We Need New Names: A Novel

by Noviolet Bulawayo

  The pretty woman keeps screaming for the sons of bitches to stop but the sons of bitches keep doing their thing. I try to catch her eye, to make her see that I’m not joining in the activities, that I’m with her, but she is too busy kicking and screaming to see me. The prayers grow louder and louder, some praying properly, some praying in strange languages, some chanting.

  Then Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro raises both his hands for everyone to be quiet. He points his stick at the pretty woman and commands the demon inside her to get the hell out in the name of Jesus, his exact words, and in his most loudest voice. He says more things to the demon and insults it even. When nothing happens, he wipes his forehead with the back of his sleeve, throws the stick to the side, and leaps onto the woman like maybe he is Hulkogen, squashing her mountains beneath him.

  Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro prays for the woman like that, pinning her down and calling to Jesus and screaming Bible verses. He places his hands on her stomach, on her thighs, then he puts his hands on her thing and starts rubbing and praying hard for it, like there’s something wrong with it. His face is alight, glowing. The pretty woman just looks like a rag now, the prettiness gone, her strength gone. I’m careful not to look at her face anymore because I don’t want her to find me looking at her when she is like this. Chipo is just waking up and she is looking around like she was lost but has found herself.

  He did that, that’s what he did, Chipo says, shaking my arm like she wants to break it off. This is the first time in a long time that Chipo is talking, like maybe she has received the Holy Spirit or something. Her voice is shrill in my ear. Around us, the prayers grow louder; everybody is excited that Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro has stopped the woman. The men who brought her are happy, especially the tall one who makes like he is the husband, the church people are happy, Mother of Bones is happy, but I am sad the pretty woman is just lying there under Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro like Jesus after they clobbered him and nailed him on the cross.

  He did that, my grandfather, I was coming from playing Find bin Laden and my grandmother was not there and my grandfather was there and he got on me and pinned me down like that and he clamped a hand over my mouth and was heavy like a mountain, Chipo says, words coming out all at once like she is Mother of Bones. I watch her and she has this look I have never seen before, this look of pain. I want to laugh that her voice is back, but her face confuses me and I can also see she wants me to say something, something maybe important, so I say, Do you want to go and steal guavas?

  Country-Game

  It’s just madness inside Shanghai; machines hoist things in their terrible jaws, machines maul the earth, machines grind rocks, machines belch clouds of smoke, machines iron the ground. Everywhere machines. The Chinese men are all over the place in orange uniforms and yellow helmets; there’s not that many of them but from the way they are running around, you’d think they are a field of corn. And then there are the black men, who are working in regular clothes—torn T-shirts, vests, shorts, trousers cut at the knees, overalls, flip-flops, tennis shoes.

  We stand for a while at the entrance, underneath the huge red banner with the pretty, strange writing we can’t read. We don’t usually come to Shanghai because of how far it is but today MaS’banda, Sbho’s grandmother, made us come and find this man Moshe, who works here, and tell him to come to Paradise because she wants to talk to him, about what, we don’t know. To get here you have to pass Budapest and take Masiyephambili Road, head east all the way until you hit the fenced-off quarry, where not too long ago people were trying to dig for diamonds before the soldiers chased them away. Shanghai is on the other side of the quarry, separated by a bush.

  They did all that already? Sbho says, her voice filled with awe. It’s hard to believe just how much has been done. The last time we came they had only burned the grass and were bringing the machines and things in. Now there’s this skeleton of a building that looks like it wants to belch in God’s face.

  Yes, didn’t I tell you last time that China is a big dog? Was I lying? Isn’t this major, all this? Bastard says, sounding pleased. He makes a sweep with his hand like he is the one who sent the Chinese to build, like they are his boys and are here just to follow his orders.

  And when they get done, it’s going to be something else up in here, just wait and see. Don’t say I didn’t tell you, Bastard says.

  You talk like they are building your house, Stina says.

  So what if they’re not? Major. Major, major, major, Bastard says, chanting the word like it’s a song. He is already starting towards the building and we follow him.

  Around the construction site the men speak in shouts. It’s like listening to nonsense, to people praying in tongues; it’s Chinese, it’s our languages, it’s English mixed with things, it’s the machine noise. Because the men don’t really understand one another, hands and tools often rise in the air to help the language. When we approach the black men shoveling earth into wheelbarrows, some of them pause to watch us. They look like they’ve been playing in dirt all their lives—it’s all over their bodies, their clothes, their hair. They don’t look the way adults always try to look, making like they are in charge, so we pity them a little bit.

  We stand near the pipes and Bastard shouts that we want to see Moshe. Nobody answers us, but after a while the pitch-black one who is all muscles shouts for us to go away. Moshe went to South Africa a few days ago, he says, and he goes back to digging.

  He did the right thing, Bastard says.

  Who? Sbho says.

  Moshe.

  How?

  By going to South Africa. That’s what I would do, instead of working in this kaka place and getting all dirty. Do you see how they look like pigs? Bastard says, and laughs.

