Chanda's Secrets (3 page)

“Because.”

“But we could live at Papa's cattle post. Or in the village with Granny Kabelo. Or at Granny and Grampa Thela's. Or with Lily—her husband wouldn't mind, would he? We hardly ever get to see her, and she only has one baby so far and there'd be lots of room.”

“Chanda,” Mama said sharply, “there're things you don't understand.”

“Like what?”

“I'll tell you when you're older.”

“But I need to know now. Where are we going to live? How are we going to eat?”

Mama held me close and kissed my forehead. Then out of nowhere she let out a laugh. I'm not sure if it was to make me feel better, or because I looked so serious, or because she didn't know what else to do. All I know is, after she laughed, she rocked me. “Don't you worry,” she said. “Mama will figure out something.” And she closed her eyes.

I stayed very still, but my mind was racing. Why wouldn't Mama take us back to Tiro? What was the terrible secret she was afraid to tell me?

A
FTER THE BLOOD MONEY RAN OUT,
we couldn't afford to buy meat or eggs, so we stuck to soup and bread. Soon we cut out the bread. That's when Mama said she'd been offered a job cleaning house for Isaac Pheto. He'd left his wife and kids at a village hundreds of miles away to work at the mine. He sent them money on payday.

Isaac's house was like all the other general workers' houses. It had two rooms: a common room with a small kitchen, and a bedroom. He let us sleep for free on an old mattress in the common room. I was told to call him Isaac.

Isaac's place was filthy—even the walls were caked with grime—but Mama soon had it looking nice. She even sewed curtains with material she got from a street seller, bright yellow and blue. And she pummeled his work clothes in an outdoor tub till they smelled like fresh grasses.

Our prayers seemed to be answered. Then one night I woke up and Mama wasn't beside me. I thought maybe she'd gone to the outhouse, but then I heard the sounds coming from Isaac's room. “Shh, she'll hear us.” I pretended to be asleep when Mama sneaked back to our bed.

“Do you still think about Papa?” I asked the next morning as she swept the ground in front of the house.

Her shoulders slumped. “All the time,” she said. And kept on sweeping.

I knew that Mama knew that I knew. But we didn't talk about it. We both pretended nothing was going on for another week. Then one night, I got up before dawn and sat in a corner. When she tiptoed from his room back to our bed, I lit a candle. We didn't say anything. From then on, she tucked me in, and went to his room directly.

A year later, Iris was born: my first half-sister.

Iris's christening service ran from ten o'clock Sunday morning until four in the afternoon. A neighborhood celebration followed that lasted into the night. Our street didn't have electricity, so we lit a fire in the firepit, and stuck torches in the ground. The neighborhood clapped and danced and sang, and Mama told stories that made everyone howl with laughter. I tried to stay awake, but I was only eleven and fell asleep around midnight.

Next thing I remember, I was in the dark on my mattress. Someone was touching me all over.

“Who's there?”

“Relax,” Isaac whispered. “It's only me.”

“What are you doing?” I whispered back.

“Tucking you in.”

“That's not how Mama does it.”

“I'm not your mama. Or your papa. That's why it's different.”

I didn't know what to do, so I froze.

“That's a good girl,” he said. “Nice and quiet.”

The door opened. “Isaac?” It was Mama.

“Lilian!” he jumped back. “Shh. I'm just putting Chanda to bed. Poor thing's fast asleep.”

“Oh,” Mama whispered. “Well, hurry up. We need you out here for a toast.”

“Right away.” Isaac followed her out. At the doorway he turned to me and winked. “Sleep tight.”

Pretty soon after that, I stopped eating. At first, Mama thought, I had a sick stomach. Then she got worried. “What's the matter?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

The truth was, everything was the matter. Since the night of the party, Isaac had been after me. Even in the middle of the night with Mama in the next room. Daytime too. When Mama went to fetch water at the standpipe, he'd say: “Sit on my lap.” That's how it would start. I told Mama I wanted to help her with the water, but she always said she needed me to chop carrots, or to keep an eye on the baby.

I wanted to scream what was happening. But I figured he'd just deny it and I'd get in trouble. Even worse, if Mama believed me, she'd say we had to leave—we'd be homeless with nothing to eat and it would be all my fault. Or that's what I thought.

