by Will McGrath
So I am weighing this Scrabble game very carefully. I am eager to leave behind my student-teaching incompetence and introduce myself as a confident and competent ally. I know it will be impolitic for me to begin my tenure here by waltzing into the lunchtime men’s club, day one, and beating some asses on the Scrabble board—but these teachers will not let me out of the game, overwhelming me with their polite refusals of my refusal.
“Ah, no,” they say, smiling. “It is a must.”
Finally I cave, deciding it is worse to seem standoffish. But first I settle on a few personal ground rules: no show-off words; definitely no challenging anyone’s words; don’t win by too much; get in, get out, have fun, be gracious in victory. Their board is held together with masking tape and the racks for the tiles are all missing. Makalo holds his pieces cupped in his hands. Pheko has his tiles tucked into the slots of a chalkboard eraser. Maybe the word to describe my condition would be PRE-GLOATING, which is not an acceptable Scrabble play since it is both hyphenated and non-real.
Then the game begins and these guys start dropping words like DATUM and XYLEM, not just hitting the words but hitting double-and triple-word scores every time, making two and three horizontal words out of every vertical. Within moments I am trailing by forty points, then eighty. I am flailing. I am undone. This much should have been obvious from the outset.
On one turn, I lay out the word TREE. Lebo, who is sitting next to me, notes that I can use my S to make it TREES and reach a doubleword score. I am a charity case.
Then the trash talk starts. Pheko hits a triple-word score and gets “Ah, the wonders of the Lord will never cease” from Katleho. Linkoe lays down a bogus word, gets challenged, and loses his turn—which prompts Baholo to comment: “He has been smote.” All trash talk is done in King James English.
Makalo, who is in the lead, puts down the word MOUV. Everyone yells, grabbing for the dictionary to challenge, but Makalo laughs and rearranges the letters into OVUM. Just keeping everyone on point.
In the meantime, I am able to land the word TAN. Three points.
Baholo follows me with JINK. Forty points.
But here I am at a crossroads. JINK is clearly not a word. After staring at it for a moment, I realize that he is aiming for JINX, which would indeed be a strong word. But K is not X any way you look at it.
Baholo and Makalo are separated by just a few points, and JINK boosts Baholo into the lead. Everyone is staring at JINK, trying to decide whether to challenge. No one wants to risk forfeiting a turn this late in the game—they are silently calculating this against the possible points they have in hand.
I consider the situation. On the one hand, I had previously decided not to challenge anyone’s words. But on the other, I am the only one in a position to truly know whether the word is legit or not. I ask myself, Is it not my responsibility to see a fair outcome to the game?
But I chicken out. I let JINK slide. Baholo wins and Makalo angrily tosses his remaining tiles onto the board. I have finished in seventh place out of seven: LAST, four points.
After he returns the board and tiles to the box, Baholo, my supervisor, puts his arm around me. “My brother,” he says—addressing me forever with this same endearment—“My brother, I was so curious to see if anyone would challenge my word.”
He is smiling his victorious smile.
“I was so curious.”
He flips open the dictionary.
“But if they challenged me—hei!—they were going to get a surprise.”
He is at H, then I, then J.
“They were going to get hit”—he is paging through the J section—“hit so hard.”
Then he finds what he is looking for, sitting at the top of the page, first word in the column—JINK: v. intr. to make a quick evasive turn, to dodge, to change direction abruptly.
Baholo smiles at me and snaps the dictionary shut.
CALL ME MOSHOESHOE
We have strolled into town this Saturday to watch the conclusion of Lesotho’s annual high-altitude marathon, which culminates in a sprint along the wind-whipped main drag through Mokhotlong. Hundreds of townspeople have gathered along the road. As we walk, I consider the logistics involved in running this marathon. The lowest point in Lesotho is 1,400 meters above sea level—almost 5,000 feet up—the highest low-point in the world. The elevation here in Mokhotlong District, where I get shortness of breath from chewing too quickly, ranges between 7,000 and 11,000 feet. The runners will be finishing this 26.2-mile race, along these murderous gravel roads, up these rollercoaster grades, with times just over two hours.
