We Need New Names: A Novel

by Noviolet Bulawayo

  I keep my mouth shut like I’m supposed to while Mother of Bones shouts greetings to the people we see on the way; Bornfree’s mother, MaDube, who is pounding nails on the roof of her shack with a rock; NaBetina holding her squatting grandson Nomoreproblems; Mai Tonde sitting on a stool and peering inside her screaming baby’s ear; NaMgcobha dictating a letter to a tall boy I’ve never seen before.

  We pass old Zuze looking at everything with his blind eyes, pass women sitting outside a shack and gossiping and doing one another’s hair, and not too far off, the men huddled like sheep and playing draughts under the lone jacaranda. The blooming purple flowers almost make the men look beautiful in the shade without their shirts on. They sit there, crouched forward like tigers, like the sun whipping their backs doesn’t matter, like the bird droppings falling on their bare shoulders and splattering their skin don’t matter. Mother of Bones shouts her greetings and waves but the men hardly take their eyes off the fading draughts board with its upturned and downturned bottle tops.

  When we pass the people standing in line outside Vodloza’s shack, Mother of Bones only waves; here she cannot shout because it’s a healer’s place. A few of the people wave back unsurely, like they don’t even want to, looking worn out from sickness or troubles. They are waiting for Vodloza to divine with their ancestors because that’s his job. A large white sign says in bold red English words: VODLOZA, BESTEST HEALER IN ALL OF THIS PARADISE AND BEEYOND WILL PROPER FIX ALL THESE PROBLEMSOME THINGS THAT YOU MAY ENCOUNTER IN YOUR LIFE: BEWITCHEDNESS, CURSES, BAD LUCK, WHORING SPOUSES, CHILDRENLESSNESS, POVERTY, JOBLESSNESS, AIDS, MADNESS, SMALL PENISES, EPILEPSY, BAD DREAMS, BAD MARRIAGE/MARRIAGELESSNESS, COMPETITION AT WORK, DEAD PEOPLE TERRORIZING YOU, BAD LUCK WITH GETTING VISAS ESPECIALLY TO USA AND BRITAIN, NONSENSEFUL PEOPLE IN YOUR LIFE, THINGS DISAPPEARING IN YOUR HOUSE ETC. ETC. ETC. PLEASE PAYMENT IN FOREX ONLY.

  When we pass the playground I walk a little slower so I can see everything. They are playing Andy-over, and Bastard is jumping under a rope and the others are busy chanting—he went to America on a saucepan, and what-what. They pause to watch us, and when we get close, Godknows screams, Darling! Samu said she can beat you up, do you want to fight her when you get back? Did you hear NGO will be here next week! Are you coming to Budapest? as if he doesn’t know he’s not supposed to talk to me when I’m with Mother of Bones like this. I start to raise my hand to my lips to shut him up and Mother of Bones says, without even turning around, Leave those little heathens alone you hear me?

  A little ways past the playground we meet Bornfree and Messenger carrying stacks of posters in their hands. They are trying to look like twins in the matching T-shirts with the little white hearts at the front and the word Change written in red just below the hearts. They stand aside to let us pass.

  Good morning, Mother of Bones, they say together, like they rehearsed it.

  Going to hunt for bones, Mother of Bones? Messenger says. He looks at Mother of Bones with a smile; if it were not for the one black tooth at the front, it would be a good smile. They don’t say anything to me so I just look at my feet, covered now in red dust because that’s just what happens when you use Vaseline and don’t wear any shoes.

  No my son today I’m going to the house of the Lord don’t you know what day it is? Mother of Bones says, walking on. She calls everybody my son or my daughter; I think that’s because she cannot remember all the names.

  Well, your God is listening because the change everybody’s been crying for is finally here, Messenger says. He smiles again; Messenger likes to smile, like life is just too pretty, like everything is great.

  Yes, it is, you watch, Bornfree adds. He waves his stack of papers and I see the words Change, Real Change at the front. His voice is bright and bold, like the red ink on his posters.

