Confession of the Lioness

  Naftalinda’s tone is adjusted to her status: It has the geniality of someone who knows so well what she wants that she has no need to issue a command. My gaze ranges over the landscape like fire licking the elephant grass. Where the writer sees trees, I see places to shelter made out of shadows. In one of these shadows, the ill-famed lions, eaters of people and of dreams, will be resting.

  * * *

  So absorbed am I reviewing the shadows that I am unaware of a lively monologue that has begun from the direction of the backseat. The administrator is rattling on about automobiles, makes, models, countries of origin, and the years in which his favorite vehicles were manufactured. And how he could do with an automobile like this one provided by the company that contracted us.

  Is there still far to go? I ask, merely to change the subject.

  The administrator repeats what he has already said a dozen times: Not far at all. In fact we’re almost there. The writer asks:

  It’s strange, one doesn’t see any people around. Doesn’t anyone live here?

  Florindo Makwala stiffens, offended. Was the visitor suggesting that all he ruled over were stones and dust?

  You’ll see them in a little while. The people. There are lots of them.

  * * *

  Stop, stop the car! I order, the door already open and half of me outside the vehicle. The next minute, I creep over toward some bushes on the side of the road. There are vultures circling high above. Maybe there’s a rotting corpse somewhere around here. It’s a false alarm. I signal the others to get out of the vehicle.

  Let’s take a break.

  Dona Naftalinda is lowered from the vehicle. The long-suffering jeep’s suspension groans. The anxious administrator warns:

  Help her down. Don’t let her fall, for God’s sake don’t let her fall.

  Don’t you dare touch me, husband. Don’t forget it’s forbidden.

  Various arms are raised to help in the operation to unload the First Lady. I hesitate, unsure where to place my hands. I’m afraid my arms will get lost among folds and rolls of fat. In front of me, a huge backside darkens the day, like a sudden eclipse of the sun.

  If I’d known, I would have brought a crane, the writer murmurs in my ear.

  Once on the ground, Naftalinda whispers something to her husband. The administrator mutters awkwardly between his teeth.

  My wife needs to go into the bush.

  She can go, I answer curtly.

  She’s scared.

  Go with her.

  She would rather you kept guard over her.

  In these, as in other matters, it’s better if the husband does that.

  It’s not that I’m scared, Naftalinda declares, with the air of an empress. But I’ve heard that the lions only kill women. I don’t know whether, as First Lady, I’m also included on their menu.

  You can be sure that you are, the writer comments.

  Over there’s safe, I assure her, pointing to some rocks in front of us. You can go, Dona Naftalinda, we’ll watch over things from here.

  To distract ourselves from our embarrassing wait, the writer pretends to become interested in my rifle and admits:

  There was a time when I dreamed of using a gun; I wanted to be a guerrilla fighter. In those days, we used to say that freedom would be born from the barrel of a gun.

  So did it happen?

  Freedom?

  No. I’m asking whether you became a guerrilla.

  More or less.

  There’s no more or less when it comes to guns and freedom. Have you ever seen anyone get killed?

  Never. And you? Have you ever killed someone, or has it always just been animals?

  I am immediately struck by the memory of my father swimming in blood that wasn’t just his own, but that of all the Bullseyes. My words are rendered more somber by my solemn tone. Those we have killed, no matter whether they are strangers to us or our enemies, become members of our family forever after. They never leave us, but remain more present than the living.

  * * *

  Returning to our company once more, Dona Naftalinda smiles, amused by the way the writer shakes the dust from himself as if in some act of self-flagellation.

  See the advantage of being a lion? A lion never gets himself dirty, Dona Naftalinda asserts.

  All I want is a bath. I’ve got more dust on me than I have clothes, Gustavo complains, shaking himself vigorously.

  So much the better, I advise him in a sarcastic tone. You’re much better off like that because your body will begin to get used to the land. Get used to being part of the land, belonging to this land.

  I am of this land.

  Only the land can confirm that.

