Bow to Enter Heaven

"If I could ask why, would you answer?
You are still here, yet I cannot ask.
Why did we not get closer?
I was never a love child, oh I know.
I was born in a time of lack or you'd have me believe it was so.
Still, you carried me and swaddled me in warm clothes.
After a while, I refused your milk. I didn't deserve to fatten while you suffered.
Fatten I did, however.

We moved from land to land.
I spoke five languages by the age of five, none to perfection.
What was the need for perfection when bombs hailed from the sky? When guns drove us from our planet of mangroves and coconuts?

The grenades fell. They distorted our birthright.
Blood was shed.
Many of whose names will never be etched on a plaque of remembrance.

Yet we survived, each of us, a family, together.
So mother, tell me, why aren't we close?
Father, answer, why do you take me to a place far away from you?"

— Chenda's Diary, 28 Jan 1994

The song of the river bird reminded me of a place. It was a place far gone in the depths of my darkest memories. My short fingers tingled at the cold feel of the brown murky water against my murkier skin. A crocodile basked in the sun, its mouth wide open and inviting, just enough to snuggle my young body there. Our overcrowded canoe was far enough not to worry. Even if we toppled over, I was not the fattest aboard. Still, I nudged at my tight cornrows in concern; the young are the juiciest to be had when it came to crocodiles and war. I gazed ahead. Those were days past. Those were songs to be forgotten.

That night, we docked by a fisherman village. There was no fish for us. Encamped around a blazing brazier in a shallow mud hut, my mother fried plantains on a flattened cola tin. The fried bananas would have to go with sweetened maize pulp though the two are not normally eaten together as a meal. None the matter, the heavy food would fill our hungry bellies. My father was gone for the night – most likely gutting fresh fish somewhere. He had to pay for our temporal stay and passage tomorrow. He had to pay to provide. I was uncertain he had eaten at all in a day.

"Chenda. Chenda." My mother called me in a hushed punitive voice.

I lifted my head in response. My hands were sleek with pulp to the elbow; a black pot caked with burnt maize-meal residue lay assaulted at my feet. She tossed three cooked plantains onto my open palms. Though scalding hot, I wolfed them down. They singed my tongue and I was happier for it. It had been a long time since I'd felt fire in my veins - even longer before natural sweetness had blessed my taste-buds.

"Chenda, tomorrow things will be different." In the gloom, only the white of my mother's eyes showed. When she spoke, her teeth glowed in the firelight. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, mother." My voice was squirmy. I was not afraid. Fear never helped in the face of imminent danger. ‘If you're afraid, the crocodiles will knock you off the boat,' my aunt had warned me while in the canoe. She had gone ahead with my siblings, and my mother will be meeting up with them on the morrow. Not me. Still, I knew, crocodiles also existed outside the water. I should not be afraid or they would devour me.

"We have prepared everything. You will have to remember one thing-"

"My name is Che—Chanda. Chanda. My name is Chanda."

"Good." She hugged me lightly. "Take care, now."

I felt her embrace withdraw from me like fire put out. Thereafter, I cleaned up by smearing the excess porridge on my hands onto the sweater, snuck out into the darkness to pee in the bananas, and scampered back half-dressed when a stray leaf touched my thigh. Back in the hut, I retired to a dark corner and rested next to the one who birthed me. Latent on a bed of palm leaves, under a blanket of sacks, I attempted a smile and faltered. My mother was already snoring loudly. I nudged her. She stopped for a minute and then snored even louder than before. I exhaled deeply. Irritating noise at night was far better than eternal silence.

Sleep did not come easy. The night chill seized my bones and thoughts plagued my mind. Discomfiture had me tossing and turning. The sack chaffed my skin. I did not know when I shut my eyes but when I opened them, it was morning. For all my restlessness, I did not chance to see my mother leave. I would not see her in a while. My father was in her place instead, clad in a polished suit. It was cheap, judging by the cuffs but it was the best I'd seen him wear in a long time. The clacking of his shoes was what woke me up. Otherwise, his presence was gentle and demeanor silent. His knuckles were white from lack of moisturizing lotion, and his eyes droopy from a night without sleep. He was inspecting our meager belongings when he noticed I was awake.

"Twenty minutes, Chende. We're off," he said in greeting. "Twenty. Twenty."

My feet were moving before my brain. I rushed outside, only to be swallowed by the stench of the river. It hit me with a pang. The contents of my stomach threatened to revolt. I reminded myself I did not have the luxury to throw up food already hard to come by. I scanned the area. The village was stirring and fishermen were everywhere, towing their nets onto canoes, washing in the brown water, and preparing for the days catch. The fishmongers were not out yet. In a few hours perhaps.

