Upstairs, I look out the window of Aunt Fostalina’s bedroom at the cemetery across the road. The first thing you notice is all those decorations, like they are maybe trying to tell you that death is beautiful. At the entrance is a large concrete thingy with letters in a language I don’t know, on top of which lies a big sculpture of a reclining woman, her head resting to the side. She is covering her face with one hand as if to say there’s too much sun in life, as if to say she doesn’t want to be disturbed.
All over the cemetery are beautiful sculptures of angels: an angel looking at the sky, an angel asleep on a stone slab, an angel carrying a dove, an angel with a hand on the heart, an angel kneeling in front of a fountain. Looking at them like that, you would think that angels are common things that run around the place in real life, like cats and dogs and cockroaches and cars. The graveyard itself is covered in green grass, and all over are trees that cast long shadows in the day. And then there are the tombstones; some look like little houses, some look like castles, some just look strange, but they are all interesting.
Whenever I look at the cemetery I always think of Father lying at Heavenway, where they buried him, his grave nothing but a mound of red earth, and I almost wish that he too were buried somewhere beautiful, where you can see why it is that when they bury the dead they say, Rest in peace. When we moved here from Detroit and I first saw the cemetery, I didn’t even know it was a place of the dead; I thought it was just a museum of something, another interesting place where interesting things happened. The road that divides our house from the cemetery is a smooth belt, and I always wonder where exactly it would end if I followed it. In America, roads are like the devil’s hands, like God’s love, reaching all over, just the sad thing is, they won’t really take me home.
There are two homes inside my head: home before Paradise, and home in Paradise; home one and home two. Home one was best. A real house. Father and Mother having good jobs. Plenty of food to eat. Clothes to wear. Radios blaring every Saturday and everybody dancing because there was nothing to do but party and be happy. And then home two—Paradise, with its tin tin tin.
There are three homes inside Mother’s and Aunt Fostalina’s heads: home before independence, before I was born, when black people and white people were fighting over the country. Home after independence, when black people won the country. And then the home of things falling apart, which made Aunt Fostalina leave and come here. Home one, home two, and home three. There are four homes inside Mother of Bones’s head: home before the white people came to steal the country, and a king ruled; home when the white people came to steal the country and then there was war; home when black people got our stolen country back after independence; and then the home of now. Home one, home two, home three, home four. When somebody talks about home, you have to listen carefully so you know exactly which one the person is referring to.
Two days ago, the president of our country came on TV during the BBC news. He was raising his fists and speaking, saying how our country is a black man’s home and would never be a colony again and what-what. Aunt Fostalina snatched the remote control from the coffee table, pointed it at the TV like it was a gun, and shot. We all turned to look at her, sitting there, shaking, her face suddenly ugly like she was chewing some thorns. TK, who is no longer a fat boy because he has started lifting weights and now looks like Will Smith in Ali, started to laugh but then he stopped himself, maybe because of the look on Aunt Fostalina’s face.
Uncle Kojo grabbed the remote and changed the channel back. Aunt Fostalina glared at him for a while, then got up and left the room without saying anything. On TV, the president said, just after Aunt Fostalina left, as if he were telling a secret and he had been waiting for Aunt Fostalina to leave before he could say it: We don’t mind sanctions banning us from Europe; we are not Europeans, and Uncle Kojo threw his fists in the air and pumped them real hard. Then he saluted the TV and shouted, Tell them, Mr. President, tell these bloody colonists. Then he was grinning, looking first at TK, and then at me.
That there, boys, is the only motherfucker with balls on our continent. Africa’s leading statesman! he said. Me and TK looked at each other, puzzled, and then we smiled, and then we exploded in laughter because it was the first time we heard Uncle Kojo using that word, motherfucker, and so it sounded interesting and beautiful. TK was still laughing when he left the living room and went up the stairs. Later, when I got onto Facebook, he had told the story there and there were so many likes and LOLs on his wall.
I’m on my third Capri Sun now, and my stomach is so full of guava and liquid it could burst. I just ate the last of the guavas and already I have this sadness thinking about the length of time, maybe years, before I will taste guava again. Aunt Fostalina is busy trying to order her push-up bra on the phone, and you can hear that she and whoever she is speaking to are having issues. The problem with English is this: You usually can’t open your mouth and it comes out just like that—first you have to think what you want to say. Then you have to find the words. Then you have to carefully arrange those words in your head. Then you have to say the words quietly to yourself, to make sure you got them okay. And finally, the last step, which is to say the words out loud and have them sound just right.
But then because you have to do all this, when you get to the final step, something strange has happened to you and you speak the way a drunk walks. And because you are speaking like falling, it’s as if you are an idiot, when the truth is that it’s the language and the whole process that’s messed up. And then the problem with those who speak only English is this: they don’t know how to listen; they are busy looking at your falling instead of paying attention to what you are saying.
I have decided the best way to deal with it all is to sound American, and the TV has taught me just how to do it. It’s pretty easy; all you have to do is watch Dora the Explorer, The Simpsons, SpongeBob, Scooby-Doo, and then you move on to That’s So Raven, Glee, Friends, Golden Girls, and so on, just listening and imitating the accents. If you do it well, then before you know it, nobody will ask you to repeat what you said. I also have my list of American words that I keep under the tongue like talismans, ready to use: pretty good, pain in the ass, for real, awesome, totally, skinny, dude, freaking, bizarre, psyched, messed up, like, tripping, motherfucker, clearance, allowance, douche bag, you’re welcome, acting up, yikes. The TV has also taught me that if I’m talking to someone, I have to look him in the eye, even if it is an adult, even if it’s rude.
I don’t know why Aunt Fostalina doesn’t think to learn American speech like this, seeing how it would make her life easier so she wouldn’t have to have a hard time like she is right now.
I said the Angel Collection, Aunt Fostalina is saying. She has muted the TV and raised the volume on the handset so I can hear the other person as well; she sounds like a bored young girl.
I’m sorry, what? I mean, I didn’t quite hear that, maybe it’s my line. I can picture her head cocked, the young girl, a frown of concentration on her face.
Angel, angel, angel, Aunt Fostalina says, raising her voice even louder.
There is silence, like maybe the girl is getting ready to pray.
Ah-ngeh-l, Aunt Fostalina adds helpfully, dragging out the word like she is raking gravel. I silently mouth—enjel. Enjel. I hear the girl make a small sigh.
I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean, ma’am, she says finally. You can tell from her voice that she is getting tired from trying to understand.
What do you mean, you don’t know what I mean? You don’t understand what I’m saying? Such a simple word! Aunt Fostalina says. She is speaking with her hands and head now, and I can tell from her knotted face that if the girl doesn’t get it soon, it’s not going to be good. I clear my throat to remind Aunt Fostalina that I’m in the room so maybe she will ask me to speak for her, but she doesn’t. Now she has scribbled the word angel all over the magazine, and the naked woman with the bra and underwear is all clothed in black ink, the let
ters like tiny angry insects.
Ma’am, I’m terribly sorry we’re having these—difficulties. But we have a website that you can ord— the girl on the phone starts, her voice suddenly lifting. You can tell that she is pleased with the fact that she has thought of the website, that things are going to work out after all. I am relieved as well, and I start thinking maybe I should run upstairs and grab my MacBook for Aunt Fostalina to use. I get up from the couch.
No, I am not. Ordering. Online, Aunt Fostalina says firmly, separating her words now, which is never a good sign. I sit back down. She pokes the Victoria’s Secret woman’s face with a pen as she says each word.
I am not ordering online. I am speaking in English, so as far as I’m concer—
Maybe you can spell it? Now the girl sounds like she is getting annoyed, like maybe she is saying some serious insults inside her head that she can’t say out loud.
Mnncccc, now you want me to spell it? Aunt Fostalina says. She looks at me like she can’t believe what she is hearing, but I look away at the TV; the woman is gone, there’s a new one sitting on an exercise ball. I’m waiting for Aunt Fostalina to tell the girl on the phone off because that’s what she sounds like she’s getting ready to do, but something changes her mind and she sits up and starts to spell.
It’s A, Aunt Fostalina says. Her voice is a bit calmer. She has written the letter on the magazine, as if to be sure.
Okay, A as in apple—
Not apple. A as in anus, it’s a different sound. N as in no. G as in God. E as in eat. L as in Libya. There, you go, angel. Angel. Angel, Aunt Fostalina says.
There is a brief silence, like maybe the girl is considering what she has written, and then she says, Oh! You mean enjel!
Yes, angel, that’s what I was trying to tell you all this time. I want a red one, Aunt Fostalina says, rolling her r, the sound of it like something is vibrating inside her mouth, and I promise myself I’ll never ever sound like that.
When Aunt Fostalina gets off the phone with the Victoria’s Secret lady, she dials a number that must be busy because she quickly hangs up. She immediately dials another, and she has to hold for a little while before I hear her leave a message, in our language, for the other person to call her back. I know the reason Aunt Fostalina is calling is that she needs to tell the Victoria’s Secret story to someone in our language, because this is what you must do in America whenever something like this happens. You have to tell it to someone who knows what you mean, who will understand exactly what you say, and that it is not your fault but the other person’s, someone who knows that English is like a huge iron door and you are always losing the keys.
After leaving her message, Aunt Fostalina just sits there as if something important is happening inside her and she is waiting for it to come out, kneel in front of her, and announce that it’s finished and can it please go attend to other business. She also has this look—I have seen it many times before but I still don’t know whether to call it pain or anger or sadness, or whether it has a name. I am careful not to meet her eyes as she puts her card back in her purse, and then gets up, walk downstairs to the basement, and slams the door shut behind her.
I know that she will turn on the lights as she descends the creaking stairway, that she will take small measured steps like there is something down there that she dreads, that when she gets to the bottom, she will stand in front of the mirror that covers one wall and look at her reflection. I know that she won’t be looking at her thinness but at her mouth. I know that she will stand there and start the conversation all over and say out loud, in careful English, all the things that she meant to say, that she should have said to the girl on the phone but did not because she could not find the words at the time. I know that in front of that mirror, Aunt Fostalina will be articulate, that English will come alive on her tongue and she will spit it like it’s burning her mouth, like it’s poison, like it’s the only language she has ever known.
This Film Contains Some
Disturbing Images
Marina is from Nigeria and thinks she is the princess of Africa just because her grandfather was a chief or something over there and she wears all these colorful traditional outfits, never mind they are ugly and make her look like an old woman. Kristal thinks that since she taught us to wear makeup and has a weave, she is better than Marina and myself, but the truth is she can’t even write a sentence correctly in English to show that she is indeed American. They are my friends mostly because we live on the same street, and we’re all finishing eighth grade at Washington Academy. Right now the three of us are hanging out at the basement of my house.
These days, when we get off school we hurry home to watch flicks. We always do it at my house because there’s nobody there in the afternoons since Aunt Fostalina and Uncle Kojo are always at work, and TK comes home only to sleep, like this is a hotel. When we come in from school we fling our book bags by the door and head straight to the downstairs computer. Before, we used to watch XTube, but now we have discovered RedTube, which is way classier and doesn’t have many viruses.
We’ve been watching the flicks in alphabetic order so we’re not all over the place. So far, we’ve seen amateur; we’ve seen anal, which was plain disgusting; we’ve seen Asian, which was respectful; we’ve seen big tits and blond and blow job; we’ve seen bondage, which was creepy; we’ve seen creampie and cumshot, which were both nasty; we’ve seen double penetration, which was scary; we’ve seen ebony, which made us embarrassed; we’ve seen facials, which was dirty; we’ve seen fetish, which was strange; we’ve seen gangbang, which was like a crime; we haven’t seen gay, since we were afraid of it, so we skipped it; we’ve seen group, which was nasty; we’ve seen hentai, which was exciting; we’ve seen Japanese, which was quiet; and we’ve seen lesbian, which was interesting. Today we are watching MILF, and since it’s Kristal’s turn, she makes a pick and clicks on Play.
The flick begins with this dude in a ski mask breaking into a home, and immediately I start wondering if I locked the door upstairs, which is something Aunt Fostalina always insists I do when I get back from school. I can’t remember if I did, but I don’t want to go and check so I just tell myself that I locked it. The break-in guy in the flick is wasting time, just fooling around, peeking through a window and then taking a tool out of his pocket to pry the window open. After a while, he is hoisting himself up, taking his time still. When he has half his body in, Marina says, Fuck this, and reaches for the computer to fast-forward.
When Marina starts the film again, the man is already inside the woman, so she rewinds a little bit, stops it when the woman is getting up from her knees, licking her lips like she has just kissed some sugar. Now we can see that the man is really a young guy, but still, his thing is like a man’s. The woman looks much older, like she could be his mother or something. We see her walk toward the railing that divides the large living room into two, her oiled skin glimmering in the light. She has a tattoo of a red and green flower growing all over her drooping left buttock and finally curling around her thigh.
The woman gets to the rails, hikes up her long leg on one of the metal thingies, and grips a pole with both hands for support, her nails looking bloody against the white metal. I’m looking at her purple high-heeled shoes and wondering how anyone can stand on those things. The boy comes up behind her, his thing like a snake in front of him. I reach forward and click on Mute because when the real action starts we always like to be the soundtrack of the flicks.
We have learned to do the noises, so when the boy starts working the woman we moan and we moan and we groan, our noise growing fiercer with each hard thrust like we have become the woman in the flick and are feeling the boy’s thing inside us, tearing us up. We stop briefly when the woman takes her leg down from the railing and bends over, still grasping the pole. Now the boy is pumping grinding digging. We imagine he is fire and we scream as if we are burning in hell. Usually Kristal is the loudest because she has a high-pitched voice, but today Marina surpass
es us all.
I’m finna play it again, Kristal says after we get to the end of the short clip and we’re sitting there staring at the screen. Kristal’s voice is low, like she is maybe dying of thirst. She is already leaning toward the computer.
What happens to the thing when men sit on the toilet to do a number two? Marina says.
It looks like it would dangle and dip into the water, I say.
Don’t you think they would have to bring their legs together like this, Marina says, drawing her knees together like she’s getting ready to sit a baby on her thighs. Then she cradles her hand on top of where the thighs meet, making like it’s a man’s thing.
There, like that, it makes more sense that way, she says.
Upstairs, the phone is screaming; I’ve been ignoring it ever since the flick started and I don’t want to go and get it.
Answer the phone and git it over with, damn, Kristal says, and I want to tell her that she shouldn’t forget whose house it is, but instead I say, Be right back, don’t start without me.
When I see the 011-263 on the caller ID I know it’s somebody from home and I start to get worried. These days, with all that’s happening, whenever you see a number from home you start freaking out because the call could be about anything. Like last week, Aunt Fostalina’s friend MaDumane called to say her husband, who works for the newspaper, had been taken by the police in the middle of the night for the things he had written. The police banged on the door, and the husband had gone to look and they seized him like that, wearing nothing but shorts. He has not been seen or heard from since.
And then, in another phone call, Aunt Fostalina’s cousin NaSandi called to say her son, Tsepang, who was my age, had been eaten by a crocodile as he tried to cross the Limpopo River to South Africa. I still remember playing with Tsepang one Christmas when we were little. That was also the Christmas Father bought me a yellow BMX bike, and me and Tsepang took turns riding it around the neighborhood until he rode straight into a nest of thorns. He cried until no sound came out of his throat.
We Need New Names: A Novel Page 15
