Malawi's Sisters Page 4

  Sidney was in the kitchen making coffee.

  “Good morning, Babe.” He peered at her as if assessing her mood. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine,” Kenya said with a forced smile. She didn’t want his sympathy. Everything would be normal. She wanted everything and everyone to carry on as normal. That was the best thing to do. Keeping to her routine, she prepared cereal, mini muffins and orange juice for the kids. She sprinted upstairs and yelled into their rooms for them to get up. Junior and Charlene were in their last two weeks of school. They were sleepy and, like most mornings, slow to get ready. Finally, they appeared at the breakfast bar. Junior gulped down his food and Charlene picked at the muffins. Kenya didn’t know how to tell them her sister had been shot by a white man (she’d told them it was a car accident), didn’t know how to explain their charmed life wasn’t immune to the dark side of the world.

  “Chop, chop,” she said, smacking her hands together. She got the kids into the Mercedes. As the oldest, Junior sat in the front. He was stocky and Kenya worried about his weight. Though his father was fairly slender, Sidney’s mother was obese and Kenya feared Junior had inherited her mother-in-law’s genes. She would never use this word obese in front of Sidney or his mother, but Kenya was always astounded by the size of his mother’s backside, which seemed to have a life all its own, swaying casually even when the woman was standing stock still.

  Kenya backed out of the garage and collected two more girls: Lilian from Tracy’s house around the corner and Kesha from Christine’s the next street over. Kenya took them in the mornings, and Christine and Tracy took turns bringing the kids home after school. The three of them—Charlene, Kesha and Lilian, who was a year older than the other two—sat sleepily in their smart school uniforms, staring out at the passing houses, an occasional giggle erupting from them. Kenya eyed her daughter in the rear-view mirror. “Everyone okay back there? Charlie?”

  Charlene nodded without taking her eyes from the window. Such a quiet, thoughtful girl, Kenya thought. Too shy, though Kenya wasn’t sure how to get her daughter to be more outgoing. She fell into the stop-and-start line of cars as parents dropped their kids at the school’s entrance and noticed up ahead, Maxine Bailey had a brand-new Lexus. She wondered if it was time to get a new vehicle herself. When they reached the drop-off point, everyone tumbled out, rocking the car slightly as they slammed the doors closed. She watched Junior immediately separate from the girls, finding and giving a fist bump to one of his friends. They laughed and disappeared inside. The girls huddled together, heads close, perhaps whispering about something they hadn’t wanted to share in the car. Sadness and panic flooded Kenya as her children disappeared from view. Here one moment, gone the next. She tried to remember when she last saw Malawi. Christmastime, she thought. They had said little to one another. Kenya had admired her new hairstyle, braids in a bob that curled into her chin.

  “Don’t you look good,” she’d said giving her sister a loose hug. Malawi had come bustling in with Daddy, who had picked her up from the airport. Her bags were strewn across the foyer of their parents’ home and Kenya wondered if she was coming back for good with so much luggage. Malawi responded with a grin and a quiet thank you, touching the tips of the braids with her fingers. They chatted a little about her new job and how much she was enjoying Florida, but not much else. A pang of regret filled Kenya as she passed plush lawns and large deciduous trees in the throes of summer green. She struggled to recall when she had last invited her sister to her home. Must have been last year for the annual Fourth of July cookout she and Sidney had hosted. Kenya pulled into her driveway and remembered her little sister arriving to the cookout alone. She had welcomed her but had been so caught up on being host that Sidney had been the one who kept her company, talking with her on the patio. Malawi stayed late and helped clean up, yet even then, Kenya had spent little time talking with her. She should have been a better sister to Malawi. Over the years, she had blamed the nine-year gap between them for their disconnection. Still, that wasn’t a good reason.

  Inside the house, Kenya cleaned up the kitchen and gathered dirty clothes for laundry. She separated and organized each item into color and textures, washing light colors together before moving to dark, and delicates before heavier fabrics. She called her father to make sure he and her mother were okay. He was subdued on the call but talked about what happened, anger tinging each word. Malawi had run off the road and hit a light pole—there was nothing to indicate what caused her to swerve. She had gone to a nearby home for help and the owner shot her without question.