  We’re demonstrating tomorrow, on Main Street, come and walk for change! Be the future! Messenger shouts after us. We can hear them whistling and chanting about change, and in no time we hear the children’s voices chanting as well. I turn to look and I see everybody has abandoned Andy-over and is now running after Bornfree and Messenger. Fists above their heads. Running and jumping and chanting, the word change in the air like it’s something you can grab and put in your mouth and sink your teeth into.

  Yes that Lot’s wife turned to look back just like you’re doing and turned to salt, Mother of Bones says, and I immediately stop even though I know that I, Darling, will not and cannot turn to salt.

  Fools, Mother of Bones says. She picks up her pace a bit and I have to walk-run to catch up. What do they think they are doing yanking a lion’s tail don’t they know that there will be bones if they dare? she continues. Now she turns back like she really is talking to me.

  You will ask me tomorrow you will ask me what I’m saying now tomorrow when there are real bones, she says, and I just look away at the sky.

  Further and further we go, and the sun keeps ironing us and ironing us and ironing us. When sweat trickles down my face I let it drip so I can try to reach it with my tongue; when I do, it is salty and stings. We stop underneath the mopane tree where we used to church until a little while ago so I can tie up Mother of Bones’s one shoelace; I do this every time before we start on the trail up Fambeki. On the mopane is a big sign with an arrow that points upwards, towards our church. Beneath the arrow are the words HOLY CHARIOT CHURCH OF CHRIST—IT DOSNT GO BACKWARDS, IT DOESNT GO SIDEWAYS, IT DOESN’T GO FORWARDS. IT GOES UPWARDS, TO HEAVEN. AMEN! I think this is taken from the Bible, but I have forgotten the verse.

  Mother of Bones is already singing her favorite church song, the one she always sings when she makes the climb. She sings it wrong because she doesn’t know all the English words because she doesn’t speak the right English because she didn’t go to school, but I don’t correct her since you can’t tell an adult nothing. The truth of it is that the song says My sins were higher than a mountain when the Lord sanctified me, not sacrificed me, like Mother of Bones sings. I don’t go to school anymore because all the teachers left to teach over in South Africa and Botswana and Namibia and them, where there’s better money, but I haven’t forgotten the things I learned.

  By the time we finally get to the top of Fambeki my thighs are like lead and I’m sick of the sun and just want to sit down, but Mother of Bones is singing away like she hasn’t just climbed a mountain. She has even raised her voice because I know that she wants to show people that she is a good Christian. There are only three other adults there, Mr. Hove and his pretty wife, Mai Shingi, and a man in a green shirt I have never seen before but maybe he is Mr. Hove’s relative because they both have the large heads that look like ZUPCO buses.

  I sit on a rock with the Hove children like I’m supposed to, but when the little boy smiles at me and shows his toy soldier, I ignore him to let him know he’s just not my size. I also give the big-nosed sister a good frown to show her that she, too, doesn’t count.

  I see you’re already here I see you beat me to it today, Mother of Bones says to the adults. She says it playing-like, laughing-like, but if you knew her well, like I know her, then you would know that she is in fact mad that they got here before she did. Mother of Bones likes being the first in everything.

  In no time the rest of the church people begin to arrive, panting like dogs returning from a hunt. The only thing I like about getting here early is that I get to watch the fat adults toiling up the mountain, trying to look like angels in their flowing robes that have now lost their whiteness. They clap their hands and greet one another in the name of the Lord and what-what, and the women spread their ntsaroz and sit on one side, the men on the other, like they are two different rivers that are not supposed to meet. Chipo has come with her grandmother and grandfather, and I have already elbowed away one of the Hove kids so that Chipo can sit next to me. Then MaMoyo comes and puts her baby in my arms without even asking me if I want to hold him.

  I hate babies, so I don’t smile when MaMoyo’s baby looks at me with his crazy bullfrog eyes.
To make it worse, he is an ugly baby; his face looks shocked, like he has just seen the buttocks of a snake. I look at the pattern of ringworms on his bald head, at the mucus in his nose, and decide that no, I don’t want to have anything to do with him. I ask Chipo in a whisper if she wants to hold him but she doesn’t even look at me.

