Read Online Chanda's Wars by Allan Stratton - Free Book Online Page A

balances the load, then he unhitches his mules. He walks to the inside of the road,guiding them with his right hand, holding the reins to the side of the yoke.
    â€œG’night,” Mr. Kamwendo calls out.
    We holler “g’night” back, except for Nelson, who keeps his eyes focused ahead. “Aren’t you going to ride with us?” I ask him. “We could make room.”
    â€œI’m fine walking.”
    â€œNelson’s worried about the weight,” Lily whispers. “The mules are tired. They worked all day. They’ll be working again tomorrow.”
    So no wonder he’s rude, I think. I decide not to add to his burden. First impressions are important, as Mrs. Tafa says. “I’ll walk too,” I say, and jump off.
    The mules react. Nelson tightens his grip on the reins and braces himself against the yoke. “Whoa.” He whirls on me. “What are you trying to do? Spook the mules? Shift the load? Tip the cart?”
    â€œI thought I was helping.”
    â€œIf I want your help, I’ll ask for it.”
    â€œNelson!” Granny barks.
    â€œBeg pardon, Mrs. Thela.” He looks to my left.
    I get back in the cart, cheeks burning.
    Iris whispers to Soly: “He sure told her.”
    Lily’s home is a short detour from the general dealer’s. We let her and the baby off. “I’ll be by tomorrow morning,” she says.
    â€œNo hurry,” Granny replies. “Chanda and the children will want to sleep in.”
    â€œGood luck to that,” Lily laughs. “The roosters of Tiro can wake the dead. And Nelson’s place has a yardful. They strut and crow like trackers on payday. They learned that from you, didn’t they, Nelson?”
    Nelson snorts. “We should get going.” He leads the mules around, and we begin the long trek down the village line, parallel to the highway.
    When I was little, Tiro was just a gas stop on the way to Mfuala Park. Blink and you’d miss it. There was the general dealer’s and a flat stretch of ground where folks came to trade twice a month. Then the government built a health clinic opposite the dealer’s, along with a grid of water pipes under a square mile of big, empty lots. Soon there was a blacksmith’s, a weaver’s, a tinker’s, a barber’s, a feed store, and a school. All sorts of folks moved in from the country for the convenience. They built compounds next to friends from nearby cattle posts, so they’d keep the same neighbors in town. Others stayed on the land.
    My family held out till Granny and Grampa got feeble. By then, the only lots available were on the far outskirts by the cemetery. Now every day, while my aunties run errands around the village, my uncles commute with the other men to their posts in the country, where their cattle are tended overnight by sons and hired herd boys.
    There’s a rustle of grass to my side. A field? I look back. Pockets of glow flicker up from the front yards behind us. The village line comes to an end. Nelson whispers something to the mules, and we swing right. The rickety cart tilts as the left front wheel lumbers over a rock. Where are we? Nelson must see by starlight. How? I’m glad I’m in the cart.
    A few minutes later, beacons of light ahead. As we get close, I make out three lamps in front of three mud homes on three sides of a yard, a blazing firepit in the center. It’s Granny and Grampa’s compound. Their place is the one in the middle; they share it with Auntie Lizbet. Uncle Chisulo and Auntie Agnes live to the left; Uncle Enoch and Auntie Ontibile to the right.
    My uncles’ broken cart is over by Uncle Chisulo’s. One end is on cinder blocks. My uncles are wedging a wooden wheel onto the new axle, while Aunties Agnes and Ontibile fuss at the soup pot hanging over the fire. A fifth persongives everyone instructions with her cane: Auntie Lizbet. With her wizened breasts and lumpy