The bright line on the horizon told me it was shy past five. The morning gloom did little to reassure me. My bladder wasn't quite full and I couldn't get myself to wash in the dirty water. I returned to the hut. My father was not in it so I quickly changed. It was not like there was a need to take off my clothes. I simply put the long grey frock over my sweater and skirt. The square headwrap, which was a deep grey and cotton white, went over my cornrows. I did not see it at the time but I appeared unkempt. My face was white from dryness, I had sleep discharge at the corner of my eyes and the porridge-stained clothes underneath the neat uniform were evident. If my father noticed this at all when he returned, I do not think he had it in him to rectify my looks as my mother would have.

"Congratulations," he said instead, taking in my new uniform.

"Thank you." I smiled. My stomach twisted. This time it was not the river. Thoughts of the future made me queasy.

I followed my father out at last. I was not loath to leave the smelly port behind. If I said I missed my mother, I would not be telling the truth. Her presence would have still been reassuring in any case. The driver of the white four-wheel-drive vehicle which was donated to a local clinic revved its engine at our approach. The battery was old and needed a kick-start. The vehicle jumped to life. My heart skipped several beats. It was the first time I would be riding such a monstrosity in my life.

"Chen-Chanda, get in."

The back door was open. It was disconcerting to see I would be sharing the ride with four villagers, heaps of maize meal, odd cargo, and two live chickens tied together. There was hardly space to fit me. Being small, I was plopped onto the sacks. The position meant I had to be bent over for the entirety of the journey especially if I didn't want my head to hit against the roof on the bumpy gravel road. Chickens danced against the soles of my feet. The door was shut and whatever fresh air had survived the environment was gone. The scent of sweat, tireless toil and poverty filled the small cabin.

"What's your name?" the person seated to my left asked. She was in her early twenties or perhaps the babe at her tits had aged her. I had only just noticed the little pink thing tugging at drooped breasts for scant milk.

"Me?" I asked, belated.

"We all know each other here. Who are you?" Her tone was aggressive, as was the norm in the fisherman village. I noticed her hands were caked and her feet, propped up in an uncomfortable position, had bunions. An elderly lady sat next to her. My discernments weighed she could be nearing the age of seventy. Her eyes were watery, her breath slow and stale. Now and then, she shuddered even though cloaked in a thick cotton jersey. The other two were male. One was of an age with me. The other could have been middle-aged. Both seemed to suffer some sort of infirmity. The younger one kept sneezing. I felt his spittle against my exposed hands. I tried to turn away as best as I could, away from him, away from the breast, away from my sick reality.

The woman wasn't satisfied with my silence. "Who are you?"

I spied my father seated at the front seat next to the driver. When the vehicle moved, I decided it was safe enough to speak. "Chanda. My name is Chanda." I had practiced the line several times in my head.

"Ah, you're from the upper north?" Her demeanor relaxed.

"Yes." I did not know where the upper north was.

"You northerners like to come for our fish, yet you treat your yam like its gold and god. Tell me, do you pray to yam?" I had never seen yam in my life. I shook my head. She clicked her tongue. "You're still a child." She closed our conversation.

My false identity had appeased her. A different letter in my name made all the difference between life and death, friendship and enmity. We were well en route to my future now. My awkward seated position did not keep me from bumping my head on the roof, or the chickens from pecking at my feet. The terrain was rough. It felt violent, the way it tossed me about when the car maneuvered potholes. My nails dug in the sack I sat on until my fingers were cramped. After hours of craning my neck and silencing the cackle of restless chickens in my head, I was given brief respite on a calm terrain. I longed to see the road but my view was barred. I took out my diary. It was a flimsy thing really; recycled paper bound by an elastic band. One side was plain and the other etched in mathematical formulas I couldn't understand. I took out a pencil and scribbled. The movement made my hand unsteady but I was determined to write. I needed to make sense of it all.

The day was 28 January 1994. After today, my life would be different. My parents had decided that, for my safety, I ought to be hidden in plain sight. We were proud of who we were, and where we came from; a world that had now sunken in war and plunder. Here, they deemed us to be the enemy. Their government came and took our gemstones because, they said, we could not manage our resources properly. And then, when they took what was ours, we came to them for livelihood and they retaliated. We weren't allowed into their land. We were bringing poverty and disease, they said. My family came through a secret channel, and since we looked the same as they, we blended in. Many more were not as fortunate. Those caught were murdered in cold blood by vicious mobs, imprisoned, or sent back to the motherland - depending on who caught them.

To maintain this fortune, my family had to build an identity that could not be questioned; insurance for a peaceful stay in this land. This identity meant forgetting Chenda and becoming Chanda. And before I could become Chanda, I wrote in my diary one last time. I wrote a letter to my mother and father. I wrote to ask why we never cried when we hugged each other goodbye. I wrote a letter I could never get myself to give them. When the vehicle stopped and my father and I were left alone in the wilderness, it was not the letter I was thinking about.

