I will catch you and you will wish you were never born, you pathetic, fatally miscalculated biological blunder, he says, his mouth all quivering. Then he turns to us like he has just remembered we are there.
Go, get away from here at once. Is this what they teach you at school, huh? To behave like animals? Move, depart! he says.
Ah, we don’t go to school anymore. The teachers left, don’t you even know what is happening? Godknows says. The guard starts saying something but then just stands there like all his big words are gone. You can tell he doesn’t really know what to do with us.
When the small red car comes gliding from down the street the guard takes off towards the other gate. We clap and cheer for him, then we watch the car like maybe it’s a bride. Unlike Stina, I don’t know much about cars, like I can’t look at one and tell you what kind it is, but even I can see that this is an interesting car. It’s low like a child can drive it, with this strange design, all points and edges and creases. Up close, the sound of it is like there’s something humming inside the metal. Stina nods his head, whistles, and laughs. If he could run and hug the car and talk to it, he would.
The guard is already at the gate of the cream house with the big satellite dish and massive grounds. We watch him hold the gate open for the car, standing all tall and puffed up now like he has grown some height and muscle in the last few minutes, like he is actually the owner of the car and whoever had borrowed it is bringing it back to him. When the car passes we see a hand flash a wave. The guard waves back and smiles. He is still waving and smiling long after the buttocks of the car have disappeared into the large yard. He doesn’t look our way and we know he is avoiding us.
Okay. There’s nothing else to do, let’s go, Sbho says.
Yes, let’s get away from this place, he’ll arrest us, Godknows says, and we laugh.
That, right there, was a Lamborghini Reventón, Stina says.
When I go to live with Aunt Fostalina, that’s the kind of car I’ll drive, see how it’s even small like it was made for me? I say. I just know, because of this feeling in my bones, that the car is waiting for me in America, so I yell, My Lamborghini, Lamborghini, Lamborghini Reventón! My voice rings in the empty street and I laugh and do a hop-step-and-jump.
Ah, shut up, you, Bastard says.
Let’s just look for guavas and leave this clown alone, Godknows says.
On Julius Street, we finally find a tree with guavas, not a whole lot but just enough, and we’re in the middle of harvesting when we hear this crazy noise. We look and they are pouring down Julius like angry black water and we know immediately that it was a mistake for us to come to Budapest today. They are just everywhere, walking, rushing, running, toyi-toying, fists and machetes and knives and sticks and all sorts of weapons and the flags of the country in the air, Budapest quivering with the sound of their blazing voices:
Kill the Boer, the farmer, the khiwa!
Strike fear in the heart of the white man!
White man, you have no place here, go back, go home!
Africa for Africans, Africa for Africans!
Kill the Boer, the farmer, the khiwa!
They are going to kill us, Sbho says. I can’t see her face because she is on a branch right behind me, but I know, just from the tremor in her voice, how tears are already streaming down her cheeks and that they will eventually get into her mouth.
I don’t want to die. I want my mother, she says. Now she starts to proper wail like she is a radio and somebody just turned up the volume.
Shut up, what are you doing, you want us to get killed? Godknows says.
Shhhh. Sbho, listen, keep quiet. If we don’t make noise, if we just stay here and be quiet, they won’t see us. They’ll just pass, then we’ll go, Stina says in a whisper, sounding like he is somebody’s sweet mother. Sbho stops the crying but you can still hear her sniffling.
Ah, what, they won’t do anything to us. Me, I’m not even afraid, Bastard says, and we all look down at him. He is sitting on a fat branch, one arm wrapped around the tree, his cracked feet dangling in the air. It’s like he is just striking a pose and is maybe waiting for someone with a camera.
Can’t you hear that they are looking for white people? I’m telling you, they won’t touch us, we’re not white, he says. We watch him spit, reach out for a guava, wipe it on the picture of the rainbow at the front of his T-shirt, and start attacking it in quick bites.
What if they don’t find any white people? Godknows says. Then they’ll come for us.
Stupid nonsense, they always find white people, Bastard says.
The gang has spread out in packs now, and they go about kicking down gates or jumping over Durawalls to get into yards, where they pound on doors, shouting for the people to come out. They are wild, chanting and screaming and yelling and baring teeth and waving weapons in the air, and I’m reminded of the gang that came for Bornfree; that is how they did. One group charges in our direction. They kick down the gate, pass right beneath us. That’s when we notice the guard from before; they have taken his baton stick and bound his wrists behind him. He is walking barefoot now and is looking like the nothing that he really is. If we weren’t up here like this we’d laugh at him.
Then one of them stops, puts his weapons down, and just as we are wondering what will happen, he unzips his trousers, takes his big thing out, and starts urinating against our tree. Now I’m just perched there trembling. Even though I know it won’t do anything, I’ve prayed twice already, to God and then to Jesus’s mother as a just-in-case. There is guava in my mouth, sitting there like a bitter stone; I can’t swallow it and I can’t spit it out. I have all sorts of thoughts in my head, like What are we going to do? What if he looks up? What will they do to us if they find us?