  We stand around for a bit but since nobody else talks to us, we walk away from the men. When we get to the tent next to the large yellow Caterpillar we stop and peep to see what’s inside. We are peeping like that and failing to see anything because it’s dark in the tent when out walks this fat Chinese man fastening his belt, catching us. He must be the foreman because unlike the others, he is dressed in proper trousers, shirt, jacket, and tie.

  It’s surprise all over—he is obviously surprised to find us there peeping and we are surprised at being caught but we are more surprised at his fatness; the other Chinese workers here aren’t even half his size, so what is wrong with this one? And then, to add to our surprise even more, the fat man starts ching-chonging to us like he thinks he is in his grandmother’s backyard. He ching-chongs ching-chongs and then he stops, the kind of stop that tells you he is expecting an answer. Chipo giggles.

  This one is crazy, Stina says.

  Yes, somebody told Fat Mangena here that Chinese is our national language now.

  Look at that drum of a stomach, it’s like he has swallowed a country.

  We are still standing there when out walk these two black girls in skinny jeans and weaves and heels. We forget about Fat Mangena and watch them twist past us, the large blue purse of the skinny one grazing my left side. Matching bling hangs around their necks like nooses. They twist past the Caterpillars, past the mountains of gravel, twist past the groups of men who stop working and stare at the girls until they eventually get out of Shanghai and disappear behind the bend near the main road.

  So, you want something? this other regular-sized Chinese man who has come to join Fat Mangena says to us in slow English. This one is a worker; his face is dirty and he is dressed in the orange uniform and helmet, and he carries a rope in one hand, a cigarette in the other. We watch him take a drag, exhale, drag, exhale.

  What are you building? A school? Flats? A clinic? Stina says.

  We build you big big mall. All nice shops inside, Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Versace, and so on so on. Good mall, big, the Chinese man says, flicking ash off his cigarette and looking up at the building. We laugh and he laughs as well, and Fat Mangena laughs too.

  Give us some zhin
g-zhongs. We got some before, Godknows says, getting straight to the point.

  Last time, they gave us a black plastic bag full of things—watches, jewelry, flip-flops, batteries—but like those shoes that Mother bought me once, the items were cheap kaka and lasted us only a few days. But we also got these interesting brown, funny-shaped thingies wrapped in plastic. They were crunchy when we bit into them, and to our surprise we found little white pieces of paper tucked inside. Godknows’s said If you eat a box of fortune cookies, anything is possible. Bastard’s said Your talents will be recognized and suitably rewarded. Chipo’s said If I bring forth what is inside me, what I bring forth will save me. Sbho’s said The nightlife is for you. Stina’s said A new pair of shoes will do you a world of good; lucky numbers 7, 13, 2, 9, 4. And mine said Your future will be happy and productive.

  You get one time is enough. Now you want made in China, you work, nothing free, the Chinese man says.

  Well, you are in our country, that counts for something, Stina says.

  You want us to come at night and defecate all over? Or steal things? Godknows says, and the Chinese man laughs the kind of laugh that tells you he didn’t understand a word. Then he and Fat Mangena start some really serious ching-chonging and we know they are now talking about other things. We wait until we grow tired of it, until Stina says, Let’s just go, they are not giving us anything.

  We are booing and yelling when we walk out of Shanghai. If it weren’t for the noisy machines, the Chinese would hear us telling them to leave our country and go and build wherever they come from, that we don’t need their kaka mall, that they are not even our friends. We are still yelling when we pass the black men but then the one with the muscles steps out to meet us like the Chinese made him a prefect and blocks our way with his giant body. He doesn’t say a single word but we can tell from his face that this one can pinch a rock and make it wince so we shut up there and then and leave Shanghai in silence.

  Okay, it’s like this. China is a red devil looking for people to eat so it can grow fat and strong. Now we have to decide if it actually breaks into people’s homes or just ambushes them in the forest, Godknows says.

  That doesn’t even make sense. Why does it need to grow fat and strong if it’s a devil? Isn’t it all that already? I say.

  We are back in Paradise and are now trying to come up with a new game; it’s important to do this so we don’t get tired of old ones and bore ourselves to death, but then it’s also not easy because we have to argue and see if the whole thing can work. It’s Bastard’s turn to decide what the new game is about, and even after this morning, he still wants it to be about China, for what, I don’t know.

  I think China should be like a dragon, Bastard says. That way, it will be a real beast, always on top.

  I think it must be an angel, Sbho says, with like some superpowers to do exciting things so that everybody will be going to it for help, like maybe pleading or dancing to impress it, singing China China mujibha, China China wo! Sbho says. She is dancing to her stupid song now, obviously pleased with herself. When she finishes she does two cartwheels, and we see a flash of her red knickers.

  What are you doing? Bastard says.

  Yes, sit down, that’s just kaka, who will play that nonsense? Me, I’m drawing country-game, Godknows says, and he picks up a fat stick.

  Soon we are all busy drawing country-game on the ground, and it comes out great because today the earth is just the right kind of wet since it rained yesterday. To play country-game you need two rings: a big outer one, then inside it, a little one, where the caller stands. You divide the outer ring depending on how many people are playing and cut it up in nice pieces like this. Each person then picks a piece and writes the name of the country on there, which is why it’s called country-game.

