We Need New Names: A Novel

by Noviolet Bulawayo

  This morning, on our very last day of middle school, a boy brought a loaded gun to class, so they shut Washington down and sent everybody home with a letter. Those who saw it said the boy had a list of people he wanted to shoot. They said the loaded gun accidentally fell out of his backpack and went off; the janitor wrestled him for it before he could kill anybody.

  I didn’t see anything, but I heard the bang-bang-bang of the discharging gun from the cafeteria, and by then kids and teachers were screaming and scattering all over like chickens, clogging the corridors and trying to get out all at once. It reminded me of the stampedes back home when things started to fall apart and the stores were empty, how people would pour out onto the street and run like they were dying, chasing after trucks loaded with mealie-meal, sugar, cooking oil, bread, soap, and just about anything.

  We pass the churches and liquor store on the right, the Chinese hair store on the left, the car garage; pass the Shell gas station on the left and the Speedway one on the right, pass the tattoo place, the bank, the Holiday Inn, the Starbucks, the fancy private high school that Marina will attend in the fall while Kristal and I go to Central; we pass the Chinese restaurant and the Indian restaurant and Walgreens and the McDonald’s and the Burger King. Today, because we are going where we want and we are in charge, it feels different driving through the city, like maybe everything we see is ours, like we built it all. I have spread my fingers in the wind and every once in a while I grab it and fling it back at itself.

  We are cruising like that, and I’m being forced to listen to this stupid Rihanna song that everybody at school used to play like it was an anthem or something. Well, maybe the song isn’t stupid, it’s only that I just got generally sick of that whole Rihanna business, the way she was on the news and everything. I know her crazy boyfriend beat her up but I don’t think she had to be all over, like her face was a humanitarian crisis, like it was the Sudan or something. We cruise and she croons and I want to grab the radio and throw it out of the window. We are just passing the adult store on our right when we hear the wailing sound, and we know that the police are chasing us. All the fun comes to a sudden end, like it was water in a bucket and somebody just tipped it over.

  The last time we were stopped by the police, I was in a car with Uncle Kojo and Aunt Fostalina, and we were on the highway, I don’t remember coming from where. The policeman wanted to take Uncle Kojo in but then he didn’t because Aunt Fostalina begged and begged and in the end he just let them pay for the ticket there, on the spot. Marina is saying something about her mother killing her, and Kristal is saying something else, but I’m not even following because I’m busy thinking about what will happen to us; in America, jails are not for just adults and real criminals.

  Kristal pulls over and parks. I turn to look behind us and it’s all flashing blue and sirens. I think about opening the door and running, just running, but then I remember that the police will shoot you for doing a little thing like that if you are black, so I sit in the car and say, We shouldn’t have come, now what are we going to do, what will Aunt Fostalina say?

  Long after the police cars have thundered past and disappeared, we are still looking at one another as if we’ve been sitting in the dark and somebody just flicked on the lights. We are realizing that the police were not chasing after us but just rushing somewhere, and we were in the way. The fear leaves our faces, and we sit there and laugh, reluctantly and nervously at first, and then our courage comes back and our voices pick up and we are proper laughing now, laughing like we mean it, like we want to drive the car with just the sound of our voices.

  We get on the road again and when we stop at the red light next to the statue of that soldier on a horse, I am so happy about not being arrested, so happy, I hear myself singing this song we used to sing at school back home when we were little:

  Who discovered the way to India?

  Vasco da Gama! Vasco da Gama!

  Vasco da Gama! Vasco da Gama!

  Because I am no longer in a stolen car with Kristal and Marina, because I’m no longer in America on my way to the mall, I lift and lift and lift my voice better than Rihanna. I am home-home now, with my friends at school, and we are each wearing a brown uniform with a yellow collar and a badge that says Queen Elizabeth Primary School, a picture of a rising sun and the words Knowledge Is Power written in red cursive at the bottom. We’re going to India, marching in Vasco da Gama’s footsteps, and we’re wearing white socks and black shoes. Because this is where I am now, and because it is a place where you sing like something is burning inside you, I sing until Marina is yelling my name and Kristal has turned off the radio and is saying, The fuck? You need to calm down, damn.

