AZUBAH

Chakanika bakha nkhuku siingatole.

What a duck has failed to pick up a hen cannot pick up either.

—Chewa proverb

The rhythm of our sisterhood is to call each other frequently enough that we never become strangers.

so far, our system is flawless,

every few months, we swap gossip for a few minutes: Have you heard Auntie Lu’s third husband got their maid pregnant? Perfect cousin Mwape flunked out of law school and is calling himself a pastor! Enhe, yes, 10K Insta followers. His parents are telling everyone how Pastor is higher than Lawyer in the eyes of the Lord anyway.

When our laughter simmers down, I ask how Azubah is doing, and Chisomo’s answer is always Mama is fine, which paves way for me to race through,

Okay, I’ll send some money for her groceries this weekend.

One of us grows sleepy, a husband or child demands extra attention, and both of us promise-promise-promise, Sis, I’ll call you, mailo, only for the tomorrow to stretch into week after week of memes and thirty-second TikTok videos.

This time, Chisomo bypasses the Uli bwa? How is the hubby? Na Gabby? and dives straight into Funso, Mama is really bad mwe. I think you need to come.

"What do you mean, she’s bad?" My voice is doing an awful job of veiling the panic racing up my throat,

Please, sis, Chisomo says, just come nga you can manage.

Azubah’s madness has been brewing for a long time, but not to the extent of the madmen who loiter around Lusaka, lugging around trash like it is expensive luggage and howling family secrets into the night.

On past calls, Chisomo has called Azubah’s ailment forgetfulness. Only once has she sprinkled dementia into our conversation,

after that, nothing,

so, this murmured bad, I take as a rapid unwinding of Azubah’s mind, a sudden revelation of her rotten core,

and a siren blares red in my head,

the last time Chisomo said someone was bad, she meant Grandpa had died.

In the background, Chisomo’s son yells, I’ve finished! and she hangs up.

I’m left staring at the pixelated profile picture of my sister’s dimpled smile,

bad: my mind churns the word, assigns it the meaning of Azubah lying depleted, reeking like stale life and Vaseline.

I last took Azubah’s call six months ago, last clicked reply to her texts when?

I call my husband, voice not video, because I don’t want David’s pity-you look to make me cry,

I mean, I already remit my Black Tax via Western Union with every paycheck. I know I’m whining, but holding it in feels like bile. What will my presence in Zambia even do? I say, If anything, it will make more sense for her to come here, be seen by doctors in a hospital where she can be taken care of properly. Which is to say, in America, I’ve at least got the option of dropping her off at a sterile assisted-living facility,

David says I hear you in that way people do before they show that they are, in fact, not hearing you

he says, "but, c’mon, you can’t not go."

and what I notice is the missing honey at the end of his sentence,

What about Gabby? my last resort,

surely, my daughter is a good enough reason to stay put,

Gabby? Oh, she’ll be fine. My mom will pick her up from track practice. Mom won’t mind.

I’m trying not to shout, trying to do what my Pilates instructor says to do in order to manipulate my mind to be calm, trying to keep my breath steady, sucking in big puffs of air, Gabby needs her mother, David. It’s just a statement, not an accusation, all the air in my lungs makes it so,

"Yeah, but she’s your mother, Funso, and she needs you," he says,

the first defense of people who actually have mothers, as if the title of mother has no accompanying expectations like care and attention or not abandoning their children for drinking sprees, not moving out when their youngest is nine to live with a faceless father and then a revolving door of boyfriends, only to show up to their daughter’s wedding over a decade later with scaly tears and a too-long hug,

You’re right, I hear myself say, my Zambian accent bubbling abruptly to the surface; I clear my throat, She’s my mother.

David likes to be echoed, so, I know that’s a smile behind the thawing in his voice, Then it’s settled, he says. I’ll book your ticket. Just tell me when you can get time off, yeah.

I can’t speed-walk to the teachers’ lounge fast enough, can’t grab my thermos fast enough, can’t swallow my coffee quick enough, to allow the world to be muffled by the fruit liqueur that I use instead of creamer.

Three weeks of fog float past until I’m sitting in this stuffy cubicle-cum-office-cum-consultation-room listening to a doctor saying,

Mrs. Ashwood, your mother still has some of her long-term memories. They are just a bit fragmented: in that I understand tone salespeople use on infuriated customers demanding refunds they’ll never get,

what I hear is that Azubah’s whole life is this sped-up movie, with someone else hogging the remote, arbitrarily clicking pause and letting her watch a still shot for a beat before hurtling her into another place and time.

Pictures will help jog her memory, the doctor continues. Think of this as you helping her find them. It will probably bring you two closer.

Closer—in a room surrounded by rusting cabinets stacked against the wall. The three of us are seated on creaking chairs arranged in a cramped semicircle, our knees a breath away from touching; a thin illusion of privacy is provided by one babyshit-yellow curtain to my right, but the whole time the doctor’s voice is an octave above a whisper, fighting the squeaking tires, rattling medicine bottles, hesitant footsteps, and distant wailing spilling in from the hallway on the other side of the curtain.