  “Didn’t even ask what she was doing or what she needed,” he said. “Son-of-a-bitch just shot her in the chest.”

  Kenya was speechless, the weight of his words pressing on her shoulders. “My God,” she said, finally. “Whatever I can do, Daddy. Just let me know how I can help.”

  “Of course, Sweetheart.” He ended the call saying he would ring again soon. She sat for a long time thinking about her sister seeking help and getting killed as a result. It was a news story that happened to other people, not to the Walker family, blessed and honored in their community. They gave to charity. They volunteered. They served the public as teachers and lawyers. They raised good, productive citizens. They didn’t get shot.

  Kenya dialed Ghana’s number and listened to her voice-mail, but left no message. She wandered through the house checking for dirt and dust then decided to organize her bedroom closet. Her shoes had gotten terribly out of order and there were likely several pairs she could donate to charity. Sitting on her knees, she dragged the ones from the floor out of the closet and made several piles on the rug by the dresser—slingbacks, wedges, peep toes, flats. A sickly feeling swelled in her stomach as she worked. She hadn’t believed that Malawi had really been hurt. Tears came sharp and sudden and Kenya crumpled into a ball on the floor.

  9

  Ghana lifted the lid of the warming pan, dipped the wooden draining spoon into the steaming water, and scooped out two medium-sized basalt stones. She cooled them slightly in a bowl of cold water then covered them in oil. Her client, a white middle-aged woman, laid face down on the table but kept adjusting her position, shifting her hips, then her arms, then her feet.

  “Are you comfortable?” Ghana asked.

  The woman lifted her head and said, “Yes.”

  This was her fourth and last client of the day. She slid the stones across the woman’s back and immediately stopped when the woman’s body jerked.

  “Too hot?”

  “No, it’s fine.”

  Ghana resumed, feeling for areas of tension. She slid one stone around the shoulder, pressing into knotted muscle, but as if pulled by an invisible energy, the stone slipped from her hand to the floor, landing with a disturbing thud. Her client’s body stiffened and Ghana whispered an apology, nudging the stone aside with her foot. Reaching for another, she touched the water and felt the tips of her fingers burn. With a deep breath, she tried again, this time with the spoon. Her boss had urged her to stay at home, but Ghana needed the sanctuary of the massage room, the focused movement, the connection with another without conversation or revelation, the simple action of healing. Yet she couldn’t stop her mind from wandering through memories of her sister. Her laugh. Her passion for shoes, purses, and all things Idris Elba, all day, every day. Ghana’s mind drifted to last night’s dream, where she was sitting with Malawi on a beach somewhere tropical. Both sitting cross-legged on the sand looking out at the ocean complaining about the heat, which was odd because they both loved the sunshine. That’s why Malawi had moved to Florida. And to get away from some guy she had met. Ghana wasn’t to tell anyone that part. Malawi didn’t want Mama or Kenya asking questions, digging up her feelings about the mystery man.

  “I love him so much, but . . .” Malawi had paused then and Ghana felt chills. “But he’s married.” She revealed this news a month before she moved to Florida as they sat drinking tea in a cafe on Capitol Hill. They had met at Easte
rn Market one Saturday morning and giggled their way through the vendors, then wandered along the uneven, narrow sidewalk to Pennsylvania Avenue and settled at a table in the back, treating themselves to sweet pastries.

  “Who is he?” Ghana asked.

  Malawi talked in that slow thoughtful way she had when sharing a secret. And she had shared many with Ghana, who had been her little sister’s confidante on just about everything.