We head toward the finish line, scouting for prime spectating locations. Nthabeleng and her sister Kokonyana have joined Ellen and me this morning.
“Hey, Moshoeshoe!” Nthabeleng yells at me. “Get moving or I’m going to watch this race from your shoulders!”
Kokonyana, who works on the NGO’s outreach team, begins laughing her giddy round-cheeked laugh. “Yes, yes, Moshoeshoe, you must make haste!”
Both Nthabeleng and Kokonyana delight in addressing me by my Sesotho name. They do it as often as possible, in front of as many people as possible.
If you live in Lesotho for any amount of time, you will acquire a Sesotho name, unless you are unloved or possibly unlovable. Strangers along the road will fall into step beside you and—after inquiring into your business in the country—will inevitably direct the conversation toward your Sesotho name.
“Ah no,” they will say, “it is a must. You must take the Sesotho name.” They will then suggest an appropriate name. Several strangers suggested I take the name Mpho, which means gift, and which is a girl’s name.
But perhaps this underscores why Sesotho names are objectively excellent: they literally mean something. Maybe you have heard a new parent declare, “We named him David, which means beloved.” This is only true if you live in ancient Samaria. In North America, in the present day, David means David. Sesotho names are far more fascinating, however. One boy I know carries the name Lebuajoang, which means “How do you say?”—word for word—Le bua joang? Rethabile, a joyous and jowly baby who lived at the safe home for several months, literally means “We are happy”—Re thabile—which is something you might declare if Rethabile were your child. As a final example, the Sesotho word for “dog” is ntja, the word for “mother of dog” is mantja, and Mantja—a delightful woman who works on the outreach team—has parents with distinctly non-Western taste in names.
The point I am trying to make, though, is that I didn’t want a girl’s name. This is why I asked Nthabeleng to give me a new Sesotho name.
“Something regal,” I tell her. “Something befitting my stature.”
“Ache, uena,” she sighs. “You are regal like a fariki.”
But she plays along. Nthabeleng stares me down for a second, sweeping over me with a coolly analytical eye. “Okay, you can be Moshoeshoe.” A pause. “And for the surname, you will take Mochochonono. From now on we can call you Moshoeshoe Mochochonono.”
She is grinning now.
“A real Mosotho man.”
It becomes clear the following day that there is something unusual about my Sesotho name. When I introduce myself as Moshoeshoe
Mochochonono, the man I am talking with falls off his stool laughing. He is drunk, I should note, and we are in a bar, but still—his reaction suggests some irregularities with my new sobriquet. This is confirmed when I deploy it again and the female bartender yells: “Ah ah—it cannot be!”
When I confront Nthabeleng with these results, she begins shouting. “You said you wanted a regal name, uena! Now you are blaming me?”
A bit of context for those unfamiliar with southern African history.
Moshoeshoe: founder and first king of Lesotho.
Moshoeshoe: national icon, hero, saint.
Moshoeshoe: person of first-name-only importance, like Oprah or Prince or Jesus.
When I press her on the matter, Nthabeleng admits that the last name was th
e funniest-sounding surname she could think of on the fly. “For Basotho people, it is too much.”
She makes this clear with a demonstration, pursing her lips and gumming over my new name: “MO-SHWAY-SHWAY MO-CHO-CHO-NO-NO! MO-SHWAY-SHWAY MO-CHO-CHO-NO-NO!”
In the United States, it would be something like having the name Georgewashington Humperdinck.
Back at the finish line, we have staked out an excellent vantage point and are chatting with some locals. As they greet people, Nthabeleng and Kokonyana refuse to introduce me by anything other than Moshoeshoe Mochochonono. But I must admit that I have grown fond of my new Sesotho moniker, in part because I have learned that the original Moshoeshoe was a brilliant and charismatic roughneck-savant, the kind of guy you’d get Denzel to play in the movie.
