A Family Secret – Stanley Onjezani Kenani

I had just returned from playing football with my cousins, Simon and Charles, when Mother called me. At first, I thought she was going to scold me for looking as if I had just been dug out of the earth, wrapped with the dust from the playground. But no; instead, she asked me to sit with her under the mango tree.

“You need to return home tomorrow,” she said.

This came entirely without warning. It was at the end of just our second week of holidays, and I hadn’t had enough of life in the village, of going to tend goats and to look for wild fruits deep in the forest, where the air was fresh and cool and birds sang from treetops. Everything was so different here, unlike in the city. Every day, before the sun went down, we played football in the village’s playground. Nothing sophisticated: goalposts were two bricks five metres apart on either side of the field. There was no net, and all of us played barefoot. Yet at no point in my life had I ever enjoyed playing football so much. Not that I was good at it, that was never the point, but just being there, kicking it any which way, filled me with much joy. I had even forgotten the rigors of school that lay ahead, in my upcoming final year of secondary school. Every day was full of fun. If it was not the football then it was the food, especially futali, the sweet potato in groundnut sauce, which Grandmother cooked so well. But now Mother wanted me to end the fun abruptly and return to the city.

“Why?” I asked.

“As you know,” she continued, “I sell second-hand clothes.”

“Yes,” I said.

“I buy the bales from Mr. Soko.”

“I know.”

“Mr Soko brings them over from across the border.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that.”

“He does. Once a month.”

I paused. “Is that so?” I said eventually.

“Yes. And I had completely forgotten that this is the week he will bring them. The day after tomorrow, as a matter of fact.”

I nodded slowly.

“And when the bales come, they sell faster than tomatoes. I won’t find any if we return next week as planned.”

I nodded some more.

“That’s why I want to go,” she said. 

Some cattle herdsmen were returning to the village from the western side, singing and whistling as they did. It was always a beautiful sight, those herds of cattle and the dust they raised, which looked golden in the setting sun.

*

On Sunday, 18 August, 1991, Mother took me early to the bus station. It was a cold morning, and I was shivering a little by the time I got on board, despite wearing a sweater. The bus was full of farmers whom I had seen loading bags of groundnuts and maize on the roof of the bus, which they planned to sell in the city. My baggage was not big – just my clothes and a few sweet potatoes for Mother’s sister, Aunt Memory, as well as some groundnuts for Father. Aunt Memory had wanted to come on holiday with us, but somehow her plans changed at the very last minute. She worked as a journalist for the national newspaper, and apparently there was a big conference coming up, which she wanted to cover. She had insisted, however, that Mother should bring her potatoes on her return. Such a sweet person, Aunt Memory, I loved her so much. She was Mother’s identical twin. Sometimes I stayed at her house to spend time with her son, Glenn, who attended St. Ignatius with me. Her husband, Uncle Daniel, always bought me chocolates. I was glad to carry the potatoes for them.

From the window, I waved goodbye at Mother and my sister Maya. Robert, my younger brother, hadn’t come along, as he was still sleeping by the time we left. Grandmother was sad to see me leave. She hugged me for the longest time, until Mother reminded her that time was running out. Now, in my bus seat, I waved and waved, until Mother and Maya were out of sight.

I leaned back to admire the countryside, mostly maize, groundnut and tobacco fields from which crops had recently been harvested, the land and what remained of the weeds now dry. 

Under normal circumstances, we should have been in the city by midday. However, halfway through the journey the bus broke down. The driver said we had no choice but to wait for mechanics to come all the way from the city to fix it. It was boring, waiting for many hours. We were in the middle of nowhere. Although I had some loose change in my pocket, there was nothing to buy, not even a banana. 

The sun had already set when we came to our final stop in the city. I picked my things and jumped on the city bus that was to take me to Area 18, where I lived. Tired and hungry, all I wanted was a warm shower and something to eat. I hoped that Father had cooked. I knew he wasn’t so good at cooking, but whatever it was he had prepared I was going to devour without a second thought. 

I was excited to find the family car parked outside the house. He was home. I could see some light from the main bedroom’s window, although the curtains were drawn. The door was not locked. I pushed it open and walked in without much noise, closing it gently behind me. The radio was not on, which was odd, because Father liked listening to the radio all the time, especially when he was home. He seemed to take much pride in following current affairs.

Then I heard noises from the bedroom. It was clear Father was talking to someone. They burst out laughing, his voice and a woman’s.

I froze.

I was seventeen years old, five months shy of eighteen. I at once realised what was going on. I felt a burning sensation in my stomach. 