  From the time she came to Ghana when her menstrual period first began to when she received sex ed in school—Malawi had huddled in bed with Ghana, asking question after question about getting pregnant and what sex was like. “It’s different for everyone,” Ghana told her. “But you have to be sure you’re with someone you care about, because if you’re not, it doesn’t feel as good. It’s all tied to what you feel inside yourself. For women, anyway. I don’t know what boys feel when they have sex. I do know that’s what motivates them when it comes to girls, though.” Malawi soaked in every word, wide eyed and giggling. Sometimes Malawi shared much more than Ghana wanted to know—she knew when Malawi first kissed a boy in middle school, when she fell in love with a different boy in high school, when they had sex for the first time, and when that same boy broke her heart, dumping her just before graduation because he wanted to be free in college. Ghana always felt protective, yet encouraged Li’l Sis to express herself and explore the world in all its light and darkness. Still, she hadn’t needed to know every detail. Although now, Ghana wanted to crystallize those secrets, those intimate confessions of love and betrayal, and cherish them forever.

  When her sister revealed she was in love with a married man, Ghana made no judgment though silently worried about where it would lead.

  “I don’t really wanna talk about him,” Malawi said, “but he’s, like, all I can think about.”

  Ghana smiled. She knew that feeling all too well. “How long’s it been?”

  Malawi took a leisurely sip of her tea. “Kinda off and on for, like, three months. I was just, like, I can’t do this anymore. I feel so guilty, but, like, I just can’t stop myself.” She shook her head. “I need to get away.”

  The client jerked up and yelled, “You just burned me!” The fresh hot stone hit the floor and Ghana checked the skin where she’d touched the client, relieved there was no mark, only a fading flush of redness from the stone’s heat.

  “Sorry about that,” Ghana said as the woman settled back on the table. She got fresh stones and waited a little longer for them to cool, but the woman rose onto her elbows and said, “Why don’t you just do a regular massage. I don’t like these hot stones.” Ghana reined in a surprising urge to scream at the woman, and said, “Of course.” She apologized that the hot stone massage wasn’t to her liking and felt the ache of tension in her own shoulders. She finished the session by massaging the woman’s skull. Softly, she asked her client to take her time getting up, and was relieved that it was time to go home, maybe to bed.

  That evening, her father called, apologizing for not calling back sooner. But she understood. In a soft and shaky voice, he explained that Malawi had been shot twice and Ghana began to sob. She thought about recent headline news of black men who had been murdered at gunpoint by police or vigilantes. Riots in cities across the country erupting because yet another young black man had been shot by police.

  “Was he white?” She whispered the question, almost afraid to say it aloud.

  His response was just as quiet, “Yes.”

  She didn’t like this feeling, this slow, thick gurgling through her insides, like sour milk on her stomach. Her sister was not a statistic. She would not be another headline. This was not happening.

  “What do we do, Dad?”

  The phone was silent for several heartbeats, then he said, “I don’t know, yet.”

  10

  Bet heard Malcolm tell her he loved her. She wanted to respond but couldn’t make her body move to face him. She couldn’t make her lips form any words. She laid under the covers, heavy with an unbearable sadness, unsure of the time or even the day, as if caught in a sudden avalanche of amber now solid. Her baby girl had been murdered. Murdered. Her baby girl. The last child, who was supposed to be a boy.

  She remembered being violently sick those initial weeks with her first pregnancy. Couldn’t keep food down, and just looking at meat made her queasy. (If they hadn’t conceived during their honeymoon, it must have been soon after they returned.) Once the sickness passed, she enjoyed being pregnant, watching her body change, feeling the initial flutterings of life and then the full-blown somersaults of a child at six, seven, eight months. Malcolm’s kiss on her naked belly, his hands cradling her like a basketball and the voluminous joy in his eyes, she savored every moment. Convinced a boy frolicked in her, Malcolm was ready with the name Sudan.

  In all seriousness he said, “All our children will have names of countries on the African continent to connect them back to the motherland, the birthplace of humanity. And our first born will be named Sudan.”

  “What if we have a girl?”

  He thought for a moment, as he stood by the window in the newly-painted baby’s room.

  “We’ll call her Ethiopia.”

  “What kind of a name is that?” she asked, horrified.

  “It’s our homeland. It’s where life began.”

