At first my eyes are closed just like they are supposed to be when somebody is praying but then I get tired of closing them because Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro just keeps thundering and thundering. To make the time go I count to one hundred and when I finish he is still going on and on. On and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on on on on on on on on on on on on on on: I warn you in the name of Jesus, demon — cleanse him, Father — you mighty lion and healer of the sick — I lay myself before you, Jehovah Jaira, what-what. I just sit there, biting the insides of my mouth till I taste blood.
Father’s eyes are open and the look inside them is that of waiting, like waiting for a miracle. I look to the side and Mother of Bones has her eyes closed and is praying fervently, a vein popped on her forehead. Mother’s eyes are open. She doesn’t give me a look that says she will kill me for keeping my eyes open during prayer, so I just stay like that, watching.
Mother’s eyes are tired and her face is tired; ever since Father came she has been busy doing things for him — watching him and cooking for him and feeding him and changing him and worrying over him. I think of praying for her so that her tiredness goes away but then I remind myself I have decided that praying to God is a waste of time. You pray and pray and pray and nothing changes, like for example I prayed for a real house and good clothes and a bicycle and things for a long, long time, and none of it has happened, not even one little thing, which is how I know that all this praying for Father is just people playing.
I’ve thought about it properly, this whole praying thing, I mean really thought about it, and what I think is that maybe people are doing it wrong; that instead of asking God nicely, people should be demanding and questioning and threatening to stop worshipping him. Maybe that way, he would think differently and try to make things right, like he is supposed to; even that verse in the Bible says ask for anything and you shall receive and, I mean, whose words are those?
After the longest time, Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro finally says Amen, and opens his eyes. He wipes his dripping face and head with the back of his sleeve as he tells Mother of Bones that God showed him that my grandfather’s spirit, which has been in me all along, has left. When I hear this I smile; even though I never felt like there was something in me, it had still bothered me to hear Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro say there was to begin with.
He goes on to tell Mother of Bones that it doesn’t mean the spirit is gone because it has now got into Father and is devouring his blood and body, making him all bony and sick and taking his strength away. In order to avenge the spirit and heal Father, Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro says, we need to find two fat white virgin goats to be brought up the mountain for sacrifice, and that Father has to be bathed in the goats’ blood. In addition, Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro says he will need five hundred U.S. dollars as payment, and if there are no U.S. dollars, euros will do. When he says this, Mother gets up angry-like and boils out of the shack, slamming the door behind her.
God also told me that the wife is possessed too, by three demons. One causes her to be unhappy all the time, one is the spirit of the dog, and the last one gives her a bad temper, rendering her a dangerous woman. But for now we have to deal with the husband, seeing how he is the most urgent case, Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro says, pointing his stick at Father.
—
They are huddling outside the shack when I open the door. Mother has gone to the border to sell and Mother of Bones is on Fambeki praying because she is fasting for Father’s health. She cannot afford the two virgin goats and the five hundred U.S. dollars that Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro said to get and there are no doctors or nurses at the hospital because they are always on strike, so that’s what Mother of Bones must do for now, fast and get on Fambeki and pray and pray and pray even though God will just ignore her.
It’s your father in there. He has the Sickness, we know, Godknows says.
It’s no use hiding AIDS, Stina says. When he mentions the Sickness by name, I feel a shortness of breath. I look around to see if there are other people within earshot.
It’s like hiding a thing with horns in a sack. One day the horns will start boring through the sack and come out in the open for everybody to see, Stina says.
Where did he get it, South Africa? He wasn’t sick when he left, was he? Godknows says.
Who told you all this? I say, looking from face to face. In my head I’m thinking just how much I hate him again, but now it’s for a different reason. It’s for putting me in this position where I have to explain to my friends and I don’t know how anymore because I’m tired of all the lying.
Everybody knows, you ugly, Bastard says. We want to come in and see for ourselves.
There is nothing to see, I say. There is nobody in here. I realize that I am whispering, like I’m just talking to myself.
We saw your mother leave and we know your grandmother is on that kaka mountain wasting her time, so why don’t you let us come in and see, Bastard says. He is already opening the door and letting himself in like he lives here. They all pile in, and I follow them like it’s their shack and I’m just visiting.
We kneel around the bed, around Father, who is perched there like a disappearing king. This is the first time I am coming this close to him without Mother making me. I keep expecting for somebody to laugh at Father’s bones but nobody makes a sound; it is all quiet like we are maybe at church and Jesus just entered and coughed twice. I am careful not to look anyone in the face because I don’t want them to see the shame in my eyes, and I also don’t want to see the laughter in theirs.
We don’t speak. We just peer in the tired light at the long bundle of bones, at the shrunken head, at the wavy hair, most of it fallen off, at the face that is all points and edges from bones jutting out, the pinkish-reddish lips, the ugly sores, the skin sticking to the bone like somebody ironed it on, the hands and feet like claws. I know then that what really makes a person’s face is the meat; once that melts away, you are left with something nobody can even recognize.
Bastard picks up the stick-like hand lying there beside Father as if somebody left it behind on the way to play. He cradles it in his like it’s an egg and says, How are you, Mr. Darling’s father? I have never heard Bastard sound like this, all careful and gentle like his words are made of feathers. We all lean forward and watch the thin lips move, the mouth struggling to mumble something and giving up because the words are stunning themselves on the carpet of sores around the inner lips, the tongue so swollen it fills the mouth. We watch him stop struggling to speak and I think about how it would feel to not be able to do a simple thing like open my mouth and speak, the voice drowning inside me. It’s a terrifying feeling.
Where do you think he is going to go? Sbho says.
Can’t you see he is stuck here and he is never getting out? Chipo says.
I mean when he dies, Sbho says.
I turn to look at her and she shrugs. I know Father is sick but the thought of him dead and gone-gone scares me. It’s not like he’ll be in South Africa, for example, where it is possible to tell yourself and other people that since that’s where he went then maybe one day he will return. Death is not like that, it is final, like that girl hanging in a tree because as we later found out from the letter in her pockets, she had the Sickness and thought it was better to just get it over with and kill herself. Now she is dead and gone, and Mavava, her mother, will never ever see her again.