Laugh with the Moon Read online

  “Saidi shall not return to school,” Winnie says.

  “What?” I say.

  Memory gasps.

  “Just because of what Agnes said about his uniform?” I ask.

  Patuma nods.

  “Many children leave school due to improper uniform,” Winnie says. “Anyway, Saidi cannot afford secondary school. He only attend school one more year, until he drop out to help pay for the family.” Winnie tells us what Saidi told her: he’s planning to sell his reeds in the trading center all day, every day, and not only on weekends.

  We’re livid. None of us girls speak to Agnes the whole day. We won’t let Saidi drop out in the middle of the year. At least he can finish standard eight and graduate from Mzanga Full Primary School. As soon as we’re dismissed, Memory and I collect the books and march over to the trading center to find that boy.

  We spot him at a metal folding table in front of the Slow but Sure Shop. A bunch of sticks lies on top of the table, and Saidi’s rusty bike leans against the shop wall behind him.

  “Moni, Saidi,” Memory says. She pushes the bookmobile into the grocery store to lock up the schoolbooks until morning, when Mr. Khumala arrives early to open the shop.

  Saidi smiles and waves.

  “Moni,” I say.

  I’m about to launch into my sales pitch to convince Saidi to return to school, when I notice one more thing on the table. One more beautiful, amazing, delicious thing: a bowlful of cheese sticks. I almost cry when I see them. I haven’t tasted one salty, cheesy stick since I arrived in this country. If there’s anything that can lift my spirits, it’s a handful of these. Sure, they look burned, but everyone knows that beggars can’t be choosers.

  “Welcome to my shop,” Saidi says. “Would you like some reeds and thatching grass for your roof? Or perhaps a snack? Snack is free gift. Then you shall want to buy my reeds.” He smiles.

  Memory comes back outside, reaches into the bowl, and starts munching away, so I dig in too. The cheese sticks are gritty but good. “Sooo yummy!” I say, and grab another handful.

  “The Glorious Blessing from America love Malawi mphalabungu,” Saidi says.

  “Mphalabungu?” I say with my mouth full.

  “Mphalabungu,” Memory says. “Small caterpillar from the grassland. Dried and fried!” She pops another handful into her mouth.

  I chew a few more times as the news slowly squirms into my brain.

  Once it does, I gag, spit, and bolt into the Slow but Sure Shop. I grab a bottle of water off the shelf, slap my tambala onto the counter, and run outside to swish and spit those nasty caterpillars onto the ground while Saidi and Memory buckle over laughing.

  Memory can hardly catch her breath long enough to tell Saidi he needs to come back to school, and about our plan to replace the mopeds. I can’t speak at all, of course, because I’m too busy trying to get every last bit of those disgusting bugs out of my mouth. As for Saidi, he manages to say, “I shall think on both of these offers with the greatest seriousness,” before he erupts into hysterics yet again.

  The next day after school, Patuma pushes the bookmobile to the Slow but Sure Shop while Memory and I head toward the hospital for our first day on the job.

  In less than a mile, we turn off the main road down the narrow path, and it comes back to me—the night we drove here on the mopeds, the last night Innocent was alive. It was dark and I was terrified, but now everything seems so different, so calm. I glance at Memory. Her eyes are watery. I take her hand, and together we pass between the lush hills that rise like enormous green waves on both sides of the path. Everywhere we look, yellow and orange flowers explode like pom-poms while butterflies circle the thicket.

  A branch rustles and Agnes runs down the path straight toward us.

  Memory folds her arms across her chest. “What do you require, Agnes?”

  “I require a job,” she says, out of breath.

  Even though Saidi still hasn’t come back to school, there he is, crouched under a palm tree at the edge of the dirt lot by the hospital. He looks as peaceful and strong as ever. Memory and I glance at each other and smile. Then we wave, and Saidi joins us on the path.

  “What goes on?” he asks.

  Agnes slips her arm through his. “Come, Saidi. I shall work beside you. I shall be your nurse. Your uniform fit good. You are handsome like Prince Charming,” she says.