  But first we have to fight over the names because everybody wants to be certain countries, like everybody wants to be the U.S.A. and Britain and Canada and Australia and Switzerland and France and Italy and Sweden and Germany and Russia and Greece and them. These are the country-countries. If you lose the fight, then you just have to settle for countries like Dubai and South Africa and Botswana and Tanzania and them. They are not country-countries, but at least life is better than here. Nobody wants to be rags of countries like Congo, like Somalia, like Iraq, like Sudan, like Haiti, like Sri Lanka, and not even this one we live in—who wants to be a terrible place of hunger and things falling apart?

  If I’m lucky, like today, I get to be the U.S.A., which is a country-country; who doesn’t know that the U.S.A. is the big baboon of the world? I feel like it’s my country now because my aunt Fostalina lives there, in Destroyedmichygen. Once her things are in order she’ll come and get me and I will go and live there also. After we have sorted the names we vote for the first caller. The caller is the person who stands in the little inner circle to get the game started. Everybody else stands in the bigger circle, one foot in his country, the other foot outside.

  The caller then calls on the country of his choice and the game begins. The caller doesn’t just call on any country, though; he has to make sure it’s a country that he can easily count out. It’s like being in a war; in a war you don’t just start to fight somebody stronger than you because you will get proper clobbered. Likewise in country-game, it’s best to call somebody who is a weak runner so he can’t beat you. Once the caller calls we scatter and run as if the police themselves are chasing us, except for the country that’s been called; that one has to run right into the inner ring and shout, Stop-stop-stop!

  Once everyone stops, the new country in the inner ring then decides who to count out. Counting out is done by taking at least three leaps to get to one of the countries outside. It’s easier to just count out the country closest to the outer ring, meaning whoever did not run that far—you just do your leaps nice and steady; the other country is counted out and has to sit and watch the game. But if you are the new country in the inner ring and cannot count anybody out in three leaps because you were not fast enough to stop the other countries, you pick the next caller and leave the game. It continues like that until there is only one country left, and the last country standing wins.

  We are in the middle of the game, and it’s just getting hot; Sudan and Congo and Guatemala and Iraq and Haiti and Afghanistan have all been counted out and are sitting at the borders watching the country-countries play. We are running away from North Korea when we see the big NGO lorry passing Fambeki, headed towards us. We immediately stop playing and start singing and dancing and jumping.

  What we really want to do is take off and run to meet the lorry but we know we cannot. Last time we did, the NGO people were not happy about it, like we had committed a crime against humanity. So now we just sing and wait for the lorry to approach us instead. The waiting is painful; we watch the lorry getting closer and closer, but it seems far away at the same time, like it’s not even here yet but stuck somewhere else, in another country. It’s the gifts that we know are inside that make it hard to wait and watch the lorry crawl.

  This time the NGO people are late; they were supposed to come on the fifteenth of last month and that month came and went and now we are on another month. We have already cleared the playground because it’s where the lorry will stop. Finally, it arrives, churning dust, like an angry monster. Now we are singing and screaming like we are proper mad. We bare our teeth and thrust our arms upward. We tear the ground with our feet. We squint in the dust and watch the doors of the lorry, waiting for the NGO people to come out, but we don’t stop singing and dancing. We know that if we do it hard, they will be impressed, maybe they will give us more, give and give until we say, NGO, please do not kill us with your gifts!

  The NGO people step out of the lorry, all five of them. There are three white people, two ladies and one man, whom you can just look at and know they’re not from here, and Sis Betty, who is from here. Sis Betty speaks our languages, and I think her job is to explain us to the white people, and them to us. Then
there is the driver, who I think is also from here. Besides the fact that he drives, he doesn’t look important. Except for the driver, all of them wear sunglasses. Eyes look at us that we cannot really see because they are hidden behind a wall of black glass.

  One of the ladies tries to greet us in our language and stammers badly so we laugh and laugh until she just says it in English. Sis Betty explains the greeting to us even though we understood it, even a tree knows that Hello, children means “Hello, children.” Now we are so excited we start clapping, but the other small pretty lady motions for us to sit down, the shiny things on her rings glinting in the sun.

  After we sit, the man starts taking pictures with his big camera. They just like taking pictures, these NGO people, like maybe we are their real friends and relatives and they will look at the pictures later and point us out by name to other friends and relatives once they get back to their homes. They don’t care that we are embarrassed by our dirt and torn clothing, that we would prefer they didn’t do it; they just take the pictures anyway, take and take. We don’t complain because we know that after the picture-taking comes the giving of gifts.

  Then the cameraman tells us to stand up and it continues. He doesn’t tell us to say cheese so we don’t. When he sees Chipo, with her stomach, he stands there so surprised I think he is going to drop the camera. Then he remembers what he came here to do and starts taking away again, this time taking lots of pictures of Chipo. It’s like she has become Paris Hilton, it’s all just click-flash-flash-click. When he doesn’t stop she turns around and stands at the edge of the group, frowning. Even a brick knows that Paris doesn’t like the paparazzi.