It turned out differently. That afternoon Mama came back from the standpipe early and caught him with his pants down.

“You're not a man! You're a monster!” she screamed. She
heaved the water at him and bashed him over the head with the pail. He threw her across the room.

“Go whore in the streets with your slut daughter!” he yelled, loud enough that the neighbors would hear. Then he grabbed our clothes and threw them out the windows.

Mama stuffed them into a couple of plastic bags. She put Iris on a sling over her shoulder, took the bags in one hand and my hand in her other. “I curse you, Isaac Pheto,” she spat at him. “By all that is holy, I curse your name, and the bones of the ancestors who bore you.”

The neighbor women were listening to the fight from inside their homes, but some of the men had come out for the show. Mama spiked them with a look. “What are you gawking at, misters?”

She hiked her chin and together we strode down the street. As we were about to turn the corner, I felt the tears coming. “Don't cry, Chanda,” Mama whispered calmly. “Never let them see you cry.”

Mrs. Tafa took us in. Papa and her first husband had worked the same shift at the mine. They died together in the cave-in. But unlike Mama, Mrs. Tafa had luck. Her brother-in-law married her right after the funeral. He was a bricklayer with The United Construction Company. On his days off, he'd built a row of cement-block rooms on the far side of his yard, which he rented. We didn't have any money left, but Mrs. Tafa said we could stay in one of the rooms until she found a paying boarder.

“Thank you,” Mama said, “but we won't be needing charity. In exchange for the room, we can tend your garden, do your chores, and run errands.”

Mrs. Tafa agreed.

That night when Mr. Tafa got home from work, he drove Mama back to Isaac's for the rest of our things. We'd left pots, pans, a few sheets and towels, and Iris's toys. Mostly, though, Mama wanted the reminders of Papa and my brothers: their funeral programs and Papa's hunting rifle. “That Isaac Pheto wasn't so brave with your man around,” Mama told Mrs. Tafa. “He just hid in a corner and let me take what I came for.”

Mr. and Mrs. Tafa didn't have any children together, but they both had kids from their first marriages. The only one at home was Mrs. Tafa's son Emmanuel. He was older than me, and very smart. I hardly ever saw him because he was always studying. Their other kids were all married and would bring their families over on birthdays and feast days, or just for fun.

Whenever they had a celebration, the Tafas made sure that Mama and I were invited. I got to call them Auntie and Uncle.

Next door to the Tafas was a kind old barber named Mr. Dube. He had rotten teeth, but he kept the smell down by gargling hair tonic.

He cut people's hair in an open shed at the side of the road. People came to him from all over the neighborhood, because he was such a great talker and kept his scissors sharp and his combs clean. He also had a set of clippers hooked up to a twelve-volt battery, and a radio so people could dance a bit if they were bored waiting in line.

Mr. Dube was a widower with a house but no children. Mama was a widow with two children and not much else. It didn't take long before he came courting. He wasn't much to look at, but he said Mama's name, “Lilian,” hushed and respectful, like it came
from the Bible. And he owned his own place, so we wouldn't have to worry about being on the street again. Mama accepted his proposal.

After the wedding, he asked me to call him Papa. I said thank you, but I couldn't, on account of Papa's memory. He smiled gently and said he understood, that “Mr. Dube” would be fine.

My half-brother Solomon, “Soly,” was born a year later. He was cute as a dimple. Still is. While I went to school, Mama looked after Iris and Soly while Mr. Dube cut hair and entertained the customers. In the evening, we'd sit together in the front yard and tell stories and laugh. Mama would rub Mr. Dube's swollen feet as he cuddled Iris and Soly. I'd hug my knees and grin.

We were happy like that for a while. Then one night Mr. Dube said he had an upset stomach. He lay down and never got up. It was a stroke. I cried for ages, but I tried to comfort myself that Mr. Dube was lucky. The stroke was sudden and painless. He didn't suffer. I'd like to die like that.

Sometimes I feel guilty about remembering Mr. Dube's rotten teeth. He was so good to all of us. Looking back, I wish I'd been able to call him “papa.” My real papa wouldn't have minded. And it would have meant so much to Mr. Dube. I hope he knew I loved him.