  I turn my back and walk away, though not before I hear the writer mutter angrily to himself:

  Arrogant bastard!

  * * *

  When we get back to the car, the administrator hurries to inspect our cargo: Ten goats are squeezed into the baggage compartment. The creatures appear calm, displaying the stupid good humor of ruminants.

  Wouldn’t it be better to tether them? Dona Naftalinda asks.

  The goats had spent the whole journey standing, balancing themselves with professional skill, like a troupe of dancers. Florindo comments proudly: A goat was made to ride in a car, it can keep its balance even over an abyss, where there’s no longer any ground. Then the administrator opens his arms in a gesture of friendship:

  Don’t forget, Comrade Hunter: One of these animals is for you to use as bait for the lion. Choose the one you want.

  There must be some mistake here, my dear administrator. A number of mistakes, for that matter: In the first place, I’m not your comrade. But what’s more important is the fact that I don’t hunt with bait. I’m a hunter, not a fisherman.

  Do as you wish. But the truth is this: Whether you’re fishing or hunting, you’ve got to eliminate these lions. It’s one of my political objectives.

  The eaters of people are a political matter as far as he is concerned.

  My superiors, he reminds us emphatically, gave very clear instructions: The people have the vote, animals don’t. The reason behind this community’s complaints must be eradicated. And he repeats his perfunctory order: You’ve got to kill them.

  I won’t kill them. Of that you can be sure, I reply.

  What’s that you’re saying?

  I’m a hunter. I don’t kill, I hunt.

  Isn’t that the same thing, surely?

  For you, it may be. For me, it’s completely different. But let me say one thing before we get to the village. I wasn’t recruited by the administration. My only obedience is to whoever is paying me.

  * * *

  We set off again on our journey, and all of a sudden a cloud of dust once more disturbs the timeless peace of the savanna. The administrator realizes he should retreat from his confrontation with me. The presence of a well-known writer is a unique opportunity for him to polish his image. In an offhand way, he affirms, as if he were thinking out loud:

  Whether you’re killing or hunting, what’s important is that people can return to their daily activities. In their struggle to overcome absolute poverty.

  The man is no longer talking. He’s giving a speech. And he declares that the expedition, led by his party, will save people condemned to poverty. He uses that grand word: “save.” In the car mirror, I watch the dust disperse and I’m overcome by a gentle drowsiness: How I’d like to be saved! How I’d like to wallow, like a drowning man, in the arms of a savior. Or, to be more precise: in Luzilia’s arms.

  * * *

  When you go hunting, I’ll go with you, Comrade Archie, the administrator declares.

  In hunting, no one goes with anyone, I reply. In hunting, there are only two creatures: the one who kills and the one who dies.

  I need my people to see me, to see me returning to the village with the trophy.

  At last, some houses come into view.

  Not long now, Naftalinda tells the writer, and people wi
ll come out onto the road in their droves.

  Those aren’t people living in those houses, the administrator clarifies.

  They’re not people living there? Gustavo asks. Who lives there, then?

  It’s fear that lives there, he replies.

  * * *

  Nine hours after leaving Pemba, the capital of the province, our delegation arrives at the village. The administrator was right. But it’s not just fear that inhabits Kulumani. Terror is etched into the faces of the crowd that surrounds us.

  Don’t stop the vehicle in the middle of the road, Makwala orders.

  I smile. The road is so narrow that it has no middle. Nor does it have shoulders: Everything on either side has gained the color of dust. I too am so covered in dust that it’s as if my body is the same on the inside and the outside. I shake myself down, and my hands are clouds that seem to have migrated from my body. My chest is shaken by a fit of coughing. Some nebulous entity seems to be taking charge of me.