For what might have been an eternity, I stood there not knowing what to do. I wanted to dash to the door and just burst in, or, if it was locked, just bang on it with my fists until the walls shook. But no matter how I tried, I couldn’t summon an ounce of strength to move an inch. I just stood there, as though fixed to the spot by invisible nails. 

The burning in my stomach worsened. I felt weak in all my joints. In a daze, I sat on the sofa and began to weep.

*

There was the sound of laughter once again and the door opening. 

“I’m thirsty,” a lady’s voice said. “Let me get the jug of water from the fridge.”

I sat up, as there was something familiar about the voice.

After a brief sound of flip-flops in the corridor, the person came into view: It was Aunt Memory!

The moment she saw me she screamed. She wore only a bathing towel, and, for a moment, I wondered whether the scream was due to the fact that I had seen her in that state, or because I had stumbled upon her secret with Father.

Then Father came into view, with a bathing towel of his own around him.

“For God’s sake, Marcus, what are you doing here?” he said. 

I wondered whether he was listening to his own voice. How could he ask me what I was doing in my own home?

I did not answer. I was too confused to say anything. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be in the village with your mother?”

Still, I said nothing. All I did was sit there, staring at the confused look on his face.

He returned to the bedroom, from where I could hear the sound of Aunt Memory weeping.

Eventually she burst out of the room and dashed past me in the living room on her way out. Father ran after her, pleading with her to let him drive her home, but she didn’t stop. She just kept walking until she disappeared in the dark.

From the dark Father zipped past me and went straight to his bedroom. I heard the key turn and that was that. He didn’t talk to me again that night.

Before turning in for the night, I threw Aunt Memory’s potatoes and Father’s groundnuts in the dustbin. Whether Mother was going to find out that I didn’t deliver them, I didn’t care.

Only the morning after did Father find the courage to talk to me. I had just eaten breakfast – a fried egg sandwich with tea – when he emerged from the bedroom, in a black suit and red necktie. He asked me if I could accompany him on a drive.

Although I wasn’t ready to leave home for anywhere at that moment, I obeyed. Father’s word had, to me, always been the law. I had never found any reason to question it. I immediately retreated to my bedroom to dress up, then we were on the road.

For a while Father let the radio fill the space between us. There was a coup in the Soviet Union, and the BBC was reporting it like a football match. Nothing delighted Father more than news like that.

Instead of taking the direction towards his office in Old Town, he headed westward, in the opposite direction, and soon we were in the countryside. It was a bit different from the landscapes of home. It was just trees and dry grass, occasionally punctuated by some dwelling.

“I want us to talk,” Father said, after switching off the radio. He drove slowly, much to the annoyance of fellow drivers, who sometimes hooted before overtaking us.

“I’m sorry for what you saw last night,” he said. 

I realised now what he had done, choosing to talk to me while driving so he could avoid looking me in the eyes.

“I made a terrible mistake. It should never have happened. And it’ll never happen again.”

I said nothing.

“I want us to talk to each other man-to-man.”

I looked out the window. At the top of one tree, a bird fluttered frantically among the branches.

“Your mother and I haven’t had a happy marriage. There are things I cannot say out of respect for her. You’ll see these things, now that you’ve grown up. Life is not like light: it does not travel in a straight line.” 

He must have expected some reaction from me. And when none came, he continued. 

“I want to ask for a favour…”

I said nothing. Years flashed in my mind, how happy we had always been as a family. Not once did I hear Father and Mother shout at one another. On Christmas Eve he always drove us to the guesthouse at the lake, owned by the company he worked for. There, we had the best time of our lives: amazing food, music, then tranquility. And at night, we would sleep to the sound of waves on the lake and the sweet singing of frogs. Sometimes it would rain, and the soft landing of the raindrops on the roof always made me enjoy my sleep. Once, when he was employee of the year in his company, the award was to fly us to the southern provincial capital, where we slept in a big hotel. It was my first time setting foot on a plane, an experience that maybe only two or three other students in the whole of St. Ignatius had ever had. Father also bought Mother flowers on every birthday of hers, and threw parties for her and her friends. How, then, could he say it was not a happy marriage?

“About last night,” he continued, “not a word to anyone, you understand? Not a word. Promise me that.”

I did not respond.

“Please say something,” he said.

Still I said nothing.

His grip on the steering tightened. He increased the speed to a level so high it began to worry me. For a moment, I wondered whether he wanted both of us to die.

“Say something, Marcus,” he said, in a voice that was unnecessarily high.

I remained quiet.