Mama inherited the house, which gave us a place to live. She also started a vegetable garden and raised a few chickens in the front yard. But there was no money. Mr. Dube's trips to the herbal doctor, and his funeral, had eaten most of his savings, and now Mama had three of us to support.

I guess that's how Jonah happened. Mama had a house, and
he had a job. He asked Mama to marry him, but she said no. She wanted to keep the ownership of Mr. Dube's property to protect Iris, Soly, and me, in case things didn't work out.

Jonah was a friend of Mr. Tafa's from the construction company. He was a big talker with a great smile, who poured concrete for malls and office buildings downtown. That is, until he got fired. Jonah liked to party and the company got tired of not knowing whether or not he'd show up for work.

When Mama was pregnant with Sara, he was still making some money doing odd jobs. But since Sara's birth and Mama's miscarriages, he's mainly just stayed at the shebeen getting drunk on shake-shake.

That's where he is now, I'll bet.

W
HEN
I
GET BACK FROM THE
E
TERNAL
L
IGHT,
it's ten. Iris and Soly are in the front yard where I left them. Mama said Iris didn't have to go to kindergarten today, so they know something important's happened, only they're not sure what.

Soly sits quietly by the front door playing with his toes. Iris, on the other hand, is in one of her moods. She's marching up and down the yard with a storm cloud over her head. When she sees me, she stalks up and plants her hands on her hips.

“Sara's still sleeping. She's been sleeping all morning. Make her stop.”

“Don't be such a bossy brat.”

“I'm not,” she says, stomping her foot.

“I mean it, Iris. Act your age or I'll smack you.”

“Go ahead,” she dares me. “I'll tell.”

When Iris gets like this, there's no sense arguing. She's too smart for her own good. And mine. “Why don't you water the beans?”

She yawns as if the reason is obvious.

“Fine,” I say. “Be bored if you like. I don't care.”

Iris sighs. “Get over here, Soly, I have a game. We're going to see who can make the biggest pile of stones. Only they have to come from the front yard, and we can only pick them up with our elbows.”

I go into the house. The shutters are open to keep out the death smell.

Mama has braided Sara's hair and laid her on the mattress that she shares with Jonah. She's curled up beside her, stroking her cheek. I tell her about Mr. Bateman coming at one. I leave out the part about the service having to be on Thursday. “Mr. Bateman says not to worry, the funeral will be beautiful.”

Mama doesn't look up. “Go back to Mr. Bateman and tell him not to come. We can't pay. Someone's stolen the money from the hiding place.”

Mama doesn't say who stole it. She doesn't have to.

“It's not stolen, Mama,” I lie, to make her feel better. “I took it to Mr. Bateman for the deposit.”

Mama shudders. “God forgive me. Sometimes I think terrible things.”

I kiss her on the forehead. “You rest now. I'll be right back.”

I run outside, hop on my bike, and head to the local shebeen.

The shebeen is owned and run by the Sibandas. It's a large, open-air booze pit surrounded by a six-foot cement wall that comes up to the dirt road. The wall is so that people can't see which of their neighbors are inside, or how drunk they are.

I enter through the high wooden gate, bringing my bike with me so it won't get stolen. To my right, people are sitting and gambling in the shade of a canvas tarp tied to the tops of three posts and a dead tree. To my left, others line up by a shed where Mrs. Sibanda sells cigarettes, Coke, and fried banana chips.

But the center of attention is at the back of the property. It's here that the Sibandas live with their children, in-laws, and grandchildren in a handful of huts as wobbly as the customers. It's also here that Mr. Sibanda brews his shake-shake, and his clients crowd around, pick fights, and throw up, as they wait for the next tub to be ladled out.

Mr. Sibanda's tubs are as clean as any, but sometimes when he stirs up the sludge with the alcohol, a dead beetle floats to the surface. Also, depending on how hot the weather is, or how long the mabele's been fermenting, a few glugs can knock you sideways.

There's a special buzz right now. Two of Mr. Sibanda's sons have just hauled out a fresh tub. One of his granddaughters is pouring the brew into old juice cartons. The Sibandas have collected them from garbage bins and rinsed them in a pail of water.