Chanda's Secrets Read Online Free Page B

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.
    As I walk toward the crowd, looking for Jonah, I almost trip over two-year-old Paulo Sibanda. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of empty juice cartons and a grin. His feet are shoved into the cartons like they were shoes, only they’re bigger than his feet, so he keeps falling over, which makes him laugh.
    â€œHey, Chanda!” The voice is loud. I turn around. It’s Mary. She’s propped against one of the shade posts, waving haphazardly. “Heard about Sara... Sorry, old friend.”
    Everyone is “old friend” to Mary. She knows the whole neighborhood.Or at least the whole neighborhood knows her. She went to school with my oldest brother. Back then, she was popular. She was fun and pretty and could sing and imitate people and wasn’t stuck-up or anything.
    Now she’s twenty-five, and has four kids being raised by her mama. She spends her days going from shebeen to shebeen, looking for free drinks. Whenever I see her, she’s wearing the same wool cap, pulled down to hide the scar over her right eyebrow. Today she’s wearing a pair of drawstring pajama bottoms; they cover the sores on her legs. After her front teeth were broken, she used to put her hand over her mouth when she talked; now she doesn’t bother.
    There’re rumors that when Mary’s passed out, men drag her into an outhouse and have their fun. She made a big scene last year, staggering up and down the streets banging on doors demanding to know who stole her underpants. Luckily for Mary, she never remembers anything. Or pretends that it’s all a big joke. Even now, a year later, people come up and say, “Hey, Mary, found your underpants?” Then they laugh. And she laughs with them. I wonder what she’s really feeling?
    Maybe that’s why I don’t blow up when I see Jonah’s head in her lap. Mary isn’t the first woman he’s messed with. She won’t be the last. Besides, he’s so juiced up he couldn’t do anything even if he wanted to. His eyes are crusty. He blinks to keep out the flies.
    Mary cradles him. “He hurts so much,” she says. “All he can say is, ‘Sara. Sara.’”
    Jonah rocks his head. “Sara,” he echoes, from some other world.
    â€œChanda’s here,” Mary tells him.
    Jonah gets a