  I make sure nobody is watching, and then I immediately start making faces to scare the baby. When he doesn’t cry I pinch him on the arm. I watch the fat face scrunch up, reluctantly, as if he is deciding if he should cry at all, and when I think he is taking too long to make up his mind, I pinch harder. This time the baby explodes in a real cry like he’s supposed to, and me and Chipo look at each other and smile. MaMoyo quickly comes to get him because no woman wants to be chided in front of the whole church.

  The Evangelists and Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro arrive after everybody, like chief baboons. They look like something else with the colorful crosses emblazoned on their robes, their long sticks with the hooks at the ends, their bald heads glimmering in the sun, the long beards; you can just tell that they are trying to copy the style of those men in the Bible.

  Today Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro is wearing a brand-new robe; it’s milk white, with green and red stripes going down the sides. He is also carrying a new stick, and his doesn’t look like the Evangelists’—it’s way longer and fatter, like it can actually injure and do ugly things. At the end of the stick is a cross inside a circle. When the Evangelists and Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro come, you know that it has really begun, so a tall thin woman stands up and starts singing “Mikoro” and I just want to die because the song bores me like I don’t know what.

  All of them are on their feet now, singing and shuffling and swaying, singing and shuffling and swaying, like maybe they have caught the spirit, but if they have, then it skipped me. The spirit always skips me. Chipo is swaying as well, her hands playing with her stomach, but she is not singing. I pretend to sing in case Mother of Bones looks to see, but I’m really just moving my lips because this “Mikoro” song has no spark. All there is to it is the repeating of the words Mikoro, Mikoro while the woman who is leading the song does the singing, and she doesn’t have the voice for it to begin with, even I myself can sing better, even a cat can do better. I look at MaMoyo and am not surprised the song is putting ugly baby to sleep.

  To pass the time I let my eyes wander towards Paradise. When I’m on Fambeki like this I feel like I’m God, who sees everything. Paradise is all tin and stretches out in the sun like a wet sheepskin nailed on the ground to dry; the shacks are the muddy color of dirty puddles after the rains. The shacks themselves are terrible but from up here, they seem much better, almost beautiful even, it’s like I’m looking at a painting.

  Then I look up at the sky and see a plane far up in the clouds. First I’m thinking it’s just a bird, but then I see that no, it’s not. Maybe it’s a British Airways plane like the one Aunt Fostalina went in to America.

  It’s what I will take myself when I follow Aunt Fostalina to America, I whisper in Chipo’s ear. I look up so she can see what I’m talking about, and she follows my eyes.

  But I don’t know why I have to take a British Airways plane to go to America; why not an American Airways one? I say, but now I’m no longer talking to Chipo. Now I’m just talking to myself because I don’t think she will understand. From here the sky appears very close, like somebody holy can reach a hand down and wipe the sweat off Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro’s and the Evangelists’ dripping heads. God told Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro in a dream that he needed to move the church to here; maybe God wanted us to be closer to him, just like in that verse, Simon on the mountain.

  Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro brings me back with his roaring and I realize the singing has stopped. If Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro’s voice were an animal it would be big and fierce and would knock things down. Once, when we still churched under the mopane, he told us how he used to have a small voice and that he rarely used it because he was a quiet, timid man, until the night an angel came to him and said, Speak, and he opened his mouth and thunder came out.

  Now Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro is busy thundering about Judas and Golgotha and the cross and the two thieves next to Jesus and things, making like he was there and saw it all. When Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro is in form he doesn’t stand in one place. He paces up and down like there are hot coals under his feet. He flails his arms, sometimes waving his stick at the sky, sometimes jumping around as if he is itching where nobody can see. Every once in a while a woman will scream Sweet Jeeeeesus, or Hmmm-hmmm-hmmm, or Glory, glory, or something like that, which means that the spirit is touching her.

  Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro is drenched in sweat now, and his robe clings to his chest; you can see his breasts and nipples. I look to the side and see Mother of Bones listening with all her might, eyes half closed, head tilted, and arms clutching at the stomach like she is feeling pain. All around, the adults are busy nodding their heads in agreement, or shaking them to show how terrible what Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro is saying is, or making guttural and moaning sounds. I look at Chipo and she is closing her eyes, taking a nap. My buttocks are so stiff they could be made of stone.