When the man finishes urinating he zips his trousers, gathers his weapons, and rejoins the gang. I have to hold tight because I think I’m just going to faint.
Ah! Did you see how big his thing is? Godknows whispers. We don’t answer.
When I am big my thing will be like that too, he says.
Open up! If you don’t open now, we smash this door. Open now, now now now, open! they yell down below. Then the tall one in the red overalls, the one who’s brandishing an ax, goes to the big window. We hear the sound of shattering glass.
They have broken the window! Godknows says.
Shhhh, shut up, somebody whispers.
Then one of them pounces on the door with a machete and starts hitting it and hitting it, and the others join in with their weapons. The guard is standing to the side as if to say he doesn’t want to be caught doing anything bad. I wonder what his face looks like right now, I wonder what big words he would use for this. They continue with the slashing pounding clobbering, but before they can really break the door down it swings open, and they cheer. Then two white people, a man and a woman, come out of the house looking like rats pulled from a hole.
The man is tall and fat and is wearing khaki shorts and a khaki shirt and a khaki hat, like he is maybe a schoolboy. He is barefoot, which is the first time I’m seeing a white person going barefoot like he is trying to say he can’t afford shoes. His legs are so hairy you could comb them. The woman, who follows behind, is thin like maybe the man eats all her food, like she has the Sickness. She is wearing a black dress and white shoes. We didn’t really know, coming here, that it was a white people’s house.
Then there is this sound, and a small white thing that looks like a toy comes out of the house after the couple.
What is that? Godknows says. At first nobody answers because we are all looking at the thing, trying to see what it is.
It has four legs, it has a tail, it barks, even if it’s a strange bark, Stina says.
It’s a dog! Sbho says. I know, it’s a dog!
Then slowly I realize that indeed it must be a dog, and that the sound is really supposed to be a bark. It’s just a weird bark, like the dog is playing, or is not even used to barking. It’s the littlest dog I
have ever seen. I start to laugh but then I remember where I am and what is happening. The dog rushes towards the gang as if it will gobble somebody up, then it stops suddenly and just stands there barking its crazy little bark. Now the gang is busy killing itself with laughter. Listening to them, you would think that it is what they woke up and told themselves they needed to do for the day: just throw their heads back and laugh long and loud. You would not tell, from the sound of it, that they are also brandishing things that can cut a person and make it rain blood.
But it doesn’t look like a dog, it looks like a plaything and it can’t even bark. How will it bite and kill anybody? How will it hunt? Godknows says.
It’s a white people’s dog, it’s supposed to be strange, Bastard says.
Me, I wouldn’t even be afraid of it, Godknows says.
Then the white woman bends down and scoops the dog into her arms. She cradles it against her chest like she is cradling a baby. The gang explodes with laughter again; I keep thinking they will throw their weapons down and slap each other and clutch their stomachs or something. Then a man in a pink shirt snatches the dog and throws it to somebody, who catches it and throws it to the next person. They are making like they are playing netball now, and they cheer as the dog is passed from one person to another.
The woman throws her hands in the air, exasperated-like. She looks as if she is saying something. We can’t hear her above the noise but you can tell she is begging them to let the dog go. Finally, one of them catches the dog and takes a few steps away from the group, towards our tree.
He’s coming, he’ll see us, somebody whispers, but just as we are wondering what will happen, the man stops. He throws his machete onto the ground, holds the dog in front of him by one paw, so it is dangling in the air like a rag. Then we watch him take a few steps back and shake his leg. Then he extends the leg back and up, and we know he is aiming to kick.
He is going to—somebody starts, but before he even finishes, the man’s leg shoots out and connects. There is a bhu sound and the dog sails in the air like it has borrowed wings. It keeps rising and rising and then finally disappears on the other side of the Durawall with a thud and a sharp yelp. The men in the gang jump up and down and whistle and cheer and scream, Goal!
What do you want? The white man is shouting now, and you can tell that if his voice had teeth, it would devour. Then we see one of them, the only one who is not carrying any weapons, step forward and hand the white man a piece of paper. He does it like a bride, slow and respectful-like, the proper way you are supposed to do with white people. We watch the white man snatch the paper, open it, and look at it for a while, and then his face turns a deeper color, like somebody is cooking it.
What is this? What is this? the white man says, jabbing at the paper with a finger. The anger in his voice is as if there’s a lion inside him. He towers above everyone, head leaning forward as if he is about to do something. The woman is there beside him, wringing her hands.
Can’t you read? You brung English to this country and now you want it explained to you, your own language, have you no shame? one of them says. The guard shifts on his feet like maybe he wants to be asked to read the piece of paper; I think it’s something he would just love doing.
Bloody nonsense! This is illegal, I own this fucking property, I have the papers to prove it, the white man says. The lion inside him is raising its hairs now.
We know, sir. I’m sorry, but it’s just the times, you know. They are changing, you know. Maybe you’ll understand one day this has to be done, you know, says a new voice. It is soothing, like a woman’s, and I’m craning my neck to see what kind of man speaks with a voice like that.