  “We’re only working so we can replace the mopeds we took from the Chomp and Chew Stop,” I say. “We’re volunteering. You won’t make a single tambala.”

  “It is no matter.” Agnes shrugs. “I shall be most delighted to assist Doctor Saidi.”

  Saidi flashes a bright smile, and I can’t believe it. By all appearances, he’s forgiven Agnes just like that!

  “Don’t you get it?” I tell Agnes. “Doctor Saidi won’t work in the hospital. Only outside it.”

  She looks at me like I’m trying to mess with her mind.

  “We’re painting murals. We’ll work right here on the dirt.” I take a deep breath. “Back in a minute,” I say, stomping up the steps into the waiting room behind a man with a bloody gash in the back of his head. I’m so busy staring that I don’t even notice Mr. Malola until he starts talking.

  “Ahh, Clare,” he says. “Wait here.” A minute later, he returns with a pile of large flattened boxes that Dad and I picked up early this morning from the Slow but Sure Shop. I made certain to take only the biggest white boxes with the least writing on them so our paints would show up. Now Mr. Malola hands me two flattened boxes, and he holds the rest. Together we step outside, where he gives the cardboard to Saidi.

  After we review the plan in detail, Saidi cuts out a side of one of the boxes that doesn’t have anything printed on it. Then Prince Charming and Cinderella follow Mr. Malola back into the hospital to get some more supplies while I use a piece of coal that I brought to sketch. Of course, drawing when I’m furious is a serious challenge, since my hand is shaking like mad. “How can he forgive her?” I say.

  “That is Saidi.” Memory steps onto the edge of the cardboard to hold it down. “Always kind.”

  I sketch the knobby bumps of the dragonfly’s body.

  “Anyhow, even with high marks, most student cannot afford to attend secondary,” Memory says.

  I draw one of the wings and think about what she said: You have to be wealthy just to go to high school here. “You sketch the other wing,” I tell Memory.

  “I cannot draw,” she says.

  Saidi and Agnes return with buckets of water. I tell them we’ll need to make purple and white paint. Then I chomp down on my pendant and watch them disappear into the forest in search of the necessary ingredients.

  “Anyone can draw,” Mom says. “Lie down.”

  “Oh, hi,” I whisper.

  “Now do what I say,” Mom says. She explains how I should stretch out on the giant piece of cardboard and use my body to measure distance.

  I lie down and place the heels of my high-tops on the tip of the dragonfly wing.

  “Wow, you’ve grown!” Mom says.

  I smile.

  “You see how the length of the wing there is the same as the distance from your heel to your armpit?” she asks.

  I nod.

  “Now you show your sweet friend,” Mom says.

  I spit out the heart.

  “This is how to draw?” Memory asks.

  “Inde,” I say. I sit up and hand her the piece of coal. Then I lie down on the other side of our canvas. “Now, mark the spot where you see the heel of my foot.”

  Memory looks at me like I’m nuts. “Go ahead,” I tell her.

  Slowly, she bends down and draws on the cardboard.

  “Perfect!” I say, and stand. “You see how we did that? Draw the second wing here, and it will be exactly the same size as the other one.”

  Memory works very slowly, but when she finishes, our dragonfly looks stunning. Soon Agnes returns with a plastic bucket. African daisy petals swish in the water. />
  “Purple,” I say, and hold out my hand. Agnes dips the rag into the bucket, then slaps it into my palm, splattering dye across our mural in all the wrong places.

  “Cannot you assist with care?” Memory asks.

  “You’ve already ruined everything!” I shout. “Maybe you’d better go. Maybe you’re not needed.”

  “Not needed?” Agnes says. “Are you quite sure?”

  “Inde!” Memory says.

  Saidi approaches with a bucket full of cow parsley and water for the white dye, as well as a stalk of sugarcane he found out there in the bush. “Girls, my eyes surprise me,” he says. “I think you are hardworking but I see I am wrong.”

  Of course, none of us want Saidi to think that we’re lazy, so we all shut right up and grumble back to our jobs. While Memory and I fill in the wings, I force myself to imagine that the specks of purple paint on the sheet are nothing but baby insects circling the big dragonfly in the middle.