  What, you had the volume on full blast when you were listening to your stupid songs, did you hear me complain? I say.

  Well, least we wasn’t listenin’ to no tribal stuff, Kristal says, and turns a corner. I don’t know if she’s kidding or not, but these days, ever since Kristal got this chest like she’s going to breastfeed the whole of America, she has this thing about bossing people around, like maybe somebody made her queen.

  Whatever, leave me alone, I say. And FYI, I am singing in English.

  No, you ain’t, Kristal says, and Marina giggles. We are passing through a construction site, so the two lanes have merged into one. On our left are rows of drums.

  How would you know? You can’t even speak English, I say.

  Say what? Kristal says. I know, even though she hasn’t turned around, how her face is looking. You can see it all in her voice. A curled lip. Narrowed eyes. A frown. Say what?

  Well, it’s true, everybody knows you can’t speak proper English. Like right now: Say what? What on earth is that? I say. Marina coughs a fake cough. And what is naamean? Naamsayin? I’m finna go? All that nonsense you speak. Is it hard for you to just say I beg your pardon? Or simply, What did you say? You know what I mean? You know what I’m saying? I am going to go?

  Whatchu tombout? Kristal says, and her voice tells me her face is all scrunched up now but I am not backing off.

  It’s true. You know, when I first met you, I couldn’t understand anything coming out of your mouth, not a single word, nada, and you sit here and say you are American and that you speak English!

  I am starting to talk fast now, and I have to remember to slow down because when I get excited I start to sound like myself, and my American accent goes away. But I know I have told Kristal because she is quiet for a while, just staring at the road ahead and saying nothing. Marina turns around and gives me a high-five. Suddenly we can smell tar or something burning coming from outside; it is a terrible stench.

  Eww, Marina says, and covers her nose with her hands like maybe it’ll help the smell.

  You don’t know nothin’, Kristal says after a while, turning to give me a look like I’m the one that’s stinking up the car.

  First of all, it’s called Ebonics and it be a language system, but it be our own, naamean, ’coz we ain’t trynna front.

  I beg your pardon? I say.

  Uh-huh, I beg your pardon, my ass, trynna sound like stupid white folk, she says.

  What did you say? I say.

  You heard me, shit, Kristal says. The car slows down a little bit.

  No, that’s not true. It’s just the way we talk, Marina says.

  Is anybody talkin’ to you, fool? Kristal says, turning to Marina. ’Sides, you better not start nothin’. I’ve seen them Nigerian movies and y’all can’t talk, period; why you think you have them subtitles? Kristal says. I don’t mean to laugh but then I’m laughing.

  Well, it’s kind of true, in a way. I mean, when I watch your movies I have to read the subtitles myself, even if they’re supposed to be in English.

  That’s ’cause you are not smart. And what do you mean my movies, have you ever seen me in them, huh? Marina says, knives in her voice. Kristal laughs and I look out the window at a dog that’s sitting in the back seat of another car and staring straight ahead like it�
�s looking to make sure the driver doesn’t take a wrong turn, like it’s in charge of directions. The construction has just ended and we’re getting back into two lanes.

  And talking about being smart, I must say y’alls are mad smart ’coz otherwise you wouldn’t be able to pull that 419 shit, Kristal says to Marina. The car changes lanes.

  What 419 shit? Marina says.

  She means the scam e-mails; don’t act like you don’t know, I say. Like, Dear Miss Darling, We need your help to wash this black money and you’ll get a million bucks. Or, I’m the manager of this bank and this rich client has died in a plane crash and has no next of kin so can we give the twenty million to you? You know, those kind of crazy e-mails, I have dozens of them in my junk-mail folder right now, all of them from Nigerians, I say.

  I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never seen them, Marina says.

  Well, that’s ’coz y’all be the ones sendin’ them, Kristal says, and I clap my hands and we both laugh.