At first, when the driver opened the backdoor and shoved me out, I thought I had done something wrong, or we had been discovered somehow. The driver and his ailing patients could kill us. No one would search for us. Not even our family; how could they? We were in the middle of nowhere. Tall brown grass surrounded us on every side. There was a thin gravel road meandering through the savannah. My father followed it, and I went with him. The narrow road disappeared into a shallow stream and beyond. When my father raised his trousers and took off his shoes to cross, I did not copy. I waded in with the grey uniform and ended up soaked to the shin. In consequence, my shoes made a wheezing noise with each step. The squelch was akin to the one I made, gasping at what appeared in the distance.

Out of nowhere, a tall white fortress appeared in front of us. It was a marble sanctuary in a sea of tall dead brown grass. I felt my heart palpitate. The height of the building scraped the sky and its width was at least the size of twelve football fields. The building was made in such a way that its outer walls, carved out of white stone, were fashioned to be a fence. Instead of looking lonely in the space, it appeared foreboding. A single poster lying half-buried in the grass stated in bold black letters. ‘HANDMAID SAINTS SECONDARY SCHOOL’. A weathered painting of the Virgin provided a pale backdrop for the announcement. The semblance was of heaven when compared to the hell I was coming from.

"Is this my new home?" I asked.

My father smiled at me. "The best learning institution in the country."

I stared at my feet. I knew it wasn't the best in the country, let alone the province. It was the most economical for my parents, in that way it was indeed the best. "A boarding school. Do you not want me near you?" I thought back to the letter in my faded diary. To me, it only seemed logical. If there happened to be any fracas about our identity, I wanted it to be near those I identified with. I wanted to die with them just like I'd lived with them. I was a fool to think that.

"If we had all we wanted, we'd be dead now," he said to me. "If we stayed together with our kin, we'd be dead as they. This is nothing compared to what I've endured. When your mother and I were newly married, I hated to work in a province nearest to the war. Still, I went. It was the best thing that happened to us…" It was a story I knew too well. He droned on about the brilliance of living abundantly in war. How we'd survived on foreign aid because the warehouse was in our yard. I thought the story a bit sad and quite irrelevant to my impending situation. I stayed mum. He continued. "People like us are killed, so consider it a privilege to even be here."

I nodded. I knew he was right. Our walk to the menacing whiteness seemed eternal. I felt like a dot of dirt approaching the seat of gods. I felt judged. It was a place I wanted to be. It was a place I was certain I would never fit in. The feeling was bittersweet when my father left me after a short and dark matron met with us to lead him to the principals' office. Thereafter, he'd leave me – not for the first time though. I waited outside as the adults talked.

Pearl white tiles and old white walls enveloped me in the new environment. The principal's office was closest to the entrance. The design of the building was square with an immense green field to fill the center. At the heart of the field was a big tree, its branches stretching out like fingers to scrap the nearest roof. To the furthest opposite, I could spy classrooms. It was still mid-morning and the students, my future classmates, were already learning. The prospect excited me. To the left were dormitories, based on a poster declaring directions, and to the right was a dining hall where my next meal would come from. I hoped the food would be warm and filling like my last meal. I touched my stomach. I hadn't had a meal so far, nor had my father. Discourse drew me from my musings. The voice that carried was my father’s, so I inched closer to the door.

"She is smart, talented. Her grades can prove that. Wait till you meet her, she is disciplined and a very good student. She listens, doesn't ask questions…" the rest was gibberish. I was taken aback. I didn't know why he sounded so desperate until I heard the principal's voice, hers was a high pitch hinted with supremacy.

"Our classes are full." Four words to bring my father to his knees.

I'd edged to the door and was peaking inside before I could stop myself. My brown eyes locked gazes with her black ones. The principal was round, plump and old, in a clean pressed brown suit, while I was skinny, frail and pre-teen, clad in a crumpled uniform over dirty clothes. She was seated in a plush black chair, behind a mahogany desk. My father, on his knees, had his back turned to me.

"Please." He was begging. "We've traveled far to come here."

"That is none of my concern." She kept her gaze on me. My father was too distraught to notice. He clasped his hands and bowed his head.

"No other school will take her. One more brilliant student cannot hurt." No other school would take me. We hadn't tried. A boarding school was the only place to blend in and no one would raise eyebrows at my identity. This was the first affordable boarding school we'd come across that wasn't too forefront on ethnic background. I feared it would be the last we try if things turned for the worst. I crossed my fingers. If I didn't get in school, chances of blending into this new society, let alone surviving in it, would be scarcer than sleet in the tropics. "Please, on the grace of the good lord, accept her."