Moshoeshoe came to prominence in the 1820s as a cattle raider, cattle being the ultimate status symbol of southern Africa. Moshoeshoe was so skilled at making cattle disappear from nighttime mountain pastures that people soon began addressing him by the praise name of, well, “Moshoeshoe,” which translates roughly as “The Shaver” or “The Razor.” Say it out loud—MO-SCHWAY-SCHWAY—and you will understand its onomatopoetic nature. The sound you hear is that of an upstart no-name as he shaves clean the grazing land of rival chiefs, psychologically shearing them of their manhood.
Over several years, as Moshoeshoe accumulated cattle—as well as increased reputation, status, and power—he began to amass that most valuable of natural resources: allies. Neighboring tribes began to willingly offer their allegiance; other local groups fell into conflict, but Moshoeshoe—who always favored the non-violent path—never stepped on vanquished foes and was wise enough to let assimilated chieftains rule over their own people. During his transition from genial highwayman to regional power player, tribal warfare was raging through southern Africa, and Shaka Zulu and his armies had left thousands of families uprooted and wandering. Always a canny strategist, Moshoeshoe offered shelter to these refugees as long as they operated under his brand. In a further act of generosity fused with psychological leveraging, the Razor dipped into his massive bovine war chest and doled out cattle to the refugee families, cattle that essentially became their property. Under this system of mafisa, everybody won: the newly moneyed refugees swore their lives to Moshoeshoe and the ranks of the Sotho swelled.
(And while perhaps enough has been said about Moshoeshoe’s general decency in a time of political vacuum—which additionally included instituting a system of direct democracy, abolishing the death penalty, and forbidding the cultural practice of killing “witches”—it is also worth noting that he publicly forgave the enemy chief who killed and ritualistically ate Moshoeshoe’s own grandfather.)
The man had an innate understanding of human behavior, but his knowledge of the land around him secured his legacy as Pater Patriae. As his nation grew, he established his headquarters on a flat-topped mountain that doubled as a natural fortress. This spot offered abundant fresh water, plentiful pastureland, a commanding view over his kingdom, and only a handful of easily defensible mountain passes.
So when the Ndebele, another powerful regional group, decided to take a shot at Moshoeshoe, he crushed them, literally. As the Ndebele doggedly picked their way through the mountain passes, the now-numerous Basotho rolled boulders down on top of them. And then, in a gesture that can only be labeled “Moshoeshoe-ian,” he sent a hecatomb of fattened cattle after the retreating Ndebele. It was simultaneously a peace offering and a taunt: “Good game” and “Fuck you.” And it was practical too: the limping Ndebele lived off the cattle on their way home, surviving to inflate the myth of the Razor, the man who dropped boulders on them and sent them away with a consolation feast.
At the height of his power, Moshoeshoe even defeated the British, twice. In 1851, the Brits, who had always been looming in the distance, decided it was time to assert their authority over this native rabble-rouser. A soon-to-be-disgraced Major Warden sent a force of one thousand men up the mountain; Moshoeshoe promptly sent them back down again. A year later, a British force of twenty-five hundred arrived, led by a man named Cathcart. They were properly equipped this time and intent on humbling Moshoeshoe in front of any other indigenous troublemakers who might be watching. The British invaders were quite surprised then when Moshoeshoe and his rifle-wielding Basotho cavalry fought them to a standstill—a second very public humiliation for the colonizers.
But Moshoeshoe was a pragmatist, a man who knew his limits. By the mid-1860s, he was starting to lose the total control he had once exercised and he was unsure who his successor would be. Even worse, the Boers—Dutch Calvinist frontiersmen—were chipping away at his territory in increasingly bloody battles. Over the course of just thirty years, Moshoeshoe had coaxed a fragile nation of almost 200,000 people from a handful of decentralized farmers and cattlemen. He wanted to see that nation endure.
The Razor was no bridge-burner; he had left his interactions with the British on honorable terms. After repulsing Cathcart in 1852, Moshoeshoe famously sent a letter declaring Cathcart victorious in his loss, an olive branch that was snatched up by the British. In 1866, Moshoeshoe reached out with an offer of annexation. The Basotho would voluntarily come under British rule as long as they could maintain a sense of national identity.