  The wind whips up and a roll of thunder rumbles across the ground, so we quickly carry our creation, as well as the other boxes, into the hospital waiting room. Mr. Malola tells us he can fit everything in the supply closet since, unfortunately, it doesn’t contain many supplies.

  Back on the hospital porch, Saidi uses his pocketknife to cut up the sugarcane. Then we gnaw on our sweet treats and wait for the storm to stagger away.

  Agnes, Memory, and I are huddled in the schoolyard before chores debating what our next mural for the hospital will be, when Mr. Special Kingsley approaches, pressing his handkerchief against his forehead. He opens his mouth but no words come out.

  “Sir?” Memory says.

  Our headmaster clears his throat. “Number one, number two, and native English speaking student,” he finally says, “I am most afraid I must ask a rather large and significant favor, one that shall benefit the children of Mzanga Full Primary.”

  Mr. Special Kingsley turns and limps away.

  The three of us look at one another and shrug before we follow.

  “It is a most serious matter, I am afraid,” he says.

  Memory shuffles ahead of Agnes and me to walk beside him. “What is it, sir?” she asks. As we cross the schoolyard, Agnes dabs her forehead with the sleeve of her dress, doing a pretty good imitation of our nervous headmaster.

  “I am most reluctant to reveal that in the matter of education, the smooth fabric of carrying services to our youngsters at times becomes full of wrinkles. Those who suffer are none but our children, the individuals who deserve our greatest resources.”

  When Mr. Special Kingsley stops to take a breath, we find ourselves outside the standard one classroom. The hair on my arms stands at attention and I get a funny déjà vu feeling.

  “It now appears that Mr. Namathaka, the teacher sent by the District Education Office, has disappeared,” Mr. Special Kingsley says.

  “Disappeared, sir?” Memory says.

  “Yes. I am terribly afraid this is the case as it presents itself.” Mr. Special Kingsley dabs his handkerchief on his forehead one more time before he continues. “Mrs. Kumwenda, the seamstress, reports that Mr. Namathaka took the minibus north yesterday after school. As he waited in front of her shop, he told Mrs. Kumwenda that the job of teaching standard one students is far too difficult. I believe he said ‘too miserable.’ Mr. Namathaka said he much preferred his old profession of hauling lumber up the mountainside from dawn to dusk. I believe he told Mrs. Kumwenda it was like ‘sleeping in the sunshine’ compared to this job.”

  “Sorry, sir,” Memory says. “But what has this to do with us?”

  Of course, I already know the answer. “I’ll do it, sir,” I blurt out before my headmaster’s even able to make the official request. “I’ll teach English!” I say.

  Mr. Special Kingsley sighs with relief. “I thank you, Clare. The children do relish the words you speak.”

  “Cool,” I say. “In fact, supercool!”

  Our headmaster turns to Agnes, who quickly stops her imitation. “There is quite a significant mountain of work to do with the exam preparation, reports to the District Education Office, as well as training our teachers,” he says. “I cannot educate the children on all other subjects myself this time around. Therefore, Agnes, I think you would be most suitable to teach the maths. After all, you are smart as the bush elephant.”

  Agnes beams. “I thank you, sir.”

  “Memory, I request that you teach civics. I know this is your best subject. You might discuss geography lessons and Malawi history. I possess no doubt that the benefit to the children shall be tremendous.”

  “I—I do not know, sir,” she says.

  “I urge you most pressingly to consider,” Mr. Special Kingsley says. “Please do inform me of your decision at morning assembly. I assure you, Memory, that I shall understand whether your answer brings flood or flower.”

  Memory nods. Then Mr. Special Kingsley turns to Agnes and me. “You two shall begin your duties tomorrow.”

  “I can begin today, sir!” I say.

  My headmaster smiles and extends his hand toward the doorway of the standard one classroom. I reach into my backpack and pull out my scarf. I tie it around my waist, step into the classroom, and wave hello. Aneti breaks into an enormous grin. She’s lost two teeth since I’ve been gone. Lovemore has found a new pencil. Felicity’s face looks thinner. Chikondi’s belly seems fatter.

  When I glance at the doorway, I still see Innocent standing in it, spreading his little arms and legs wide to keep me inside. Of course, he wouldn’t have had to do that anymore. There’s no place like this classroom—no place I’d rather be.

  The next week, the costumes still aren’t finished, my students still don’t know their lines, and we’ve all realized that it’s true—Saidi’s really not coming back to school. He refuses to return because he’s making enough money selling reeds to buy a second meal each day for his family. And of course, we all miss Innocent terribly. So after school, while the standard eight girls are busy chatting on the hilltop, I decide it’s as good a time as any to try out my trick that might spread some cheer.

  I point to the bookmobile. “I want to show you something,” I tell Patuma. “Books, please.” But Patuma won’t hand them over.

  “I promise I won’t drop them.” I can hardly breathe, because what if I do drop them? There are mud puddles everywhere. The books would be destroyed.

  Agnes is wearing the rainbow-striped scarf I gave her after she accepted the teaching position from Mr. Special Kingsley. “Give her a book,” she orders in Chichewa.

  Now Patuma looks from Agnes to me. I shrug, and reluctantly, Patuma hands one over. I try not to grimace as I set it into position. A crowd of students gathers around. “Another,” I say, and hold out my hand. Agnes nods, daring me to up the stakes, and Patuma reaches into the bookmobile for one more. Soon I’ve got five books piled on my head.

  No time like the present. I count out loud as I slowly, carefully take each step. “One … two … three …” I’m a tightrope walker at the circus. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Memory approach. I try not to lose my concentration. I try not to see her flapping her arms all over the place to get me to cut it out.

  I know that the turn will be the hardest part, so I hold my breath, shift my weight forward onto my toes, and pivot.

  A truck’s coming. I hear it. Don’t see it. I wonder who it could be. Our Land Rover is usually the only vehicle around. Even the clinical officer at the hospital rides a bicycle. Focus! Focus! I tell myself. I take the last three steps.

  “Wonderful!” Stella cries.

  I pull the books down from my head and set them in the bookmobile.

  “You cannot be mzungu from America!” Memory says, and smiles.

  As I curtsy for the cheering crowd, I notice Agnes. Her mouth is wide open, like she’s about to swallow the minibus that’s creaking toward us.

  “How goes the play?” Stella asks. “My whole family shall attend.”

  “It
is good,” Memory says. “The children think it is funny.”

  “It won’t be funny if we don’t figure out a curtain and stage,” I say. “There isn’t much time left at all.” But none of my friends have ever heard of a curtain or a stage, so I grab my sketchbook to draw a real theater so they can see what I mean. Agnes yanks the sketchbook right out of my hand. “What is this?” she asks.

  I take it back, lean against the acacia trunk, and flip to the beginning. There’s the big monkey drinking a Coke that Dad and I saw on our drive to Mkumba village.

  “They are such a bother!” Agnes says.

  “You are such a bother!” I say, and punch her gently in the shoulder.

  Agnes smirks.

  “Next page,” Memory says.

  “Oh, no!” I say.

  But my friends insist.

  So I turn the pages. There are the two village musicians who face each other playing a single drum. There’s the pot of nsima I cooked with Memory—I scrawled the recipe beside the picture. And there are a whole bunch of patterned fabrics that I’ve seen the ladies in the village wear. I show them all the pictures I’ve drawn in charcoal and ink: the elephant behind our school, the standard one students proudly holding up their letters made of termite clay, a toucan I copied from a ten-kwacha bill. I even show the picture of Agnes as a bongololo. “I was mad at you that day,” I explain, and we all have a good chuckle.

  When I’m through, I tuck my sketchpad back into my knapsack while Agnes clears her throat and announces, “Clare is a true scholar of Malawi culture.”

  “What did you say?” I ask. I can’t believe she called me by my real name instead of Glorious Blessing. After Agnes repeats herself, I realize what she says is true! I really am a true scholar of Malawi culture. Of the language, money, animals. Of how the children here have fun. I do have a project to show the eighth graders back in Brookline. It’s right here in my hands.