of Ngonondo. My grandmother is a sangoma, do you hear me? That womb of yours is now tied. You shall never as long as you live have another child again, do you hear? Over my dead body will you have my husband’s child! Nxx. Stupid. Uneducated fool.”
Afterwards, Mr Nleya came to ask Mama to leave his house. But Mama refused to go. He had already put the house in her name and given her the title deeds.
“This is my house! I worked hard for this house. I spread my legs for you. I wanted to have your child. So don’t come tell me your nonsense. Get out!”
“I’m coming with the police . . .”
“Bring them! What will they do? What will they do? I know the law! My friend Holly knows the law! There is nothing you will do. This is my house. Get out!”
That is how the ugly avocado-coloured house became Mama’s. After Mr Nleya left, she called Holly. They bought a crate of Castle Lager and congratulated themselves on their victory.
“You own a house, my friend! You, you! Doria Nkala from rural Nkayi, half-educated dimwit, you own a house!”
Later, after Holly had left, Mama sat on a chair, hugged herself and cried.
“What’s wrong, Mama? Aren’t you happy that we have a house now? I’m glad that man Mr Nleya is gone. I never liked him, Mama, he was not a nice man . . .”
Mama grabbed me by my arm, pulled down my trousers and gave me a good spanking. I sat in a corner, nursed my tears and watched her. I did not understand why she was so sad. She would not stop crying.
JesusJesusJesus!
On Sundays Mama makes sure to attend the morning service at the Evangelical Church of Jesus Christ of Nazareth. She makes sure to attend the town service. She puts on her Sunday best, either a navy-blue or a red suit, complete with a wide-brimmed hat and a pair of lace gloves.
I wish every day was a Sunday.
I used to go to church when I was a child, when Mama worked as a domestic in the suburbs. We attended the Methodist service. The church was a big brick building with tall windows made of coloured glass. There was a grand polished piano at the front that fascinated me. I yearned to touch it. But I understood that we were in a white man’s place, and the piano was a white man’s instrument, and white people’s fancy things were not to be tampered with. And although the Nleyas were black, they were a different kind of black. They were a polished black. We were a black that did not have the shine. That was why Mama was their domestic. The sermons were dreadfully boring. Usually I dozed off.
Now Mama has been converted to one of those crazy Pentecostal churches where the pastors preach “Money, money, money,” and smack you to the floor so that you can be healed.
Unlike the Methodist church in the suburbs, the Evangelical Church of Jesus Christ of Nazareth rents a building across from a nightclub called The Firefly. Some Sunday mornings the street is littered with bottles, and also teenagers high on music and alcohol. The building that the church rents is stuffy, with poor ventilation. The pastor is busy building a church for his flock. Each week there are donations for the building. Every sprouting church is busy building, these days.
Mama insists on dragging me along with her to her new church. Normally, I would not go. But church is such a big thing to Nomsa, and I prefer to go to Mama’s church where I don’t have to do anything, than to Nomsa’s church where I’d be subjected to her searing scrutiny. At Mama’s church, I fold my arms across my chest. A band plays a pacey tune. The congregation, old and young alike, gyrates to the sounds.
“JesusJesusJesus!” they shout.
They are frantic. I see tears streaming down the wrinkled cheeks of an old woman. She flails about, her body like putty, up and down, sideways, up and down. All around me the people lose themselves in an emotional parody of sorts, crying screaming lost in incomprehensible mumblings stumbling grinding words and sonorous sentences. The music is infectious and I find myself tapping my foot to the rhythm.
A hush falls over the church. The pastor struts onto the stage. His gelled hair glistens. The man begins to pace. He dances. The people cheer. He bangs his palm on the Bible. The congregation goes berserk. He jumps up and down, wriggles his bum, mutters into the microphone. People throw themselves into the air and clap. He raises his hand, points at the crowd and goes to work.
“Our country will not find a saviour in corrupt politicians! I said our country will not find a saviour in corrupt politicians! It is us, the people of God, who will bring its deliverance! Some of you bazalwane are thinking, ‘Ah, the pastor is speaking politics, anopenga here vakomana, is he mad, is he trying to get us arrested?’”
A titter from the congregation.
“But don’t you know that God is the greatest politician of all!”
“Hamen!”
The pastor jumps up and down. Up down up down sideways wriggle up down. Sweat pours down his face. Oil dribbles from his slicked hair.
“Ndati, ngithe, I said and I am saying and I will say it again: God is the greatest politician of all!”
“Hamen!”
“I said, khupha imali leyo, give God his tithe!”
“Hameni bo!”
“Give him double his tithe!”
“Hamen!”
“Triple his tithe!”
“Hamen!”
“Give Him a tithe that has more zeros than the Zim dollar!”
“Hameni Hameni Hameni!”
“Surprise God, so He will surprise you! Heyi vakomana heyi . . . hayi, kunzima.”
He puts his hand on his waist and prances up and down the pulpit. He is panting.
“Baramutotototototo sheberebereberebere . . . Please note that the Lord accepts all currencies don’t be afraid to throw in those US dollar those rands those pulas those pounds pounded by loved ones in the UK . . . raise your hand and bless your offering! Baramutototototototo shebereberebereberebere . . .”
All around me, people are spitting into the air and frothing at the corners of their mouths. I sit with my hands tightly clutched on my lap.
When the pastor makes a call from the altar, Mama rushes to the front. He lays his hands on her. He rattles her head and shakes the sickness out of her, the poverty out of her, the suffering out of her – “Barabaramutototototo sherebereberebere sarakararararararara tutututututmuribiribiribiribiri” – in all manner of tongues comprehensible to the Holy Spirit.
He pushes her, and she allows herself to fall. It is a reckless fall, a fall that anticipates the ushers standing behind, ready to catch those who fall. Mama rolls and tears at her hair like a madwoman. She is oblivious to her skirt riding up her thighs.
“Somebody hold me!” she screams.
“Hallelujah!”
“Somebody stop me!”
“Hallelujah!”
“Somebody save me!”
“JesusJesusJesuuuuus! Halle-luuuuuu-jah!”
Sunday is the only day that Mama refuses to see Holly. Holly is not a churchgoer. I’m not even sure if she’s a believer. Everybody is a believer in something. The one time Mama invited Holly to a service, she threw her head back and laughed.
“Church is a gathering of hypocrites, full of horny little bitches and horny little bastards who seduce each other with the Bible.”
Since then, Mama has never mentioned church to Holly.
After the service, Mama lies down and listens to Rebecca Malope on a CD. The electricity suddenly goes and the house is drowned in a dreadful silence. I find Mama sitting up in bed with her face in a bucket. She is vomiting.