I heard my father sniff. He was crying. My heart broke. I wasn't sad. I was furious. My broken background was all that kept me from giving the principal a good scratch on her skin which had the appearance of a soft brown baked cake. I was angrier at my father. Did being an alien reduce us to beggars? A tear streamed down my face, but it wasn't for humility. The principle gave it her interpretation. I was certain her understanding was far removed from my reasons.

"Come in, little girl," she said to me.

I entered. The tears on my father's face did not disappear. I wondered if he was that desperate to be rid of me. Was my education more important than his pride, our pride? I faced the principal. My lone tear evaporated.

"What is your name?"

"She is Chanda, as you can see on the report form." The report form we'd forged somewhere. Chanda was a fairly common name here.

"Can she not speak for herself?" the principle barked. "I've seen your grades little girl, they are good." I still said nothing. She gnarled, showing her brown teeth, "Have you no respect?"

My father yanked me down. A bone cracked when I landed on my wobbled knees. The pain sprung fresh tears to my eyes. "She's shy," my father said. This seemed to appease the principle, the tears at least.

"Her cleanliness is not to standard. Where is her mother?" Suddenly, I felt self-conscious. My father stared as if seeing me for the first time. The disappointment was in his eyes. He did not think I'd prepared myself as best as I could by showing up as I did. To my father's relief, the question was rhetoric, or perhaps she simply did not care. "The school will take her."

"Thank you. Thank you so much. God be with you." He breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

His happiness permeated to me. I couldn't dwell on it though. The prospect of a good education and a new home had excited me, the building had enamored me, yet somehow the principal, who embodied the soul of the institution, yanked the feeling from me in one encounter. I wasn't sure it was worth it, and as for my father, I only wanted to please him. I couldn't return with him either, my mother would take me for an ingrate, and my dead kin, a fool. There was no choice but to stay. After all, the principal had accepted me. This had been my hope; my prayer.

"Thank you. I will not let you down," I heard myself say.

The next hour passed in a blur. The matron took me by the hand and inducted me into the school. It was far better than the one in the country I had escaped from. The classrooms were clean, small, and had a neat blackboard accompanied by smart teachers. One I saw wore glasses; I presumed he was smart. The dorms did not offer better beds than the one I had left behind, but they were the best I'd had in a long time since the war. And when mealtime came, it was gritted corn samp garnished with groundnuts – not my favorite but when mixed with sugar it could be divine. My father left me after abrupt goodbyes. He had a long way to walk.

"I will write you," I said, a vain promise before I knew the rules.

"Take care. When you graduate, you will have a paper and then you can get work easily to support our family."

"Two years is a long time."

"It is all we need to survive here." He hugged me. I wanted him to tell me he loved me. He was not that type of father. They were not those type of parents. I had to take their actions for it. "We are counting on you…remember your name."

"Chenda?"

He hissed and glanced about to see if the matron had heard. It didn't seem she had. "Your name is Chanda."

"Goodbye, father." I turned away from him, disappointed.

Shortly after, I found I was naïve to have thought I would write my family letters. Once the rules were read to me, I'd learned I could not communicate with the outside world. My parents could visit me once a year at an allocated time if they could manage. I was to forget my native language or be punished for speaking it. This was a lucky rule because my local dialect would expose me. Any creativity I nurtured was to be neglected. I was to fit in, box and square, and be a student like the next one, failure to which would mean expulsion. And at all times, I would have to remember my name is Chanda and not Chenda. Chenda was an alien, migrant, and a radical. Chanda was native, normal, and never a threat.

That night, I cried in my bed. Chenda meant a light, a hope in dark times, in my native language. Chanda just meant Chanda to me. Chenda had to be killed. In my mind, I saw my father on his knees, tears in his eyes, and the principal looking down on him. He broke his pride so I could have a chance at life. The students I had met so far met me with strange gazes. They did not know how I had received admission into their close-knit school. It was clear no one else was getting accepted. They did not know my father broke his back to have me here. Soon, I would have to shed my history, culture, tongue, and be like them or I won't last a day.

I understood clearly. To enter heaven, one must bow. To stay in heaven, one must forget who you ever were. It was that, or return to the hell you came from. The hell they created for you. The hell you gave your all to escape. To enter heaven, we must break our backs. To stay, we must lose ourselves forever. In the gloom, I cried myself away. Goodbye Chenda.

“Bow To Enter Heaven” is the first of five stories in the collection Bow to Enter Heaven and other stories, which was published last year under Esther’s pen name Hadassah Louis. Order Bow to Enter Heaven (e-book or print).

The views expressed in this post are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of the Atlantic Fellows for Social and Economic Equity programme, the International Inequalities Institute, or the London School of Economics and Political Science.