Free Chanda's Secrets by Allan Stratton Page A

Lizbet was older, so she expected to become Tuelo’s wife. This suited her fine, since she was secretly in love with him. But Tuelo chose Auntie Amanthe instead.
    Auntie Lizbet blames this on why she never got to marry. (Mama’s too kind to say so, but the real reason is Auntie’s club-foot. Building huts, fetching water, and chasing children keeps wives on their feet, especially at cattle posts. The men in Tiro were just being practical. Or maybe they didn’t like the idea of being stuck with a toad. Those are hard truths for Auntie Lizbet to swallow. Instead, she blames her life on Mama. Does bad luck make people miserable? Or do miserable people bring bad luck?)
    Anyway, right after the wedding, Auntie Amanthe got pregnant. The baby got stuck inside. They had to cut into her belly to get it out. Auntie Amanthe bled to death; the baby was stillborn. At the funeral, Mama was shunned. Auntie Lizbet said what people were thinking: “It should have been you.”
    After that, whenever anything went wrong Mama got blamed: she’d shamed her parents and dishonored the ancestors. Traditional doctors came to Granny and Grampa Thela’s post to take away the evil. But no matter how often they came, Mama’s sin wastoo great. The next time there was a problem, Mama was blamed again.
    Mama strokes my hair. “That’s why we didn’t go back to Tiro. I wouldn’t live in a place where people said we got what we deserved.”
    We sit still for a long time. Then I say: “Granny and Grampa don’t really believe in spirit doctors, do they?”
    Mama thinks about this for a long time. “There’s what people believe,” she says, tapping her head. “And there’s what they
believe
.” She taps her heart. I look down.
    Mama lifts my head and cups it in her hands. “Everyone believes in something,” she says. “Well, here’s what
I
believe. There’s no sin in love. What your papa and I did was good. It brought you into the world. And I wouldn’t change that for anything.”

PART TWO

14
    I T’S JUST BEFORE DAYBREAK. I’m sitting on the floor at the foot of Mama’s bed. I’ve been doing this for three months now, ever since the funeral.
    Three months. Sara’s funeral feels like yesterday and forever all at once. When I come home from school I still expect to see her. In my head, I know she’s gone. But in my heart, well, that’s something else again.
    Everything’s changed. Once I knew every pore of Sara’s face. Now I don’t know anything. I stare at Mr. Bateman’s Polaroid of her in her coffin. It doesn’t look like her. Or does it? I can’t be sure. Why can’t I remember? What’s wrong with me?
    Friends are no help. Whenever I think life’s back to normal, one of them will ask, “How are you doing?” and the pain roars back. It’s like when I was up north in the delta, learning to polea mokoro through river reeds; the minute I’d relax I’d hit a patch of roots and capsize.
    â€œPeople who ask ‘how-are-you-doing’ aren’t friends,” says Esther. “They’re scab-pickers. Nosy little scab-pickers. What they really want is to know you feel bad so they can feel superior.”
    â€œThat’s not fair.”
    â€œIt’s true.”
    Nights are the worst. I have horrible dreams. Such as: Sara is dying, but if I get her to the hospital right away she’ll be all right. I try to strap her in my bicycle basket, but she keeps falling out, and when I go to pick her up she slides through my hands. Time is disappearing, Sara is dying, it’s all my fault.
    I wake up in a cold sweat, but being awake is no better. I toss and turn, panicking about time and life and what is the point of anything. Mostly, though, I hurt myself about Sara. Why did I hate her for screaming? Why did I wish she’d stop? Why didn’t I rock her