After a few more leaps, the hunter continues his speech:
Of all the stones in the world, there is one that is not of this earth. That is the flying stone.
With all his strength, he hurls the stone into the air with such impetus that it disappears from sight over the canopy of the trees. Everyone knows that the stone will never fall to earth. Turned into a bird, the stone will guide the villagers in their search for their prey. After a pause, the dancing starts again. The policeman warns us:
I don’t know whether it’s worth our staying here …
The men start taking off their clothes. Then they douse their naked bodies with an infusion made from the barks of trees. This mixture will make them immune to any disaster.
I take a look at the rear of the house. Hanifa, her back turned, is busy putting out the kitchen fire. No fire can be lit while this ritual bathing is occurring. Only after the men have finished their washing can Hanifa and all the other women light their fires once again.
The men dance for a little longer, and while they are gyrating and jumping they begin to lose their inhibitions, and soon they are screaming, growling, and soiling their chins with froth and spittle. It’s then that I understand: Those hunters are no longer humans. They are lions. Those men are the very animals they seek to hunt. What’s happening in the square merely confirms this: Hunting is witchcraft, the last piece of witchcraft to be permitted by law.
Finally, the men leave in silence, and like this, marching in military formation without saying a word, they will search the bush for days on end, without food, drink, or shelter. A strange peace descends upon Kulumani. One by one, the cooking fires are lit again in the huts.
* * *
The writer comments ecstatically:
What an unforgettable sight! A performance rooted in Nature. What a pity I couldn’t take photographs of it!
Did you like it? Naftalinda asks. She wears an enigmatic, almost defeated smile. But then she asks: How many men were there in the ceremony?
About twenty, maybe.
There were twelve in the other group.
The other group? What group?
The ones that killed Tandi, my maid. There were twelve of them. Some of them were dancing here right in front of you.
They killed her?
They killed her spirit, only her body was left. A wounded body, the ruins of a person.
She recounts what had happened: Her maid had inadvertently crossed the mvera, the camp accommodating the boys undergoing their initiation. The place is sacred and women are expressly forbidden to enter the area. Tandi disobeyed and was punished: She was raped by all the men. All of them took their turn with her. The girl was taken to the local health center, but the nurse refused to treat her. He was afraid of retaliation. The district authorities received a complaint, but didn’t do anything. Who has the courage in Kulumani to rise up against tradition?
My husband remained silent. Even when I threatened him, he didn’t do anything …
I don’t know what to answer. Dona Naftalinda gets up and gazes at the path down which the hunters have disappeared. While still stoking the fire, she murmurs:
I don’t know what they’re looking for in the bush. The lion is right here in the village.
* * *
After night has fallen, the administrator drops by our house. He is agitated, something in the ceremony of the hunters has left him scared. He wants us to organize ourselves for an expedition immediately. He urges us to seize the initiative and kill the lions ourselves.
We can’t have these traditionalists getting the better of us.
Florindo Makwala expects some sort of declaration from me, a commitment to act quickly. But I only make a decision after he has left. Under the flickering light of an oil lamp, I inspect my equipment while, at my request, the writer takes responsibility for the vehicle, the fuel, and the flashlights. My instructions to Gustavo are delivered tersely, in an almost military tone. When we go to bed, I explain myself as if to compensate for the authoritarian way my orders were given:
We’ve got to resolve this quickly. I don’t like the atmosphere that’s being produced.
* * *
Early the next morning, at first light, I drive the vehicle along faintly marked tracks.
Why didn’t we bring the tracker? the writer asks fearfully.
Genito has been drinking. Apart from that, I want you to get an idea of the terrain. This is a journey of exploration.
Will we know how to get back? Gustavo asks.
From the backseat, the administrator is in no doubt: We’ll get back without any difficulty at all. Even though he’s not from Kulumani, he already knows the area. His wife, Naftalinda, accused him of governing while shutting himself away in his office. But it’s not true.
I scarcely listen to him, as I’m too busy looking out for animal tracks.
Hanifa was right—the lions have been here.
After a few kilometers we enter one of those clearings that have been opened up to protect the fields where the crops are planted. In the middle of this space there is a leafy tree, and by its bulky trunk we find two half-dressed young boys tied up and with clear signs of having been beaten. We stop and get out of the jeep to find out what happened there.
What’s wrong? Florindo Makwala asks in Portuguese.
The boys look at us as if they’ve been forbidden to speak. The administrator tries to get them to talk, this time in Shimakonde. In vain. They remain silent. Patiently, Florindo insists. They reply by shaking their heads, without ever uttering a word. Makwala tells us what he thinks has happened:
These poor wretches have been accused of being makers of lions. The hunters tied them up when they passed by this way last night. When they return later, they’ll carry out their justice.
When we free their wrists, the boys stand there motionless, as if stuck to the trunk of the tree.
You can go, we encourage them.
Where? one of them finally asks.
Wherever you want. You’re free now.
They don’t move. To me, they seem to have been incorporated into the vegetable matter of the tree. We leave them, while the condemned boys remain rooted to the shadow of their fear. They’ll stay there until their executioners return.
* * *
I start driving again along paths that are covered in elephant grass. I seem to be traveling in a boat, among green waves rippling away as far as the horizon. The jeep is advancing so slowly that walking would be faster.
At the top of a hill, I stop the vehicle, take off my hat, and pretend to search the sky.
Are we lost? Gustavo asks anxiously.
It’s good to be lost. It means there are possible routes. Things get serious when you run out of routes.
I’m asking whether you are still able to find any routes.
Out here in the bush, it’s the routes that come and find us.
I hear Florindo Makwala’s laugh behind me. The writer’s face bears a semblance of humiliation. All my words, all my silence have the effect of an accusation: He is from the city; he can’t even come to terms with the ground he treads. The truth of the matter is this: Here in this world, Gustavo needs me as his teacher even to walk along on his own two feet.
* * *
When we get back to the jeep, the sun is at its height and the heat causes mirages in the long grass.
I could do with a whiskey on the rocks, Florindo jokes.
The two of them swap rude jokes. All of a sudden I order them to keep quiet. I pretend to be listening carefully to something that has escaped their notice. My solemn tone gives them a fright:
Be quiet, don’t leave the car. Under any circumstances, do you hear?
Crouching low, my gun at the ready, I pretend to choose the quietest path and gradually disappear among the bushes. After that, silence reigns, a terrifying solitude surrounds those who wait in the car, frozen with fear. I hear them muttering to each other.
How long is he going to tak
e? Florindo asks.
Their mumbled conversation, which only serves to keep their apprehension at bay, is suddenly interrupted as I decide to fire into the air. To produce even greater fear, I burst headlong out of the undergrowth, leaping over shrubs and yelling for us to get out of there. The writer jumps behind the wheel and the jeep lurches forward at startling speed.
What’s happened, Archie? the writer asks, tremulous.
I can’t tell you.
The administrator remains silent. If I can’t recount the cause of my terror, then what has happened escapes human reason. When we arrive back in the village, I retire without saying a word. From my room, I hear Florindo and Gustavo talking:
What in heaven’s name happened?
How would I know?
I’m beginning to suffer the same beliefs as these wretched folk. Who knows, maybe he saw one of those things …
One of those things…?
Yes, the lame serpent, for example.
The administrator explains himself: In the village there’s a serpent that moves around over the silence of ceilings and over distant paths. This venomous creature seeks out happy people in order to bite and poison them, without their ever being aware. This is why, in Kulumani, everyone suffers from the same unhappiness. Everyone is scared, scared of life, scared of love, even scared of their friends. Some folk call this monster a “devil.” Others call it a shetani. But most call it the “lame serpent.” The writer interrupts this long narrative:
Forgive me, my dear administrator, but as far as I am concerned, this serpent is ourselves.
Mariamar’s Version
FIVE
Some Honey Eyes
It is easier to hear a pretty girl’s murmur than a lion’s roar.
—ARAB PROVERB
It was my honey eyes that captivated Archie Bullseye when he visited us for the first time sixteen years ago. The hunter found me on the side of the road and, without knowing it, saved me from the forays of Maliqueto Próprio, the policeman. I’ve already talked about this. But I didn’t mention that Archie had returned some days later to make overtures and promises. He said he wanted to take me away to the city. And that we would be happy and forget about all that we had gone through before.
Come with me, the hunter insisted. Let’s find happiness together.
Terrified, I refused. What he was promising was far beyond what I could ever dream. I looked around me to see whether someone was listening to us. We were talking in the kitchen yard, that little space where women most forget about what it is to live. I looked at the stove that was forever lit, the firewood piled up, the saucepans laid out facedown. I examined all this as if it were the work of no one at all. As if the embers were not gathered up from our kitchen to light a neighbor’s fire. As if women’s hands were not ensuring that the fire never went out.
Have you nothing to say, Mariamar?
To listen is also to talk. The hunter was talking about things I didn’t know: the city, happiness, love. How good it was to hear his talk, how bad for me it was to hear his words! But I didn’t succumb to his invitations. In the end, happiness and love are similar. You don’t try to be happy, you don’t decide to fall in love. You’re happy, you love.
We’ll be happy, Mariamar.
Who told you I want to be happy?
He contemplated me as if I were speaking a language he didn’t understand.
* * *
That night, the drums beat and there was dancing. At first I stood motionless, watching the others shake their bodies sensuously, while the ground shook as if the drums were beating in the depths of the earth. I managed to hold myself back until my feet were ignited. To free myself from this fire, I surrendered gradually to the rhythm of the music, gyrating across the moonlit yard. Seeing me dance, Archie came over and put his arm around my waist, inviting me to turn with him.
Let go of me, huntsman, dancers don’t touch each other here.
I don’t care, I dance the way I know.
I remembered what the men of Kulumani said: No one hunts with anyone else. Well, dancing is like hunting. Each dancer takes possession of the whole world. I spun around before facing him:
I’m not dancing with you. I’m dancing for you. Go and sit down and watch me become a queen.
