Free Chanda's Secrets by Allan Stratton

of talking, we fan ourselves with paper plates from the burial feast and listen to the piercing droneof the cicadas. Each second takes forever. We stifle yawns. The silence is heavier than the heat.
    Every so often Auntie Lizbet sighs and taps her foot: “No sense you folks waiting out here on my account.”
    â€œNo, no, we’re happy to,” Mama replies quickly. I wish she wasn’t so polite.
    Just when I think I’m going to yawn so wide my head’ll turn inside out, the pickup turns the corner. Mama helps lift Auntie Lizbet onto her feet.
    â€œI’m glad you could make the trip,” Mama says.
    â€œI know my duty,” Auntie Lizbet replies stiffly. She waits till the driver’s hoisted her onto the flatbed and the pickup’s started to lurch forward. Then she leans over the open side wall. “It’s a terrible price your Sara paid.”
    â€œWhat?” Mama says.
    â€œAs you sowed, so you reap, sister. ‘The sins are visited upon the children.’ Hear the spirits of your ancestors. Repent. Beg forgiveness of those you wronged and dishonored.”
    The pickup kicks up dust and stones. It disappears around the bend. Mama stands in the road, like someone’s kicked her in the guts. She staggers to a stool. I know I should leave her alone but I don’t. I run up and kneel beside her.
    â€œAre you all right?”
    â€œI’m fine,” she whispers.
    â€œWhat did Auntie mean?”
    â€œNothing.” She closes her eyes and holds up her hand.
    â€œPlease, Mama, open your eyes. Don’t make me disappear.” Her eyes flash wide, but my voice is a river. Words pour from my heart. “Why does she hate us? Why does our
family
hate us?”
    â€œThey don’t.”
    â€œThey do. They didn’t come to the funeral. Why? I know the excuses, but
why?
And when Papa died—why did we stay here? Why didn’t we go to Tiro?”
    â€œI’m too tired to argue.”
    â€œI’m not arguing. I just need to know. Who was dishonored? What was the sin?”
    â€œYou ask too many questions.”
    â€œI have a right to know.”
    â€œI’ll tell you when you’re older.”
    â€œThat’s what you said when Papa died. Well, I’m older now. Sixteen. When you were sixteen you were married with babies.”
    Mama looks away. I wrap my arms around her waist. She cradles my head and rocks me. I hold her tight. Finally, when I’m still, she tells me the truth. “They hate us because they say I bring bad luck. They say your papa and I dishonored them.”
    Her voice may be quiet, but the words are strong and clear—as if the story has rolled around inside her head for so long, it’s turned to smooth hard stone.
    She says the curse goes back twenty-five years. Her parents—my Granny and Grampa Thela—were good friends with the Malungas, who owned the neighboring cattle post. The families arranged for Mama to marry the Malungas’ oldest son, Tuelo.
    Tuelo was handsome and strong. It didn’t matter. Mama loved Papa. At a harvest celebration, the two of them ran off to Papa’s cattle post. My mama-grampa and the Malunga men took up torches and machetes, determined to kill Papa’s family and bring Mama home.
    There was nearly a bloodbath. But Mr. Malunga found a way to save face. Mama had two younger sisters. Tuelo wouldget his pick. Also, the bride price would be doubled, but paid by Papa’s family in cattle.
    Lives were saved; they were also changed. Papa had to restock his family’s post. This was hard since Mama came with nothing. So his brothers turned him into a kind of servant. After sixteen years, he’d had enough. He told them he’d repaid his debt, and demanded his share of the harvest. They refused. That’s why we came to Bonang.
    There were troubles for Mama’s family, too.
    Her two younger sisters were my aunties Lizbet and Amanthe. Auntie