead. That way no one can leave you to try and be a grown-up person by yourself when you do not want to be.
I am going to go tomorrow, anyway, whatever happens. Maybe if I do, Ma will finally see that she can’t
be a half-person any more and she’ll get rid of Uncle. And perhaps the world will start spinning faster and the old man will fall down and crack his head and that will be the end of him. I hope so.
Bul-Boo
I have prepared the cupboard for Winifred. It looks so comfy in there now, big soft pillows and cool sheets so she doesn’t get too hot, and she can always come out of the cupboard once Mum and Dad have said goodnight. Then we’ll shut our door, and as long as we’re quiet it won’t matter. Maybe once she’s here I can ask Ifwafwa how much more time he needs. He’ll probably say, “Don’t worry, little one, time means nothing.”
Which is all very well, except that in this case time does matter.
Madillo refused to help me get the room ready because she thinks Ifwafwa will solve this problem and it’s wrong of me to have no faith in him. I asked her how she knows that for sure and she tapped the side of her head and said, “I just know.” That’s a great help.
If I could remember all the things Madillo “just knows”, there would be no room in my brain for anything else. I asked her once to explain what she means by it, because it’s not what I would mean if I said it. Her answer was even more frustrating: “There are some things that just come into my head and it is not for me to question who puts them there or what journey they took. All I need to know – and all you need to know – is that I am right.”
I wonder where Ifwafwa is. I hope nothing has happened to him. He could have gone to seek help for Winifred and been run over or something. Although if that was the case I’m sure we would have heard: the great-granny would have told Fred, probably even before it happened.
I wrote about her in my notebook last night. Witches are mainly just people who get the blame. It has always been that way, because everyone wants to blame someone else for their sadness or misfortune. So I do not believe Fred’s great-granny is a witch, just an ancient odd woman.
It felt a bit of a relief to write it down, because I had started to become really nervous of her and that’s too Madillo-like for my own good. I have known Fred my whole life, and ever since he could talk he has made up stories. I don’t know why I chose to believe this one. I hope he doesn’t make things up to tell his strange little brother, Joseph. Joseph looks like he’d collapse into a heap if anyone said anything horrible to him. He definitely takes after his mother. Although I suppose he has grown up with the whole witch thing, sort of like a family tradition – “Joseph, pass the salt to Great-granny Witch, there’s a good boy” – so maybe he’s not as scared as he looks.
One of Fred’s silliest lies was when he told us that the reason he could get through the hedge between our houses – and we couldn’t – was that the bushes parted to let him through. This is one of the things he says his great-granny has passed onto him. I asked him to show me but he said that if anyone was watching him the bushes wouldn’t do it. How convenient is that? Bushes that wait when they’re being watched? They obviously don’t part wide enough, either, because we always know when he’s come through the hedge just by the look of him.
So all set now for tomorrow. Well, not really all set because I still have no idea how we’ll get Winifred here. Dad said he wanted to take us to Munda Wanga Gardens, but that will just have to wait. I like going there, mainly because of the giant tortoises and the petrified wood. I love the fact that petrified really means “turned to stone” – because that’s exactly how you feel when you’re so scared you cannot breathe. It is just how I felt when I heard the great-granny’s voice and just how I know Winifred will be feeling now.
Night Falls in Kalingalinga
The moon lay low in the sky and the soil was damp. There were few lights burning in Kalingalinga and people did not stir from their homes. There was something strange in the air, something heavy and unexplained.
In Winifred’s home Mama was clearing away the food. Winifred had not eaten. She was still sitting at the window looking out at the silent emptiness of the streets. Uncle cleaned his plate and licked his lips. Across the table sat his friend, his chair pushed back so his stomach had room to breathe. He was angry that the young girl had not come to the table to serve him his food. He had heard her begging her mother, “Not tonight, Mama. Please, I don’t want to be near him.” And the mother had let her off. A spoilt child.
But the food had been good and his stomach was full. Now he could go to the shebeen with his friend: the night was warm and cold beer would taste good. He didn’t like being around this woman who was going to be his mother-in-law. He didn’t like the way she looked at him. Her husband said she would do what he told her to, but there was something in her eyes that was not good. She was like the woman from his own village who ended up not marrying because she would never do what anyone told her. They called her Mukani, “the one who always refuses”. This mother had the same look in her eyes, even though she pretended to obey her husband. The old man did not trust her.
He had already told his friend that when he was married he would not live near his mother-in-law – he didn’t care for that part of the tradition. He had his own house in the village of his mother, and the young girl would come to live there – it was already decided. He would come back on weekends, when he was not working. That way he could have two lives, a town life and a village life. It would be good.
They set out from the house, these two men, laughing loudly at each other’s jokes, their eyes already greedy for beer. They walked slowly through the streets, their noses filled with the smells of paraffin and cooking that crept out of the open doors of the small houses. They didn’t notice that the streets were empty; that there were no children kicking balls, no children chasing bicycle wheels or pushing the little cars made from wire and Coke cans; no men sitting outside the doors breathing in the night air; no women calling the children to come inside before the mosquitoes got them. They did not notice because they had other things on their minds.
When they got to the tavern they did not see that there was only one other man there, a man they didn’t know. They were too busy to notice a stranger in their midst. They were too busy through the evening to notice that he stayed there for the whole night, sitting quietly in the corner without even sipping from the tall brown bottle in front of him. He looked at them but they did not look at him. The man in the corner wasn’t happy with what he saw; it gave him no pleasure to be sitting there hour after hour, waiting. But he waited, as he had a job to do. He would wait till dawn if that was how long it took.
The drinking and talking continued till late into the night. The barman was anxious to close up shop and go to the back to get some sleep. It had been a long day and night, and he was tired of these men. He knew them and didn’t want to chase them away: they were good customers, even if they were tiring. He also knew the other man, the one who never drank from his bottle. He did not mind him being there.
The two drinking companions grew louder as the night went on, and it seemed that they had forgotten that the darkness should bring sleep. But as the sun started to shine its gentle light onto the horizon, the older man yawned and stretched his arms out. The other man nodded and they both stood up. Neither of them was steady on his feet but they helped one another and shouted their goodbyes.
The third man, who had been watching them all night long, got up and handed the full bottle back to the barman, thanking him for his patience. This was the man who, they said, would keep the snakes away from your shop without asking for payment; the man who said little but heard much. He had spent the whole night listening to the two men as they drank, but they did not know this. He could listen without moving his head.
He walked slowly into the pink light of the morning. He was without his bike, so many of those who were starting their day did not recognize him. He carried his bag over his shoulder and there was a slight movement in it. It could have been the cool breeze that heralded the end of the heavy, warm night. He kept his distance behind the uncle and the old man until they arrived at the quietest part of the s
treet. Then he walked faster until he was only a few metres behind them.
He stopped and undid his bag. Slowly, a magnificent, pure-white snake slithered out. It lay at his feet then looked up at him. Ifwafwa bent down and whispered words to it. Then he stroked the snake, from its pale head all the way down its rippling body. Slowly and elegantly it began its journey, slithering down the road behind the two men.
The uncle could not say his words properly as he stumbled down the street, and each time he tried he laughed louder, clinging onto his friend’s arm. They were both filled with the fire of hunger now, walking faster so they could get back to the house to find food.
The uncle stopped, out of breath – he had heard something. He turned his head and saw a pale flash on the ground behind him. He shook his head, it must be the beer confusing him. He walked on. Suddenly the dawn light changed and a brightness came over the two men. The uncle turned round. He saw the pale shape moving swiftly towards them. He saw it leap into the air and wrap its long body around his friend’s neck. It stayed like that for only a second before it slid back down. The uncle stood there, his feet unable to move, as the creature turned its attention to him. Slowly, it moved up the side of his body and wrapped itself around his right arm. Then it was gone.
The soft dawn light returned and the uncle looked down at his friend, who lay crumpled on the ground, not moving. The uncle stared at his own arm where the creature had attacked him. His shirtsleeve was ripped off and a mark ran from his thumb to his shoulder, the mark of a snake. His arm burned and felt as if it was no longer part of him. He looked behind him at the empty street and saw a man crouching on his haunches, his hands held out in a welcoming gesture. Then he saw nothing more as his feet found speed and he ran, leaving his friend alone to face the rising sun.