In 1868, the British colony of “Basutoland” came into existence.
By 1870, Moshoeshoe was dead.
I am thinking about my namesake as we stand near the marathon’s finish line. I take in our surroundings, this nation that he cultivated. The land is rugged in extremis, the ring of peaks across the ravine reaching 8,000 feet, the lone road into town tiptoeing along a gorge where the Senqu River ribbons below. I can almost see the boulders careening down through the valley, can almost hear the armed Sotho galloping through on horseback.
Suddenly the crowd begins to stir. Runners appear on the horizon, out past the edge of town, where a wooden sign requesting Kena ka khotso leans against the wind. We push forward, eager to take in the finale of this grand human agon. Shepherds rein in their horses and draw alongside. These beasts, with eighty-kilogram sacks of maize meal strapped to their backs, stamp and whinny in the dust. From here the shepherds will continue on to cattle posts further up in the mountains, where they will wait out solitary nights.
In the distance, we hear sirens. Two police motorcycles tear down the road, lights flashing, clearing the course for the leaders, sponsored international athletes testing themselves up here in the clouds. There are two men in full sprint, separated by no more than a foot. The crowd comes awake, living in that symbiotic moment of spectator and athlete, the crowd driving the runners onward. The two men stride, a sheen of sweat on their faces, bound at the hip by an invisible cord. We watch the pulse of muscle, the translation of energy along pavement, the striking ugliness of the human body at its limits. The man in the lead is barely able to maintain his foot of separation as he leans through the finish line. We cheer and clap and we are satisfied in some general way.
But there is a third man back.
No one else is in sight. This man, he cannot compete with the first two. He is clearly a great runner, but he is not a sponsored athlete. He has separated himself and will take third easily, but we can see it—we in the crowd—we understand that he will never win these races.
And then, rather suddenly, the man has competition: not other runners, to be clear, but a pickup truck that has swerved madly into the road behind him, bearing down hard. The truck is close on his heels now, four people in the cab and ten people in back. They are standing and yelling and seem to be urging this nameless runner on.
Kokonyana begins waving her arms, then looks back at us with wide eyes: this man is from Mokhotlong!
“Tiea! Tiea! Tiea!” she shouts—“Strength! Strength! Strength!”—as she dashes into the course after him, after the truckload of cheerleaders, laughing as she goes. And Nthabeleng is off after her, bellowing, “O tla fibla!”—“Almost there!” The crowd is roar
ing for their native son, even the impassive shepherds cheering. He will take third!
As I watch him run, I remember a race back in Chicago, a high school cross-country meet where my sister Anne, eight years younger than me, was competing. At Montrose Beach, Lake Michigan sweeps out to the eastern horizon, and just inland there are hundreds of high school runners from across city and state, a giddy throng of hormonal youth navigating the course in heats. Meanwhile, I am staring out at the churning lake, doing my best impression of a Caspar David Friedrich painting: I am a young man contemplating some important matter of metaphysics, in my early twenties and dwelling in whatever solipsistic embrace that implies. Then I catch a glimpse of my teenage sister chugging up the Great Hill, that devious course killer—she is lanky and flushed and working hard, maybe fifteen and somewhere back in the pack—and before I can process how exactly it has happened I find myself at the course ropes, shouting her name. There is no time to consider whether this aligns with my romantic posturing.
“Anne!” I am screaming. “Anne!”—it is all I can think to say—and she passes by with her eyes on the ground, a look around her mouth that is either amusement or annoyance or some blend of the two. I watch her go, surprised to find tears in my eyes.
The man from Mokhotlong passes and the crowd thunders its approval. I can see his face twisted in agony and a strange wave of pride washes through me, a visceral full-body shudder.
I want to reach out to him, I want to call out his name.
VALENTINE’S DAY
On Wednesday, out at the high school, I find an unsigned note in my mailbox. I have just come from teaching my Form D math class where we have been exploring the vibrant mysteries of Venn Diagrams. This is what the note says: