I head for the corner with the large storage boxes and quickly find one labeled HOMELAND DECORATIONS, ETC. I toss the lid aside and just start rummaging. Before long, I find this batik the size of a beach towel. It’s a painting of a market scene and it’s crazy with life and color, people selling things—fruits, vegetables, foodstuffs, colorful beads and cloth, handbags, belts, animal carvings, just anything you can think of. There’s children, women, men, women with babies on their backs, old people, a couple of dogs, a bicycle, everybody and everything alive under a bright blue sky.
Looking at the cloth I’m remembering how beautiful it felt to be in a real scene like that, everybody just there together, mingling together, living together, before things fell apart. I begin to feel this ache in my heart that always comes when I think of home these days, so I put the batik aside and do some more digging. I find a medium-sized copper clock in the shape of the map of our country. There is a drawing of a giraffe in the center, reaching above some trees where the hands of the clock meet. The time is stuck at six o’clock, and the long hand is broken. And last, I find this weird mask; it’s split in the center, one half white, the other black. The black half is split further in numerous crazy patterns that I can’t figure out, but it looks interesting to me so I take it and the other stuff upstairs to my room.
When I have finished covering the wall, the mask is looking at me with the puzzling face; it’s like it’s trying to tell me something that will take years for me to understand. Next to it, the clock telling a broken time. And finally, on the other side of the dresser, the batik market is mad busy. I imagine I can hear all sorts of things—vendors singing their wares, some calling out to me to buy things at reduced prices; boys whistling sweet tunes to girls; babies crying out for sweets: the voices of children singing Who discovered the way to India? and playing Andy-over; the mothers’ laughter rising above everything else.
I stand there looking at the decorations like that, and then I remember this artifact that I found at Eliot’s place when I was cleaning the other day. I get on my knees and reach under the bed, where I hid it. It’s an ivory slab the shape of the African map, and right in the center of it is carved an eye. The rest of the slab is these intricate designs of various patterns.
When I saw the slab at Eliot’s, sitting there with the other artifacts he’d bought on his world trips, it felt like the eye was looking at me so the right thing to do was to steal the ivory map. I hang it right above my bed and look around my room; it looks complete, but I feel like I’m not because I’m busy thinking about home and l feel like I can’t breathe from missing it. It’s a heavy feeling that I know will not go away so I pull out my Mac and get on Skype to call Mother.
It’s Chipo who answers the phone. At first I can’t even tell it’s Chipo; I think I’m speaking to a grown woman. When she tells me who she is, I am surprised to find her at my mother’s house because surely she is too old for guavas now. Still, I think it’d be rude to ask what she is doing there so I don’t bring it up.
Where are the others? I say, after we greet each other.
Bastard finally went to South Africa. Godknows is in Dubai. Sbho joined this theater group and I hear they’ll be traveling and performing all over the world soon, she says.
And Stina? I say.
Oh, Stina? Stina is around but I’m not quite sure what his deal is. Sometimes he is here, sometimes he disappears for long spells at a time.
So it’s just you all alone? I say.
I’m not alone, I have Darling here, she says.
Darling?
Yes, Darling, my daughter. You forget?
Oh, I say. We wait in silence, maybe because neither of us can think of anything to say. I’m picturing Chipo there all by herself, and I can’t help but feel sorry for her, feel bad for her. Then something shifts inside me and I start to feel disappointed, and then angry at our leaders for making it all happen, for ruining everything.
I know it’s bad, Chipo, I’m so sorry. It pains me to think about it, I say.
What is so bad? Why are you feeling pain? she says.
What they have done to our country. All the suffering, I say.
Well, everywhere where people live, there is suffering, she says.
I know. But last week I saw on BBC—
But you are not the one suffering. You think watching on BBC means you know what is going on? No, you don’t, my friend, it’s the wound that knows the texture of the pain; it’s us who stayed here feeling the real suffering, so it’s us who have a right to even say anything about that or anything and anybody, she says. Her flippant tone totally comes out of nowhere and slaps me in the face, just taking me by surprise. I am so shocked I don’t know what to say.
What? I can’t—well, it’s my country too. It’s our country too, I say. Here, Chipo laughs this crazy womanly laugh and I shake my head and think to myself, What the fuck? Where is this even coming from?
It’s your country, Darling? Really, it’s your country, are you sure? she says, and I can feel myself starting to get mad. I hover the mouse cursor over the red phone thingy, wondering if I should just click it and hang up because really, I have no time for this shit. When I look up, my eyes meet the eye above my bed; I let go of the mouse.
Where is my mother? Put my mother or grandmother on the phone, I say.
Just tell me one thing. What are you doing not in your country right now? Why did you run off to America, Darling Nonkululeko Nkala, huh? Why did you just leave? If it’s your country, you have to love it to live in it and not leave it. You have to fight for it no matter what, to make it right. Tell me, do you abandon your house because it’s burning or do you find water to put out the fire? And if you leave it burning, do you expect the flames to turn into water and put themselves out? You left it, Darling, my dear, you left the house burning and you have the guts to tell me, in that stupid accent that you were not even born with, that doesn’t even suit you, that this is your country?
My head is buzzing. I throw the computer, and when I realize what I’ve done, it is sailing toward the wall. I gasp as it connects to the mask, cover my ears when they both crash onto the floor. I don’t look to check the damage, I just get out of my room like the air has been sucked out. I find myself standing in TK’s room, right in front of his bed. On the opposite wall is a blown-up poster of TK and his friend Boby doing the Azonto dance, limbs in these crazy postures, grins on their faces. I imagine TK making fun of me with that face so I turn away and look at the dartboard on the other wall. My heart is beating fast, and my throat is tight.
When I start feeling calm again I move around the room. It is spotless because Uncle Kojo keeps it dusted and clean; if you didn’t know different, you’d think it was lived in. On the large desk, next to the TV, is an Xbox, a couple of DVDs, a box of Kleenex, a plastic cup filled with pen and pencils, a Playboy. Everything looks like TK will just walk in and use his things like he never left. I reach up to the big wooden shelf by the window, push the miniature drums to the side, reach my hand farther among the lions and leopards and elephants, and touch Tshaka Zulu.
Always, I do not expect the dead silence in this room, and to fill it, I will greet Tshaka Zulu and maybe go on to tell him about the weather. Or, if there is interesting stuff to report, I will tell him, things like: Aunt Fostalina is sleeping with that white man; there was a terrible earthquake in Japan; they are arresting people again at home. In his will, Tshaka Zulu said he wanted Aunt Fostalina to fly his ashes home and have them buried in his father’s village, inside a kraal, like how it is supposed to be, but for now Aunt Fostalina cannot go back, none of us can.
Today, though, I have nothing to say to Tshaka Zulu; I just keep my hand on the wooden urn that’s shaped like a calabash and stand there like I’m blessing it. I don’t even move when Uncle Kojo comes in looking like he just emerged from a donkey’s mouth.
They have actually killed bin Laden, he says, shouting, even though it’s just the two of us in the quiet room
. His breath reeks of alcohol and the smell hits me right in the stomach.
Oh, I say. I walk away from the shelf and stand by the window.
You know who he actually is?
That terrorist dude, I say. I catch myself too late, but today Uncle Kojo doesn’t say anything to me for using the word dude. He is just standing there, his body filling the doorway, car keys in his hands. I notice the bandage above his wrist and wonder what happened to him, if he got wounded on one of his trips.
He was in Pakistan, hiding. Soon, the president will come out and make a statement. Yes, bin Laden is actually dead, isn’t that something? he says, jiggling the keys.
When America put up the big reward for bin Laden, we made spears out of branches and went hunting for him. We had just appeared in Paradise and we needed new games while we waited for our parents to take us back to our real homes. At first we banged on the tin shacks yelling for bin Laden to come out, and when he didn’t, we ran to the bushes at the end of the shanty. We looked in the tall khaki grass, in the thickets; climbed trees, looked under rocks. We searched everywhere. Then we went and climbed Fambeki, but by the time we got to the top, we were hot and bored. It was like looking for air; there was just no bin Laden.
Why are we even looking for him? Sbho said.
I don’t know, this game is boring, we need better games, Chipo said.
Maybe we should look for Jesus, he is more important than bin Laden, Godknows said.
Jesus is worse, nobody can find Jesus, not even the Americans, Bastard said.
That’s not true. Mother of Bones found him, I said. We were quiet for a while, standing there, tall because the mountain made us tall. We looked down. At the shanty. At the red earth. At Mzilikazi. At the Budapest houses in the distance. Bin Laden could have been anywhere.
We stood there. Above, the sun was busy frying us. Then Stina threw his spear down the mountain and we threw ours after his and watched them fly. Then Bastard went to the edge and started urinating, and Godknows and Stina joined him. Chipo and Sbho and myself stayed behind, watching the boys thrust their hips forward and shoot in the air, each wanting his pee to go the farthest.
We had given up on bin Laden and were just walking along Mzilikazi when we saw Ncuncu. Ncuncu had been Bornfree’s dog for a good while before she just decided one day, for reasons that we would never know, to simply stop being his dog. Now she roamed Paradise and all over like a madman, scavenging for food and not even responding when you called her name or whistled to her. When we saw her there on Mzilikazi, we ran toward her, shouting, Bin Laden! Bin Laden!
Maybe Ncuncu heard us. Maybe she didn’t. She remained there, right in the middle of the road, head bent toward something we couldn’t see; you would have thought she was praying for the country. The big Lobels lorry came out of nowhere. Now we were flailing our arms like mad and screaming real hard to warn Ncuncu, but it was no use. The next thing we knew, there was a sickening khu! and the big lorry came to a halt. Then, while we were standing there stunned, it just took off and thundered away.
There was red on the road. Two gaping furrows where the tires had plowed into the earth. An unsounded yelp drowned in the hollow of a twisted throat. White fur, red streaks in some places, like somebody clumsy had tried to decorate. Big, bared teeth. Crushed meat. Long pink tongue licking the earth. A lone paw raised in a perfect high-five. Bones jutting from the side of the stomach. One eye popped out (I could not see the other). And the delicious, delicious smell of Lobels bread.
Acknowledgments
Umuntu ngumuntu ngabantu: A person is a person because of other people. I am deeply indebted to many who gave me the time, instruction, support, love, mentorship, friendship, encouragement, opportunities, and other immeasurable gifts that allowed me to create We Need New Names. I don’t know how to begin to list you all, for you are far too many, but you know who you are; my heartfelt thanks today and always.
I am grateful to Kalamazoo Valley Community College, Texas A&M University–Commerce, Southern Methodist University, Cornell University, and Stanford University for the shelter.
Special thanks to Jin Auh, my extraordinary agent and reader, who was there from the get-go; my amazing agent Alba Ziegler-Bailey; and my editors, Laura Tisdel and Becky Hardie, for loving this book and working super hard for it.
Helena Maria Viramontes, I would not have done it without you.
And of course to Zim, beloved homeland, country of my people. For the gift of stories, for the soul, and for the swag. Ngiyabonga mina!
Thank you all, and much love.
Oakland, California
January 2013
About the Author
NoViolet Bulawayo won the 2011 Caine Prize for African Writing and was shortlisted for the 2009 South African PEN/Studzinski Literary Award. Her work has appeared in Boston Review, Newsweek, Callaloo, and the Warwick Review. She earned her MFA at Cornell University and is currently a Wallace Stegner Fellow at Stanford University.
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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2013 by NoViolet Bulawayo
Cover design by Allison J. Warner.
Cover art: (acacia branch) © DEA / G. CIGOLINI / VENERANDA BIBLIOTECA AMBROSIANA / Getty Images, (airplane) by Calvin Chu.
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ISBN: 978-0-316-23083-4
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