You, stop reasoning with these people, I always tell you that! And quit your bullshit colonial mentality, what are you calling him sir for, is he your father? Are you gonna act like that sellout over there, says the one with the red overalls, who also looks like he is the boss. He points to the guard to indicate sellout, and the guard shrinks away.
And you, stupid white man, we don’t care, you hear me? If you didn’t bring this land with you on a ship or plane from wherever you came from, then we don’t bloody fucking care, says the boss. He is waving his ax in the white man’s face now.
Listen—
What, do you hear him, Sons of the soil, do you even hear him? the boss says, tilting his head towards the gang.
Just like a white man! He has the testicles to tell a black man to listen in his own country. Somebody please tell this white man here that this is not fucking Rhodesia! the boss says. He has turned back to the gang now and is addressing them with his ax in hand. His face is tilted up like he is speaking to us as well. The boss has an ordinary face; his skin is the color of the earth. He turns back to the white man and starts waving the ax again.
Know this, you bloody colonist, from now on the black man is done listening, you hear? This is black-man country and the black man is in charge now. Africa for Africans, the boss says to thunderous applause.
Who are you? the white man says, looking the boss up and down. You can tell from his voice that he despises him, despises them all, and that if he could see us up here, he would despise us as well.
Don’t you know him? This is Assistant Police Commissioner Obey Marima, and watch that tone, white man, because you don’t talk to him like that, talking like you’re shitting, a raspy voice says.
No, you listen, the white man says, like he didn’t just hear the boss warn him about telling black men to listen.
I am an African, he says. This is my fucking country too, my father was born here, I was born here, just like you! His voice is so full of pain it’s as if there is something that is searing him deep in his blood. The lion has bared its fangs now. The veins at the sides of the white man’s neck are like cords, his face dark with anger. But nobody minds him. They are leaving and storming into the house, their chants about Africa for Africans filling the air. The white man and woman remain standing there near the guard like sad plants, just standing and looking after the gang; maybe they are afraid of the weapons and that’s why they don’t try to stop them or follow them inside.
What exactly is an African? Godknows asks.
Shhh, look, Bastard says.
The white man starts tearing the paper in his hands; he rips it and rips it and rips it, throws the pieces onto the ground. Then he starts trampling them with his feet, his enormous legs moving swiftly. A small cloud of dust lifts. He moves like dancing, stomp-stomp-stomp, as if he is hearing a drum somewhere in his head. The woman watches but doesn’t do anything.
Then, as if that is not enough, the white man gets on the ground and starts pummeling it with his fists, just pummeling and pummeling, and I think of Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro when he fights with a demon. I picture the white man’s knuckles cut and bleeding, the brown earth drinking the blood. When he finally, finally stops, maybe because he has worn himself out, and just stays there on all fours, dangling his golden head like he will never look up again, the woman kneels there besides him and lays her hand on his broad back as if she is about to pray for him. Then her shoulders start heaving and heaving and heaving like she is crying for the world. The guard just stands there looking. Then Sbho starts sniffling again.
What, are you crying for the white people? Are they your relatives? Bastard says.
They are people, you asshole! Sbho says in this hard, hot voice we have never heard before, and I almost fall out of the tree because nobody has ever called Bastard that. Never ever. I wait to see what he will do but he is looking at Sbho with confusion on his face.
What are they going to do? Godknows says, and just as the question leaves his lips we hear the sounds of smashing. The white man and woman keep kneeling as if they don’t even hear the noise but the guard is pacing around nervously. I don’t know why he doesn’t run away, it’s not like his legs are tied, like his hands.
Maybe they are killing things, Godknows says, answering himself. We sit there
and listen to the sound of things breaking and crashing and falling and damaging.
I want to be in there, in there smashing things, Bastard says, and he laughs. He has taken out his pocketknife and is stabbing at the tree, tattooing it.
Me, I’m going home; I should have stayed behind with Chipo, I’m going home right now, Godknows says, his voice sounding like somebody who is fed up with playing.
Wait. Wait until they leave, Stina says. Plus, look at the white people still down there, they’ll see us.
I don’t care, I’m going. I’m not even hitting Budapest anymore, Godknows says. He starts to move, but Stina slides down his branch like a snake, reaches, and grabs Godknows by his Don’t Be Mean, Go Green T-shirt. There is a sound of cloth ripping. We sit in silence and wait, Stina holding Godknows by the shirt as if he’s a mad dog that shouldn’t be let loose. Bastard has finished tattooing the tree. It reads Bastad; he has left out the r but I doubt he even knows this.
After a long while, after we are tired from sitting in the tree, the smashing stops and they come out of the house. The boss walks in front, ax dangling at his side. They are no longer making that much noise and they look a little tired even. Like they have been exorcising demons and devils in there. They do not talk to the white people, they just grab them and lead them away, together with the guard, herding them like cattle. When the group passes under our tree, the woman looks up like God whispered to her to look up, like something told her we were up here. I see a black shadow flash over her kind of beautiful face; it’s like she’s a chameleon trying to change color and take ours.
We Need New Names: A Novel Page 9