“Our future as a family depends on it,” he said. “If we break up. If your mother and I broke up, that would make life hard for everyone. Even your education could be affected. Think of Maya, of Robert. You, you’re grown. But think of them.”

I looked straight ahead.

“They would have to go and live in the village. Your mother doesn’t work, so they would have to leave the city, to go and live with her in the village. Think of the school in the village, which they’ll attend. Those schools are underfunded and understaffed. Two teachers the entire school, from Standard one to eight. Is that the future you would want them to have?”

I shifted in my seat. I couldn’t believe he was making it sound as though it was my fault, as though I was the one who made him do what he did with Aunt Memory.

Eventually, he must have realised how dangerously he was driving. He slowed down, then pulled over to the roadside.

“I’m only human, Marcus,” he said. “I made a mistake. It’ll not happen again. But I want you to promise, here and now, that you’ll not disclose to anyone what you saw last night.”

It would seem I nodded or shook my head, but whatever I did was enough to make him turn the vehicle and head back to the city.

As he dropped me home, he said, “Thank you for your understanding, Marcus.”

“Have a good day, Father,” I said, then went into the house.

The whole day I felt terrible. A lump lodged itself in my throat, and at some point, I broke down in tears. I couldn’t imagine betraying Mother in this way. For the first time ever, I hated Father. I also hated Aunt Memory. And, above all, I hated myself.

The moment Mother returned home she realised that something was amiss. She said my face looked unusually downcast, and I had begun to lose weight. I hadn’t been eating well for days, and I struggled to sleep. Often, I woke up with a headache and red eyes.

I assured her that I was okay, that there was nothing wrong with me, and yet when she prepared the futali I liked, I couldn’t enjoy it anymore. After just a couple of spoonfuls, I was done.

Despite my insisting that all was well, Mother hauled me before Dr. Kalanda in City Centre. The good doctor took blood, urine and stool samples. But two days later, when we returned for results, he told us they had found nothing at the lab, not even the bilharzia he initially suspected. 

I hated it because I knew what the problem was. I knew why I had lost my appetite and failed to sleep at night, but I just couldn’t pluck the courage to tell Mother the truth.

At home, Father behaved as if there was nothing amiss. He burst into the house sounding jovial, and talked endlessly about the failed coup in Moscow. He asked me what I thought about Gorbachev. I told him I thought nothing about Gorbachev.

He said for Christmas, he was going to fly everyone to the Indian Ocean. He announced that he had rented Mother a shop in Old Town, a key request Mother had made for years, which he had always turned down. Until now, she sold her clothes in a temporary stall inside City Market, in an obscure corner where it was hard to get noticed. 

“I want your business to grow stronger,” he said.

Mother said, “You’re the most wonderful human being I have ever known.”

Turning to me, Father said he had opened a bank account for me, in which he had deposited fifty thousand kwacha. I had never heard of so much money. He said I would take full charge of the account on my eighteenth birthday. 

Mother was surprised I didn’t look elated when Father announced the creation of my bank account, nor did I say thank you. 

“What happened to your manners?” she asked.

I said nothing. Instead, I rose and retreated to my bedroom.

I overheard her tell Father how strange it was that I had changed.

“He’s a teenager,” he said. “They all go through a rebellious phase. But it’s nothing to worry about.”

*

I was immensely relieved to leave for school. Life at St. Ignatius was too strict for my liking – it felt a bit like prison – but that was exactly what I needed at the moment. I had started preferring being alone, with my books in the library or in one of the empty classrooms after school hours. Glenn must have been surprised to find that I had grown cold towards him. I avoided hanging out with him. I also withdrew from the chess club without giving any reason, much to the disappointment of Brother Tremblay, who considered me a chess talent. I completely lost interest in the game. But it was a way of avoiding facing Glenn, who also played in the club. I even wondered whether he was my father’s secret child.

Any doubt that I was avoiding him was dispelled on 11 November. Every year, on his birthday, we ate together. But this time I gave an excuse that I was feeling unwell.

I felt bad after telling the lie. I realised that my life had become a lie every day from the evening I stumbled on Father’s secret. The lie felt like heavy luggage in my heart. Sometimes I failed to focus on my studies because of it. And while now I could manage to sleep for longer hours, there were still nights when I tossed and turned sleepless until dawn.

Despite studying hard, my grades slipped. I had never scored below 80 per cent in physics but found myself wallowing in the mid-sixties in a mid-term test. Brother Gagnon summoned me to his office. 

“Is there a problem?” he asked. “Quite unlike you, failing questions on Newton’s First Law of Motion.”