He obeyed submissively. As for my performance, it stopped obeying me. For I found myself dancing naked across the yard, rolling on the ground, little by little losing my human composure. Archie collapsed in surrender, speechless and without gesture. Seeing him like that, weak and defenseless, made me feel even more womanly. I whispered sweet nothings in his ear and he melted away in my embrace. We didn’t even notice that the fire had gone out: Another fire had been lit within us.
While I was getting dressed, I told Archie what he was waiting for so hopefully:
Early tomorrow morning, come and get me. I’m going to run away with you.
I certainly shall. Before the village wakes up, I’ll pass by here and fetch you.
That night, I was visited by all possible dreams. Until morning broke, I remained by my bedroom door, my hands clutching the case that lay in my lap. My future was packed away in that case. Folded away neatly like clothes, my hopes and dreams lay waiting.
* * *
I never got as far as unpacking that case. For, the following morning, the hunter didn’t come to get me. Forgetfulness, I thought, to mitigate any doubts. A minor lapse that Archie would put right later on: He would return to Kulumani, and, to prevent any delays, my little suitcase would remain packed.
Little by little, like someone dying without being ill, I submitted to the evidence: Archie had abandoned me. One by one, my dreams turned into a recurrent nightmare: From my dreams, indistinct voices emerged:
Dombe! Dombe!
In the distance, beyond the morning mist, people were shouting. They took us for creatures of the white race. That was why they were calling us dombe, which is the name given to fish. Ever since the Portuguese arrived here centuries ago, this is the word used to describe them. Washed up on the beaches, coming from the liquid horizon, they could only have been born in the ocean. Which was where we came from, Archie and I.
Lying unconscious by my side, the hunter seemed to have given up. That was my nightmare: Archie and I were washed up on a beach as we fled downstream in a dugout. The current had taken us out beyond the estuary and deposited us on the shoreline, among the bits and pieces scattered along the sand.
Gradually, shadows emerged from the dunes, shapes rushed toward us, unrestrained. They’re coming to save us, I thought. But when they leaned over us, what they did was rob us of our clothes and possessions. The angry cries of the crowd grew louder and louder, as they rhythmically egged each other on:
Dombe, dombe!
Don’t kill us, please don’t kill us, I implored them, sobbing.
You’re fish, we’re going to gut you.
I’m a person! I’m black, look at me!
It was then that I realized how ridiculous my situation was. How can anyone prove their own race? I tried to speak in Shimakonde, but not a single word came to me. Once again, the chanting shouts, like some ritual of execution. Suddenly a vision emerged from the misty background: Genito Mpepe, cutlass in hand, commanding his ululating horde:
Dombe! Dombe!
It was the end. My father prepared to knife my lover. Lying lifeless next to me, Archie had no idea of the immediate danger. As quick as a flash, the cutlass sliced through the air but didn’t reach its victim. All of a sudden the hunter’s body turned to liquid, wave after wave until it became ocean, nothing more than ocean. Archie was saving himself at the very last moment, transformed into water. In my dream, I too gave in to this final impulse, joining my beloved in his fate. As no one came to my rescue, I chose to melt into another substance.
The dream taught me I had one decision to make: I wanted to die by drowning. I have never wanted anything so much as that. To die in water is to return. That was what I felt the first time I s
aw the ocean: a yearning for a womb to which I was returning at that moment. A yearning for that gentle death, that beating of a double heart, that water which, after all, is what our whole body is made of.
My mother, Hanifa Assulua, used to complain that in Kulumani we were all buried. It was the opposite. We were drowned, that’s what it was. All of us had been drowned before we were even born. At our birth, we were delivered onto the first beach we washed up on.
* * *
Tonight my father knocked on my bedroom door. Curious, I opened the door slightly:
I’m going into the bush with the visitors. Tomorrow we’re going to hunt lions.
Never before had my father come to say goodbye. He would leave in the early morning, and no one would notice him going. But this time, he looked at me with lifeless eyes, and touched my neck as he used to when I was a little girl.
Don’t touch me! I reacted violently.
I just came to say goodbye, he mumbled submissively.
I was astonished to have merited this farewell. In Kulumani, fathers don’t pay any attention to their daughters, rarely speak to them, and never show any sign of affection toward them, much less in public. Affection is a mother’s task. Why, then, was Genito Mpepe giving me this sudden and unexpected display of attention? Then it occurred to me: He wasn’t just taking his leave. He was saying sorry. Genito Mpepe knew that he wouldn’t return from the expedition. So he had come to ask for forgiveness. He was asking my forgiveness for never having been my father. Or what was worse still: for only having been my father in order not to let me be a free, happy person.
It’s strange how much our heart rules our head. For years, I had wished for and imagined his end. I had prayed fervently that some wild beast might eat him, just as had befallen Silência. But now, before that sudden display of humility, I relented, overcome by remorse.
Father, please don’t go on this hunt!
He looked at me over his shoulder with an astonishment that gradually turned into helpless sadness:
Why are you asking me this, Mariamar?
It’s because I had a dream, Father. I dreamed of the sea.