  * * *

  Unaware of all this, a sea of people envelops us. The administrator’s wife whispers an explanation in my ear: All the country folk from the surrounding villages have been mobilized to come and welcome us. Defying all the rules about safety, these villagers will march back to their homes at night. But it all seems inevitable: A chief’s strength is measured by the welcome he’s given. And Florindo Makwala doesn’t want to pass up a chance to impress us. He doesn’t allow the credits to escape him as he openly encourages Gustavo Regalo:

  See, my dear Regalo? The people love us. Me and my party. Write all this down, take photos of it all.

  In the middle of the throng someone grabs my arm. I reciprocate, clumsily shaking his hand. Then I notice that he’s blind. It was his stray gesture that collided with me and caused me to stop in my tracks. He’s wearing camouflaged military fatigues that stand in contrast to his bare feet.

  You people have arrived! the blind man exclaims, as if we were fulfilling our destiny. And then he proclaims: You have come to shed your blood in Kulumani.

  All of a sudden I give in to a strange impulse and start waving at the crowd. I remember other occasions when I’ve been received as a savior. But these people are looking at me obliquely. The blind man’s clammy hand seizes my arm once again:

  Have you brought a rifle? What for? These lions aren’t going to be killed with a bullet.

  The vigor with which he pursues me makes me doubt the truth of his blindness. My suspicion grows stronger when he grabs me with the despair of one struggling for breath and asks me:

  Can you see me?

  Why do you ask?

  No one can see us, the people of Kulumani, only the muwavi, the witch doctors, pay us any attention.

  The administrator helps free me from the blind man’s intrusiveness. He pushes me to the front of the vehicle, where the headlights have opened up a patch of light, and whispers:

  We’ve arrived at night. Some of them think we are vashilo.

  Who?

  Vashilo, people of the night. We’re the only ones visiting villages at this hour.

  Then the administrator issues an order in a loud voice:

  Let them by! We’ve come to save you, we’ve brought with us someone to kill the lions.

  The blind man bows respectfully and once again leans on my arm before concluding:

  There’s no dying, there’s no killing. You’ve all come to die here in our abode.

  I look around me. Two nights ago, a young woman was killed here. Before her, some twenty others were eaten by the creatures of the wild. Not far away, in the middle of the long grass, there might still be blood-soaked tracks, the indelible relics of unspeakable crimes. I think of the pain and the terror of these people. I think of the helplessness of this village, so far from the world and from God. Kulumani was more of an orphan than I.

  Night has fallen—there are no more shadows in the world.

  Mariamar’s Version

  THREE

  An Unreadable Memory

  Every morning the gazelle wakes up knowing that it has to run more swiftly than the lion or it will be killed. Every morning the lion awakens knowing that it has to run faster than the gazelle or it will die of hunger. It doesn’t matter whether you’re a lion or a gazelle: When the Sun rises, you’d better start running.

  —AFRICAN PROVERB

  Last night, when the strangers arrived in Kulumani, I didn’t make a point of watching their reception in front of the administration building. I could have escaped my confinement for a few moments. But I didn’t even bother. For years, my reason for living had been the dream of seeing Archie Bullseye again. Now there he was, just a few steps away, and I remained distant and withdrawn, peering out at the crowd milling around the visiting delegation. They were like vultures. They were feeding on leftovers. What was left of ourselves. And that’s what I told my mother: They’re like vultures. And birds of prey, according to local wisdom, don’t lose their sight even after they’ve died.

  Hanifa Assulua’s authoritarian voice brought me down to earth:

  Stop sleeping in the shelter of your eyelashes, Mariamar! Go and throttle a chicken.

  A huge feast is being prepared to welcome the visitors. We women will remain in the shadows. We wash, sweep, cook, but none of us will sit down at the table. My mother and I know what we have to do, almost without exchanging a word. My job is to go and catch, kill, and pluck a chicken from our henhouse. As it evades me in a noisy, headlong rush, I hear footsteps behind me, as if someone were joining the chase. I stop running and, with bated breath, my eyes sweep the ground, searching anxiously. I can’t see anyone, and an anguished sigh escapes my breast:

  Is that you, sister?

  Eventually I realize I’m alone, sitting on the steps up to the chicken coop, where the chickens spend the night safe from the animals that prey on them.