I had nothing to tell him. I only promised to work hard.

That same week, I received a letter from Mother. Father never wrote, and, at this point, a letter from him would not have been welcome in any case. But it was Mother, and my heart thumped with joy as I opened it.

She hated to let me know that she was unwell, she wrote, but there was no need to worry, because Aunt Memory was taking good care of her, especially at a time when your father is away on a long business trip to Europe. Your aunt is such an angel. She has abandoned everything just to be with me. 

Rather than feel relieved on hearing that Aunt Memory was there for her, the burning in my stomach started again. I rushed to the toilet, locked myself up and wept.

*

On Friday, 20 December, 1991, the first term of the school calendar closed. I returned home to find Mother still unwell, and Father’s plans to fly us to the Indian Ocean had been put on hold. But I was relieved to find that Aunt Memory was not at home nursing her. Instead, Father had taken days off from work to look after her. Aunt Memory, I was told, was also unwell. She coughed endlessly, a dry cough, especially at night.

We didn’t even go to our usual retreat at the lake. We stayed home. No special meal was prepared. Father listened to the radio, stunned to hear that the Soviet Union had collapsed. He spoke of Lenin turning in his grave, and of the end of the world as we knew it. 

I spent the entire holiday nursing Mother. It was a strange illness in her stomach, which made her fail to eat most types of food. When the pain started, you could see it in her face, which was unusually stern. She would sit in the corner of the sofa, leaning on the pillows. 

HIV was spreading like wildfire across the country at that time. Radios were full of warnings about it. And the methods of contracting it were well known. I began to worry whether Father had the virus and had passed it to Mother. I wondered whether it would now be too late for me to tell Mother about what I saw.

After much thought, I decided not to tell her. I was worried that any such news could worsen her situation.

*

On Sunday, 5 January, 1992, I left for school feeling sad that I was leaving at a time when Mother was sick. By that time, Aunt Claudia, her younger sister, had come over to be with her. Her other sister, Aunt Tamanda, had gone over to Aunt Memory’s. 

The end-of-term results for term one reached my parents after I had already left for school. Barely three weeks into the new term, I received another letter from Mother. Marcus, what is going on?, she wrote. From always top of the class to number 15?! A 50 per cent in biology? How? Are you aware that this is your final year in secondary school? Any slip-up and your future is gone. I would have come over to talk to you face-to-face, were it not for my illness. But, if your performance continues like this, I will ignore my illness and just come.

I told myself: No, I won’t let Mother travel all the way while ill.

I began to work harder, to focus. I joined colleagues to play volleyball on some afternoons, which helped to lighten my mood.

On my birthday, Glenn surprised me with a chocolate present. I accepted it, and we ate together, like in old times. He told me how worried he was about his mother’s illness.

That same day, to my surprise, I received a letter from Father. He congratulated me upon turning eighteen. Just like I said a few months ago, he wrote, you’re now an owner of a bank account at National Bank. I will give you the cheque book when you come for the Easter break. I tore up the letter and flushed it down the toilet. 

My hard work paid off. By the time of the mid-terms, I was fifth in my class. Brother Gagnon was glad that in physics and mathematics, his subjects, I was top of the class. Biology was still a disaster, but in the rest of the subjects there had been some improvement.

I mailed Mother the results, and in no time her reply came. I’m glad you have improved, she wrote. But I know you can still do better than this.

*

I didn’t recognise Aunt Memory when I walked into our house. She had grown thin as a bamboo. It was only when she smiled that I realised it was her.

“Marcus,” she said, “it’s been ages since I last saw you. Come, let me shake your hand.”

She didn’t stay long after my arrival. She coughed endlessly, and when she did, even the veins on her neck were visible.

That night, I did not sleep. I wondered whether Aunt Memory had the virus, whether Mother, too, was suffering from AIDS. I hated myself for not telling Mother sooner. I worried immensely that she would die. How come she was not healing? AIDS was a mystery. Very little was understood about it. 

The following day, I left home and went to Nature’s Sanctuary, a small game park near City Centre. Deep in the woods, I found a rock, where I sat for hours to meditate. I had been carrying the truth in my heart like a rock. Months down the line, it was no less heavy than it was on day one. And perhaps my silence was going to cost me Mother’s life.

It was there, on that rock, that I made my decision.

In the evening, after dinner, when Robert and Maya had retreated to their rooms, I asked Aunt Claudia to leave.

“I have something to share with you,” I said to Father and Mother.

“What is it, Marcus?” Father said. There was a trace of fear in his voice.

