Telesa - The Covenant Keeper (2 page)

“Leila Folger?”

I turned eagerly and was stopped short by the sight of a slight woman dressed in navy, gray thinning hair drawn into a tight bun. Her eyes were deep-set pools that stared at me unblinkingly, her mouth set in a frown. Behind her hovered an equally stern-looking, heavy-set man formally dressed in a long-sleeved shirt and black
lavalava
skirt.

“You are Leila.” It was a statement of fact, not a question. “I am Matile. This is your Uncle Tuala.” The old lady did not smile in answer to my hesitant greeting. Indeed, if anything, her face darkened even further. She did not move to hug me or even offer her hand. It seemed to my tired brain that she took several steps backward, as if loathe to get too close to me.

I tried to break through the awkward painful silence. “Hi. Thanks for having me.”

My aunt only shook her head slowly. Then she spoke six words that dashed to pieces my hopes for a family, for welcome – and set the tone for my homecoming.

“You should
never
have come here.”

With that brisk announcement, she swung on her heels and began striding towards the car park. I was so stunned that if Uncle Tuala hadn’t picked up my suitcase and set off after her – I would have stood and watched them walk away from me. He looked over his shoulder and motioned impatiently for me to catch up. I hovered for a moment, looking back at the refuelling 747. Surely I could buy a ticket out of here with my precious credit card and be winging my back to D.C., back to what? My grandmother who would be exultant with her ‘
I told you so
’? The summer school program she had chosen for me with the vain hopes that I could get enough makeup credits so a decent college would want me? No. There was nowhere else for me to go – but forward.

The drive from the airport was painful. Uncle Tuala silently loaded my bags into the boot of the double-cab Toyota pick-up while I climbed into the back seat, Aunty Matile ignoring me from the front. The silence continued through the long bumpy drive to the main township, which I knew from my internet tourist reading was called Apia. The road wound its way along the coast, villages on one side and diamond blue sea on the other. I was aghast at how slowly the traffic moved. Uncle Tuala never went over 30 miles an hour – and the rest of the traffic was no exception. How on earth did people stand driving so slow? I knew Apia was about twenty miles from the airport and had imagined it would take us only a few minutes. I was dying to get out of the oppressive unfriendliness of being trapped in a car with two people who had made no secret of their dislike for me. Stifling my impatience, I uneasily studied the villages as we passed through.

My sightseeing was interrupted by Aunty Matile’s heated exchange of words with Uncle Tuala. The unfamiliar words rose and fell in the car. I didn’t need a translator to figure out that they were surely arguing about me. Being the cause of conflict had me squirming and so, never one to shy away from confrontation, I jumped in headfirst, adopting a fake cheery tone.

“I want to thank you both for letting me come visit. I’ve always wanted to see my mother’s home and meet her family.” They both halted their tirades at my words. I hastened to reassure them that I wasn’t here
forever
and certainly wasn’t going to be a financial burden. “I’m hoping to visit here for three months. I have a return ticket for the end of August. I have my own money and would be happy to pay for my room and board.”

There was a horrified look on Aunty Matile’s face as she turned to answer me roughly.

“Don’t be foolish girl. You are our
aiga
, our family, and we would never expect you to
pay
us.”

I hated to remind her that
she
was the one who had made it clear that a loving welcoming family they were not. Uncle Tuala spoke.

“What your aunty is trying to say is that while she doesn’t think it’s a good idea for you to be here, we of course are
happy
to meet you, and, of course, you will stay with us as our daughter.” Such a long speech seemed to go against the grain with him as Aunty Matile threw him a sharp glance. Or was she reacting to his use of the word ‘happy’? However, they both seemed to find comfort in the thought of this being only a temporary visit, grasping hold of the promise of my departure with relief. Matile spoke now with weary resignation.

“Yes, as your uncle says, you will be our daughter while you are here. We do have plenty of room and of course you must go to school. We are both working and I don’t want you home alone idle for so long.”

School?! I had not contemplated
that
possibility. I was no stranger to the angst associated with starting at a new school mid-year – I had done it before and I definitely didn’t want to even attempt trying my hand at a Samoan high school. No way. When I had walked out of the National Cathedral after graduation it was with the firm resolve that I was DONE with high school. I had come here to find out about my mother and her family (
however unsavory they may be
, I thought darkly), and I wasn’t going to waste any time with school, thank you very much. Before I could point all this out reasonably and politely, Uncle Tuala spoke pre-emptively.

“We know that children in America are raised differently from here. We are sure that our ways may seem a bit strange at first to you. But we must make it clear that while you stay, you will be our daughter, and so you will have to behave a certain way. We have seen those types of young people that come here from America with their styles and their language and their disrespect. We hope you will not be like that.” He spoke firmly from the front seat, his gaze never wavering from the winding road and I had the sneaking suspicion that he was trying to be nice by warning me that what I probably took for granted as ‘regular’ behavior would be considered horrifying by Aunty Matile. I almost felt like, in him, I just might have an ally against the indomitable Matile who continued to sit straight backed, shoulders rigid.

I thought back to the teenagers on the flight from L.A.X. and cringed inwardly. Well, if
that
was what they were comparing me with, then I would have to allay their fears ASAP. I thought about Grandmother Folger and her strict expectations and how well she would probably get along with my Aunty Matile, and I hid a grimace. A deep breath.

“Please don’t worry, Uncle. I want so much to learn about my mother’s culture and her family. I’m certainly not here to cause trouble or to bring any disrespectful attitudes from America.” My tone was earnest. I wanted to find a place here. And I certainly didn’t need any conflicts with the two people who – let’s face it – were being very generous allowing me to stay with them – even though they didn’t have the slightest clue about me. If that meant enduring a new school in some third-world education system, then so be it. There was a slight relaxing of the tension in the front seat at my words. Feeling better about the next three months, I settled back in my seat to enjoy the sightseeing ride. Samoa was unlike anywhere I had ever been. Nigeria had been beautiful – in a stark, dry kind of way. Rolling hills and red earth. But the tired desperation of so many of the people we had met had gone a long way to obscure the land’s promise. It had been difficult too, to accept the appalling poverty of so many – contrasted with the sleek high-rise wealth of the cities.

But here, while many of the houses were humble, there was an unabashed cheerfulness about the scenery. There was green everywhere. Every house surrounded with multi-colored bushes and flowering trees. We passed a pool of fresh water, encircled with rocks where half-naked children splashed and waved at us as we passed by. Further along the road, a group of women swept cut grass into piles with long-handled brooms – scattering chickens and shooing gambolling dogs. People walked alongside the road as if they owned it – not the cars that frequently slowed to let them cross, or swerved to avoid clusters of youngsters sitting on the tar-seal. I was starting to realize why Samoa needed such a slow speed limit. Grateful for the cool escape of the air conditioning, I closed my eyes, allowing the tiredness of eighteen hours of non-stop travel to lull over me.

I awoke with a start at the sound of the car door slamming shut. We had arrived. Uncle Tuala was struggling with my suitcase at the back of the pick-up while Aunty Matile was shooing an enthusiastic canine. It had to be the ugliest dog I had ever seen. Splotchy black and brown fur, missing half his tail and one ear ripped to shreds but his coat was sleek and shiny and he was far too fat to be a stray. I watched fascinated as Aunty Matile bent to embrace him, ruffling his fur and hushing him with half-muttered endearments.
Aha she can’t be that bad if she loves such a hideous beast
I thought to myself with some triumph.

I alighted from the truck, stiff muscles aching for a stretch, and examined my new temporary home. It was a solid brick box house with faded orange paint and a green tin roof. A steel rail encircled a veranda overflowing with pot plants. Exuberant bougainvillea trailed from hanging pots, vivid orange and flame red. A row of tiger orchids danced in the afternoon breeze. The garden was a riot of color and texture, so many different plants that even I couldn’t identify them all. Gracing the front yard was a sweeping frangipani tree thick with fragrant white blossoms. I took a few steps closer to its hanging branches and was assailed by the sweet scent of my dad’s favorite. I wasn’t prepared for the wave of emotion that swept over me and I fought the tears that threatened to spill. Struggling for control of my emotions, I hastily turned my back on Uncle as he took my bags to the front door. This was the land of my mother. This was the home of her sister. This was the place where my dad fell in love with the woman who would captivate him long after her premature death. I took a deep breath and reached with trembling fingers to pick a single white frangipani from the boughs above me. Auntie’s stern tones startled my reverie.

“Frangipani, we call it
pua
in Samoan. You like plants.” It was a statement, not a question.

I nodded, unwilling to trust my voice. As if sensing my fragility, Auntie’s voice softened.

“You have come a long way. To be with people you know nothing about. That, at least, took courage.”

I was taken aback by her compliment. Kindness would only loosen my hold on the floodgates though, so I simply shrugged, not trusting myself to respond.

“Come inside. You must be tired. And thirsty.”

Aunty Matile beckoned for me to follow her, snapping sternly at the dog as he made a cheerful lunge for me as I walked past.

“Terminator! Halu! Get away.”

I loved dogs. Even ugly ones. We could never have one since Margaret our long-suffering housekeeper had been allergic to them. It was a thrill to kneel beside Terminator and hug his wriggling body.

“Hey boy, you’re so beautiful, you gorgeous thing, you wanna be friends? Huh?”

He licked my face, his pungent fishy breath wrinkling my nose. “Eww .”

For the first time, a smile cracked the rock expression on Matile’s face. “He’s a very naughty dog. Don’t give him too much attention or he’ll expect you to adore him all the time.”

Uncle Tuala’s guffaw held disbelief. “As if he isn’t spoiled enough as it is by you, Matile.”

She only pursed her lips and marched into the house, Uncle following with a gleam of satisfaction in his eye. I, too, hid a smile as I walked in slowly behind them. Clearly, Aunty wasn’t such a dragon and she did have her soft spots. My steps lightened.

The front room was a spartan affair. A sofa set, the obligatory television, a woven mat on the floor. It was the pictures lining the walls that stood out. Christ looked down at me from every angle – all the sober, suffering pictures of Him. Dying on the cross, praying in the garden, breaking bread with his disciples. Clearly in this house, Jesus was a serious matter. Past the living room, through the kitchen and down a bare hallway was my room. Four walls. A bed draped with a mosquito net. Drawers. Another woven mat. A mirror. Windows overlooking the backyard where chickens roamed and a cluster of baby pigs snuffled happily under a breadfruit tree. Thankfully, I noted the ceiling fan as Aunty pointed further down the hall.

“The bathroom is down here. It’s best to shower early because the water usually goes off in the evening. We have a water tank but the pressure isn’t strong enough for a shower. You’ll have to use a bucket and bowl if you bath late. Once you get settled come and have something to eat in the kitchen.”

With that invitation, she left me to unpack. I sat gingerly on the bed, looking around my surroundings. Funny, the room didn’t look lived in. The sheets crackled with newness and the mat was pristine. There wasn’t a cobweb or speck of dust anywhere. Some effort had gone into preparing for my arrival and I was touched by the thought. It lessened somewhat the awfulness of my airport welcome. My travel weariness faded – replaced with an eagerness to explore.

I showered, gratefully replacing sweaty sticky clothes with knee-length shorts and a cotton tee, pulling my long hair up into a ponytail. I paused for a moment in front of the mirror, tilting my head to one side at my reflection. I was a ramshackle collection of ‘too’s.’ Too tall. Too broad. Hair too bushy, untameable dirt brown hair that only redeemed itself slightly by having gold highlights in the sun. Too wild, Brooke Shields eyebrows to match. Dark eyes set too deep into a forehead too wide. Lips too thick – lips that my dad called “luscious,” but who was he kidding? Legs too skinny and gangly that loved to run but didn’t do too well in high heels. Too brown to be white but too white to be brown.
Ugh
. I rolled my eyes at myself, wondering why I even bothered with mirrors. It’s not like I was going to look any different the more I looked. With a parting wrinkle of my nose, I went out to the kitchen.

Uncle Tuala sat reading a newspaper while Matile bustled around with dishes and serving spoons. They both looked up at my hesitant entrance.

“Come have something to eat. Your aunty was cooking all morning. She wasn’t sure what American children like to eat. Sit.”