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.
“Come let me take you to the clinic, Mama.”
She will have none of it. She tries to chase me away. I read my poems to her; she likes to hear me read. She smiles wanly and takes my hand.
“It’s going to rain.” Her voice slips back down her throat.
I will the electricity to come on soon. Mama has had several such episodes, where one minute she is fine and the next she is suddenly very ill. It happens whenever there is a shortage of medication at the clinic. I squeeze her hand and read to her, the same words over and over, hissing them in undertones, softening the consonants. Eventually, she falls asleep. Her face, thin lines of make-up etched into her skin, has a peaceful look, caught as it is in the dusty, textured afternoon light. For a moment I fear that she may be slipping away, my mama, so peaceful is her countenance. I feel for a pulse. With each beat, my heart strengthens.
I make a fire in the back yard. The logs are wet and take some nursing before allowing a weak fire. All around, whispers of smoke puff into the sky. I busy myself in Mama’s kitchen, banging through her pots and pans stashed beneath the sink. I make tomato soup, with no spices, because that is how Mama likes it these days, and whip up a pot of soft sadza. Mama refuses to eat. Instead she languishes on a bottle of Castle Lager.
That night, before I sleep, I hold her hand and say, “I need you to fight for me.”
She cackles. “What do you care? After I am gone you can have this whole house to yourself. You don’t love me.”
“If believing that makes you feel better, then okay.”
“You don’t want a prostitute for a mother, remember?”
“No, I don’t. But you are one, and you are my mother. What can I do?”
“You can disown me the way that girl of yours disowned Holly.”
“But you know why she did that.”
“You never disown your mother, you hear? Never.”
“Holly has been a terrible mother to Nomsa.”
“Oh? So now you believe the rubbish she feeds you too? For years that girl has been going around the township talking nonsense about her own mother. Her own mother. That is just shameful.”
“Holly is a shameful mother. I am lucky to be a boy. If I were a girl and you were bringing all these men into the house, what do you think would happen?”
“That’s just lies. Those men never did anything to Nomsa. Holly would