In a calm voice, I narrated the story to Mother. 

“That is absolutely not true,” Father kept saying. “It’s not true at all! Stop fabricating stories, Marcus.”

“Shut up, Derrick!” Mother said sternly. 

“Please lower your voice,” Father said. “We have a visitor in the house.”

“Go on, Marcus,” Mother said, nodding encouragingly at me.

I went on explaining how Father took me on a drive and made me swear not to tell, how I struggled with keeping such a heavy matter to myself, how I ended up failing to focus at school. Mother kept staring Father in the face. Sometimes she shifted her gaze to me, and I saw tears in her eyes.

“Frankly, I’m totally disappointed,” Father said, beginning to rise.

“Sit down!” Mother said the words with such force that I was startled. Father found himself with no choice but to sit down.

“Tell me: Why would Marcus invent something this terrible?” she said.

“Imelda, we shouldn’t be talking about…”

“No, just tell me.”

Father avoided Mother’s eyes and looked away, cornered like a rabbit. “I’ve told you it’s not true,” he said, without sounding convincing.

There was silence, except for Mother’s weeping. 

“How can you do this to me, Derrick?” she kept saying.

Her tears made me break down too.

“Stop crying, please,” Father said. “This whole thing is just not true.”

Then, rising, he said, reaching out for Mother’s hand, “Let’s go to our bedroom and talk.”

Mother refused. He went alone. I waited in silence, until half an hour or so later, when Mother too went to sleep.

There was no triumph in the telling, only pain. I was sad to see Mother in tears. At the same time, I was immensely relieved to let the heavy load in my heart go. I retired for the night feeling like a different person.

*

In the morning, Mother summoned us all to the living room. 

“We’re all leaving,” she said. “Robert, Maya and I are leaving. We’re going back to the village.”

“But why, Mom?” Maya asked.

“I can’t explain, but we’re leaving,” she said.

Father emerged from the bedroom and stood towering over us from the corridor. He did not speak.

“If you’re leaving,” I said, “I will go with you.”

“You don’t have to, Marcus,” Mother said. “Exams are around the corner for you. We can’t disturb you at this critical time. Stay here. When the third term opens, leave from here to go to school. You can join us in the village after exams.”

I looked at Father and saw him glaring at me. 

“No, I will not stay,” I said.

Father said, “I’m not forcing anyone to leave. If you leave, don’t expect any support from me, not even school fees.”

Maya and Robert began to cry.

*

We left.

In the village, life wasn’t as much fun as before. The golden cloud of dust still decorated the western horizon just before sunset, accompanied by the singing and the whistling by the herd boys. But I had no time for such sights and sounds. All I had to do was study. I could not do so at night, as there was no electricity, and my eyes struggled to read using the pale light of a paraffin lamp. Nonetheless, I covered as much ground as I could between sunrise and sunset. 

The environment in the village seemed to do Mother some good. The stomach pains disappeared. She resumed selling secondhand clothes, though business here was much slower than in the city.

Still, she made some money. When the time came for me to leave for school, she gave me enough money for tuition and boarding fees, as well as pocket money. Not as much pocket money as Father would, but enough for my needs.

On the day I finished exams, I received a letter. As usual, it was from Mother.

I hope you’ll not be disappointed to hear this, but elders in the village met to resolve the issues between your father and me, as per our tradition. Strangely, all the elders agreed with your father that what you told me cannot be true. I found it odd that they reached such a conclusion without hearing your side (although I would never have been comfortable watching them interrogate you). In the end, they advised us to reunite, and we’re now back together. As you return from school, therefore, come back straight to the city, and not to the village. 

On my part, I totally believe you, and I’m glad you told me the truth. However, the only reason I’m back with your father is for the sake of you, the children, especially your siblings, who are still young and need both parents. I have also decided to forgive my sister, Memory, although I will no longer trust her. Doctors diagnosed her with tuberculosis. The treatment seems to be working, and her body looks much better than the last time you saw her. I hope you did well in your exams. Looking forward to seeing you soon. 

I read the letter many times, not sure whether to celebrate or to cry. What mattered, above all, was that I was a free person. I no longer had to carry the burden in my heart. Whichever way the adults wanted to handle it, it was their business, not mine.

Stanley Kenani is a writer from Malawi. He was shortlisted for the Caine Prize for African Writing in 2008 and 2012. In 2014, he was named among the 39 most promising African writers under the age of 40. He currently lives in France and is finalising his first novel, The Loneliness of Being Right.

*Image by Xavier Cee on Unsplash