  Now Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro reads from his English Bible even though he sounds like a grade-one reading. If he went to school, you can tell from the way he reads that he must have been just a dunderhead at it, even Godknows can read better. Prophet Revelations Bitchington doesn’t spend much time on the Bible, maybe because he is afraid of running into a big word he won’t know how to pronounce; he quickly moves on to preaching, which he is very good at. Then he starts to speak in a strange language that nobody understands. The people moan and clap and groan.

  When the Mikoro woman interrupts Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro with another song, he just keeps thundering like he doesn’t even hear her. For a moment their voices circle each other like crazy cocks, neither of them giving way; it becomes dizzying just listening until at last Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro says, I command the devil to shut up in the name of Jesus. When the Mikoro lady is silenced I bring my head to my armpit and giggle because she was making like God told her she is Celine Dion.

  After the preaching somebody passes a big white bowl around for offerings, and Destiny’s mother starts singing “Blessed Are the Givers.” Her voice is quiet and beautiful and it makes me think about the Budapest lady; this is what her voice would sound like if she could sing; it would suit her better than it suits Destiny’s mother, but she still needs to do something about that mess on her head. After a while the bowl comes back with strange monies I’ve never seen before, then Destiny’s mother ends the song, then we move on to the confessing of sins, and those with sins stand up.

  I think of what I would say if I were to stand up right now, among the confessors, but then I realize I have no sins. Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro goes around touching each of the sinners—there’s seven of them, all women—on the forehead with his stick, and then sprinkles them with holy water before they confess.

  We are listening to Simangele confessing about how last week she succumbed to the devil and went to seek Vodloza’s help because she doesn’t know what to do anymore about her jealous cousin. She says the cousin is also a witch who keeps sending her tokoloshes because she wants her dead so that she can then take over Simangele’s husband, Lovemore. Somewhere near me, a voice says, Mnnnc, serves you right, you think your kaka doesn’t stink. I turn to see who has spoken and Chipo’s sister Constance gives me the look and so I quickly turn away.

  We are waiting for Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro to pounce on Simangele for going to see a pagan, which is how he refers to Vodloza, when we hear a woman’s scream coming from down the mountain. Some of the adults stand up to see but Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro sharply commands them to sit, and then he asks al
l the Evangelists to rise in the name of Jesus and get ready because God has told him the devil is coming.

  The devil is a woman in a purple dress that’s riding up her thighs and revealing smooth flawless skin like maybe she is an angel. A group of men are carrying her, struggling to get her to the top. I have never seen the woman before, or any of the men, but I think she is just so pretty even Sbho doesn’t compare. She has long shiny hair that isn’t really hers but it still looks good, nice skin, white teeth, and it seems like she eats well. Her breasts are the only thing that’s wrong with her body—nobody needs breasts that are each the size of ugly baby’s head.

  You can see the woman’s white knickers with the red kisses; they are really pretty knickers and they don’t even have a single hole in them. The Evangelists and Prophet are already screaming prayers even before they’ve heard what is wrong. They pounce on the woman and pin her down. She is kicking and twitching like a fish in the sand; she obviously doesn’t want them to hold her down like that and she’s screaming for them to stop. I’m worried about her dress and knickers, about her skin getting scratched, about all that dirt they are getting on her. The men who brought the woman are standing to the side, watching.

  Leave me alone, leave me alone, you sons of bitches! You don’t know me! the woman screams at Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro and the Evangelists. Her voice is angry, like it can strike and kill things, but they don’t even hear her; they are busy yelling prayers. I repeat her words—Leave her alone, leave her alone, you sons of bitches! You don’t know her!—but I’m saying it quietly to myself.

  When Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro tells them to, the women get up and stand behind him and the Evangelists like a wall, singing and dancing and waving Bibles in the air. Some of them pray. This is what they must do in order for the Holy Spirit to come properly, but they have to keep their voices kind of controlled so they don’t sound like the pagans at Vodloza’s. I have seen them calling the ancestors behind Vodloza’s shack, the pagans—drums bark and men roar and women shriek, bodies leap in the air, bodies writhe, and sometimes clothes fall off.