  Somewhere, so near here, Archie Bullseye is staying. And here am I, in the empty yard, plucking the chicken between my knees. The feathers flutter away, carried on the gentle breeze. Suddenly I glimpse Silência, in silhouette against the light, gathering up the floating feathers in her hands. She cups her hands so that nothing can slip away between her fingers and presents me with this soft, downy offering. I accept the gift and hear her familiar voice:

  See here, sister: This is my heart. The lions didn’t take it. You know whom you should give it to.

  I notice blood running down my arms, my capulana, my legs. Surely it’s the blood of the chicken, that’s what it looks like, but giddiness stops me from seeing properly. An uncontrollable rage bursts from my breast, a volcanic eruption. Then I hear my mother’s voice coming from the house:

  Come on, Mariamar, haven’t you killed the chicken yet? Or are you plucking shadows as usual?

  I try to answer, but words fail me. All of a sudden I’ve lost the power of speech, and my chest is convulsed by no more than a hoarse croak. Alarmed, I jump to my feet, I run my hands down my neck, across my mouth and face. I scream for help but can only emit a cavernous roar. And it’s at that moment that I get the awaited sensation: a sandy scraping across the roof of my mouth, as if I’d suddenly been fitted with the tongue of a cat. Hanifa Assulua appears at the door, hands on hips, expectantly:

  Having another fit, Mariamar?

  Mother’s appearance scares Silência. I hear her steps receding quickly, hurrying away while the anxious sound of clucking makes me certain that the chickens also felt her presence. They hadn’t realized that one of them lay lifeless on my lap. But they recognized the furtive movement of our dead visitor. If it’s true that I’m mad, then I share my madness with the birds.

  My mother comes nearer, curious. Slowly, she draws her hands up to her face as if seeking help. Then, a few feet away, she stops, horrified:

  What have you done to the chicken? Didn’t you use the knife, girl?

  Mother turns her back, disconcerted, and makes for the shelter of the house. I look at the chicken, torn to pieces, spread out across the gr
ound. That’s when I see a vulture land at my feet.

  * * *

  At that moment, I recall an episode from the past: When the priests withdrew from Kulumani at the height of the war, there was no one to look after the aviary at the mission. The chickens were abandoned in their coops, which began to fall apart. Little by little, the birds became wild, scratching around persistently in the open ground and only returning to the henhouses at night. The chicken coops gradually disintegrated, and the old wooden boards disappeared, eaten away by termites. This was a warning: The border between order and chaos was being erased. The primordial savanna was coming to reclaim what had been stolen from it.

  And that’s what happened: The chickens were devoured, one at a time, by the vultures. The birds of prey occupied the space previously reserved for domestic fowl, and made themselves so much at home that they lost all fear of us. Half a dozen of them eventually obeyed Grandfather Adjiru’s call, and he, as a reward, would toss them a few chunks of fat.

  One time, dinner was pompously announced in our house.

  It’s chicken today, what are we celebrating?

  We were suspicious of the size of the roasted bird. Only I had the courage to express my doubts:

  Are we eating vulture?

  And what if we are? my father retorted. Have you never heard it said that we hunters eat the eyes of vultures so as to gain their pinpoint vision?

  I never found out what I ate. But the truth is that ever since that meal, I never again got a good night’s sleep. Nightmares tore me from my bed and I would awaken with unwanted cravings, a greed that stole away my very being. The manner in which such hunger took possession of me was not human. To tell the truth, I didn’t just feel hunger. I was hunger from head to foot, and my mouth watered viscous saliva.

  It’s early morning and you’re still eating the leftovers from dinner? What sort of hunger is this? my grandfather, ever an early riser, asked, bewildered.

  I was taken to Palma for some tests at the hospital. It could be diabetes, the nurse ventured. The suspicion was groundless. None of the tests revealed any illness and I returned to Kulumani without any relief from the mysterious fits.

  * * *