  That’s not funny, Marina says. She has a crack in her voice so we stop since we are in her mother’s car, after all.

  Anybody know what be the speed limit? Kristal says.

  How does one know that? Do they put up signs for it or something? I say.

  We get to the railroad tracks when the lights are flashing and that bar thingy is descending. Kristal tries to beat the train but she is not fast enough, so, in the end, she slams the brakes, and we’re jolted forward; I have to grab the back of Kristal’s seat to stop myself from crashing into it.

  My bad, my bad, Kristal says.

  You need to watch it, it’s my mother’s car, Marina says.

  Take it easy, big head, didn’t I just say my bad? Kristal says.

  We sit there and watch the train. With the blue ones, you have to wait for only maybe like three minutes and you go, but this is one of those long brown ones so it takes forever; even God didn’t take that long to create stuff.

  Look, look, Marina says, and we look to our left and the dude who’s driving the red car is leaned out and looking into our car like maybe he knows us. When he sticks out his long tongue and wiggles it, Marina squeals.

  That’s nasty, don’t look at his stupid ass, Kristal says, but I steal a glance anyway. When boys do the tongue thing I find it terrifying and interesting. Ahead, the train roars and roars, car after car after car after car. There is graffiti on some of the cars, but I can’t really read it. Then the last of the train passes and the bar thing lifts and we are moving again.

  We park by Borders and we are walking out of the parking lot when right there, next to a black van, I see my car. I don’t even hesitate, I run to it, yelling, My Lamborghini, Lamborghini, Lamborghini Reventón! Maybe I start freaking out, I don’t know, but Marina is pulling me away and asking what’s wrong with me.

  Do you know how much that car costs? she says when we’re out of the parking lot.

  How much? I say.

  Almost a couple of million dollars, she says.

  You’re lying. Millions? For that little car? I say.

  Duh, Kristal says.

  You can Google it; that little car is actually one of the most expensive cars out there, Marina says.

  Well, I say, and leave it there. I stop to let a car pass before I cross over to the entrance of the mall. The thing is, I don’t want to say with my own mouth that if the car costs that much then it means I’ll never own it, and if I can’t own it, does that mean I’m poor, and if so, what is America for, then?

  I look back at the parking lot but I can’t see the Lamborghini among the mass of cars. I crane my neck this way and that but it’s gone, just like a dream that you dream and you know you dreamed it but you can’t even remember what it was. I’m walking a little behind Kristal and Marina now so I can keep glancing back and glancing back. If Bastard and Stina and Chipo and Godknows and Sbho were here, they’d be screaming and teasing and howling with laughter and dying now.

  Inside Borders, an old woman in a red vest with badges all over meets us at the door with a bleached smile and says, How can I help you today, ladies? but we just breeze by like she is air. Kristal is at the front, Marina behind her, and then me. The smell of new books is all around us but we don’t stop to look at anything even though I kind of want to because I don’t hate books. I haven’t read any interesting ones in a while, though, since I’m always busy with the computer and TV. The last book I read was that Jane Eyre one, where the long, meandering sentences and everything just bored me and that Jane just kept irritating me with her stupid decisions and the whole lame story made me want to throw the book away. I had to force myself to keep reading because I had to write a report for English class.