  Sitting in the bentwood rocking chair, she shook her head vigorously. “No, I am not naming my child Ethiopia. I get the sentiment, but that’s not happening.”

  He hurried out of the baby’s room and returned with a map of Africa, unfurled it on the changing table and began reciting countries he thought would make a good name. When he said Kenya, Bet felt a tingle run through her that seemed to indicate Kenya was the right one. At that moment, she knew she was having a girl. Kenya Marie. The middle name honored Bet’s mother.

  Malcolm, of course, adored his first-born, but desperately wanted a boy. Four years passed before she felt the stirring of a new life inside her, and again, Malcolm insisted she was pregnant with a boy.

  “You know, Sudan could work for a girl, too,” he said. Bet wrinkled her nose. She wasn’t thrilled about the name, even for a boy. In what was becoming a tradition, he ran through a list of countries on the African continent. Chills confirmed Ghana was the right name and Bet knew this was another girl—Ghana Caroline, to honor his mother. His disappointment was slight, though Bet could see it in his eyes.

  “One more,” he pleaded. Two was enough for Bet. She had dreams of art school, of getting a master’s degree in art history and perhaps teaching at the college level. She had the potential. That’s what the instructor at the community college had said. Before Ghana, Bet took an oil painting class and the instructor asked if she had thought about a graduate degree in Art. Blushing, she nodded, “Why, yes. That’s my dream.” Before marrying, she had taught Art at a private middle school and fantasized about continuing her career once her daughters were in their teens. With a third child, however, her chances of getting back to school would evaporate. But that was her role. To raise the children, be wife to the hotshot attorney on a fast track to becoming a judge.

  Kenya was almost nine and Ghana was four when Bet got pregnant for a third time. Convinced the baby was a boy, Malcolm didn’t look for any other name besides Sudan. When a baby girl was pronounced, she remained nameless for three days until Malcolm finally pulled out the map—Bet adamantly refused to name the child Sudan.

  “Why can’t we give her a regular girl’s name?” Bet asked, already worn out from caring for two children.

  “That would ruin it,” he said. “All the children have names from the continent. Why stop now?”

  There were no chills or any sign at all with any name he shouted out. He held the baby in his arms and repeated a name two or three times, staring into the baby’s face while Bet struggled to keep Ghana from running out of the room. He said Malawi and nodded in confirmation, looking at Bet with an expectant expression. “Yeah? Malawi Elizabeth, after you
.”

  Bet shrugged. She was tired and frustrated, unconvinced a third child was the right thing for her. As with each baby, he raised Malawi above his head and said her name three times, pronouncing a future of prosperity, knowledge, wisdom and love, a ritual he adapted from a book on African traditions.

  Malawi cried all the time, quieting only when her daddy held her. Bet bounced the child a little too roughly after checking her diaper, feeding her, and singing to no avail, finally plopping her into the crib where she continued to wail. And in the next room, Ghana alternated between running in circles and bouncing on her bed, until Kenya came home from school. Bet hid in the bathroom, listening to Kenya shouting through the locked door, “Mama, what do I do? Mowie won’t stop crying. I gave Ghana a cookie. Is that okay? Mama?”

  She had never imagined herself as TV’s June Cleaver, but struggled to understand her inability to cope. Malcolm, on the other hand, seemed to thrive. Bet resented his relationship with all his daughters. They ran to him, laughed and played with him, loved him. Malawi, in particular, loved him in a way she never loved Bet. He doted on her. Kisses and cuddles all the time. There was nothing she could do that upset him. Nothing she wanted he wouldn’t get; all the while, a bitterness settled in Bet’s throat that she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, clear. For so long it choked her and now, the loss of her third child was like a concrete block on her chest, crushing her into silence. What she would give to go back, do it over again and be a better mother. Make the most of each moment.

  Malcolm nudged her shoulder and told her it was getting late. “Let’s get up and get some breakfast. C’mon, Bet. We should go to Malawi’s apartment today. See what needs to be done.”