I glance over at Azubah and force myself to smile at her,

she’s fixated on a flyer for World Mental Health Day a nurse handed us while we waited for the doctor to come; Azubah is pressing an invisible crease out of the green ribbon embossed to the top of the paper and repeating every second word the doctor says,

the doctor’s You have pictures, right?

becomes,

have-right? in Azubah’s mouth,

I have a picture; it has lived as a bookmark in a journal I stole from Azubah’s purse when I was eleven; journal and book have sat at the bottom of my purse for years,

I cut the doctor a look, "and what exactly will she remember?"

the doctor stops fingering her watch and sighs, as I’ve explained to your sister already, your mother’s condition is severe.

I nod, and?

all of my suggestions will greatly improve quality of life. she nods at Azubah’s hands,

Azubah says, Of-suggestions-greatly-quality-life. and grins like a child proud of something they have done, even though it is stupid,

I say nothing,

the doctor coughs then says, the Memantine will help her ability to perform daily functions, while updating Azubah’s prescription; she hands the small paper to me,

I look at the illegible blue ink and don’t ask if she means that Azubah will stop mistaking the sink for the toilet or using the corner of her chitenge as toilet paper and trying to flush down two meters of fabric,

the Donepezil will help her to interact with others. she clips the pen back into the pocket of her scrubs,

she stands, draws the curtain open, and waves us out, and yells, Next! into the crowded hallway.

By the time we slump into the car, I can smell my sweat, the AC spits out dust motes and a warm breeze, but I suck in the air and start Chisomo’s car,

I feel about ten again, trying but failing to comb my hair into a puff that will pass the smartness test at the school assembly, frustrated by every curl springing out of my head, wanting to chop off every stray strand out of my control.

Ten-year-old me shakily dials my big sister’s number and groans into the phone when she says, Yes, Funso, hi! How did it go? How is Mama?

this brittle little laugh escapes my throat, The good news for her is, she won’t remember any of it. Fucking fantastic for her, isn’t it? She gets to forget!

Funso, naiwe, my sister chides, think how horrible this whole thing must be for Mama.

For Mama, ehn? I chuckle, When you said she was bad, I thought she was—

God forbid! Do not even think about finishing that sentence.

Then I’ll say this, Chisomo. This isn’t horrible enough if you ask me. Azubah can’t remember a thing. A fucking fresh start for her, isn’t it? Must be fucking nice! And what ab—

First of all, Funso, that is our mother you’re talking about. You can’t call her by her first name!

I can call her whatever the fuck I want.

And for goodness’ sake, enough with the swearing. If you insist on using that kind of language, don’t do it around Mama. This is not America.

and there it is,

where our rhythm ruptures and our affections stutter, this is why Chisomo and I don’t send each other pictures of our homes anymore, because where I think I’m showing my sister the miracle of me growing a plant for the first time, she sees my car in the driveway and text back, New ride? Must be nice, the sarcasm leaching from the screen,

I ease the car onto Great East Road, where traffic is crawling, there’s a roadblock staged ahead with two battered drums, I dig into my purse, take this kwacha for some Coca-Cola, officer, to the policeman, and steer on.

Damn right, this isn’t America! I spit into the phone,

but where else could I drive without the tension in my fingers, with whiskey in my cup holder, confident that I won’t end up in some dingy cell or painted onto a placard at a #Justice4Funso march?

guess there really is no place like home,

Azubah doesn’t notice the commotion, she’s rolled down her window, is counting the approaching cars like she’s reciting the two times tables all mixed up, she waves at a hawker weaving through traffic with a bucket of ripe mangoes balanced on her head, and says ka mango for a kiss?

I’m not sure if the hawker hears her, but she smiles and starts jogging toward us,

Azubah pouts her lips and tosses the woman a kiss,

I’m swatting down Azubah’s arm, mouthing sorry at the hawker, and shaking my head when my sister says, Yes, yes, we know, Funso. We know this is not your great America. in her mouth, America is given the shade of the puddles that have made a home of the tarmac on the road,

That’s what you want to fight about? I scream, immediately annoyed with myself, we’ve been apart so long, I’ve forgotten my way around a fight with my sister,

Stop it, Funso, naiwe. This— Chisomo’s voice splinters, apparently having trouble remembering our brawls as well. This is rubbish.

"Agreed. Fu-cking rubbish, you can say fuck, big sister. Azubah would never do anything to you."

Ah, you’ve started. I thought you came back to help me take care of Mama.

I reach for the open thermos in my cup holder and take a swig,

it’s so much easier to be nice to my sister with an eight-hour difference between us, "I am helping, I say, but you’re babysitting her at the next appointment."

You have only been here a week. This was your first hospital visit—

Enhe, and?

And you know I have to work and they will only see her during the week and my boss won’t let me get time off. But you know what? It’s okay. I’ll take care of her. I always have anyway. Can you just do what the doctor said for now?

Fine.

so here I am now, trapped between the same peeling walls of our childhood bedroom, where I used to hide when Azubah wasn’t in the mood to tolerate my face with anything less than a biting backhanded slap. Here, I’d practiced to near perfection how to endear myself to my mother by borrowing the softness in Chisomo’s voice, waiting for Azubah to call me out.

Some of my Black Tax pays an old woman to polish the floors and sweep the cobwebs out of the corners once a week