  It’s early in the morning so the mall is a little dead. If this was at home, the place would be throbbing with life already: little kids riding that escalator over there like it would take them to heaven, their screams rising like skyscrapers—you would hear them all the way at Victoria’s Secret on the third floor; the mothers gossiping and laughing on the first floor, taking turns to look up and shout warnings at their children, bodies constantly shuffling about because women never stand still since there is always something to do, always something; the men doing their thing maybe around those benches outside Payless, maybe passing around a Kingsgate cigarette or huddled around a newspaper and maybe talking about football scores in the European League, or the war in Iraq, their voices deep but never rising above those of the women and children because a man’s voice needs to stay low always; and then, in the open space where that Indian girl does threading, the older kids would be dancing to house music, to DJ Sbu and DJ Zinhle and Bojo Mujo, being reckless with their contorting bodies like they know they don’t own them and therefore they don’t care if they break; and in the massage chairs near the elevator, toothless old people sprawled out like lizards basking in the sun, making groaning noises as the massage thingies worked their wilted bodies; and at the telephone near the candle shop, an impatient line queuing to make calls to relatives in places like Chicago and Cape Town and Paris and Amsterdam and Lilongwe and Jamaica and Tunis; in the air, the dizzying aromas of morning foods cutting those perfumed smells from Macy’s to shreds; and maybe, on that little square outside Foot Locker, under the fake tree, someone preaching from a Bible, a small crowd gathered around him, maybe wondering whether to believe or not, litter at their feet and around the mall to show there are people living there.

  A strange feeling is coming over me, and Marina is shouting my name from upstairs, and then I realize I’ve just been lost in thought and they have gone up and left me standing outside the piercing store. I jump on the escalator and head upstairs. On the other escalator, going down, a small man with slicked-back hair is holding on to two large bags of trash. His name tag reads JESUS. We both smile grins because this is what we must do; when we pass, he says, Buenos días, señorita, and I smile even more and say, Buenos días.

  Inside Best Buy, Kristal has headphones over her ears and is nodding hard. Marina is staring at the iPods like she’ll buy one. I stop in front of the posters but then decide to pass when I see the DVDs. I pick up one that says Salt and has Angelina Jolie on the cover. I haven’t really watched any Angelina Jolie movies, but I know that she can go anywhere in the world and get a baby wherever she wants. When I saw that she got that pretty little girl from Ethiopia, I was jealous; I wished she had come to my country when I was little and got me too. I could be Darling Jolie-Pitt right now and living in a mansion and flying around in jets and everything. But then again, she might have picked Sbho, the pretty one.

  When I see a DVD with a guy who’s trying to look like Nelson Mandela, I pick it up, put the Jolie one back. It says Invictus. I haven’t seen the film, but I have heard about it; maybe I’ll ask Aunt Fostalina to pick it up from Blockbuster or ask TK if he can get it from Netflix.

  Whatchu doin’? Kristal says, leaving the music section. She is unwrapping some gum; I hold out my hand and she rolls her eyes,
drops it into my palm, and starts unwrapping a second one.

  Can’t you see I’m looking at Invictus? I say, making like I’ve seen the movie. I pop the gum into my mouth; it’s a spearmint.

  Do you know who this guy is? I say, holding the DVD up so Kristal can see the cover.

  Pssshh, who don’t know Morgan Freeman? she says.

  I know that, I mean who is he playing in the movie?

  Who?

  Nelson Mandela, I say, and I am surprised by the pride in my voice, like maybe I am talking about someone I know, like we used to play country-game together or something.

  Oh yeah, he be that old guy in them printed shirts. I’m finna go to JCPenney, y’all, Kristal says, and she’s already getting out of Best Buy.

  Outside, Marina halts by the jewelry store, where there are the watches. I stop, but Kristal keeps walking toward JCPenney. The watches are both beautiful and important-looking. I put both hands on my waist and laugh.

  What are you laughing at? Marina says.

  Like, the prices are funny. Who would buy a three-thousand-dollar watch? I say.

  Well, if I had the money and could afford it, I totally would. There’s nothing wrong with wanting nice things, Marina says.

  Whatever, I say, and pop my gum in Marina’s ear just to irritate her, then I move on and look at the diamond rings in the next display. They too are expensive, but I know that even if I had all the money in the world, I wouldn’t buy them. Then I see this one ring that looks kind of different from the rest. The ring part is twisted, and the head is made of diamonds that form a cluster like tiny seeds. The price tag says $22,050, and I start to tell Marina that her store is crazy when my teeth miss the gum and I bite the inside of my lip. The pain stings so much I close my eyes and clamp a hand over my mouth, the salty, metallic taste of blood spreading all over my tongue.