Confession of the Lioness

  In the early morning, my grandfather continued to pass me on the veranda while I was scratching around among the remains of dinner, picking out chicken bones from the manioc flour. Adjiru took advantage of the darkness to exercise his other activity: that of carving masks. In accordance with ancestral precepts, this was a secret task, and no one could suspect that the masks were fashioned by his hands. These carvings invariably portrayed women: The goddesses we once were didn’t want to be forgotten. The hands of men uttered that which their mouths dared not speak.

  Can I make a mask? I asked.

  A mask, he said, isn’t just something that covers the face of the person dancing. The dancer, the choreography, the music swirling through the body: All this is the mask.

  Well then, when you finish your work, can I wear it?

  This isn’t a mask. It’s an ntela, or, if you like, a charm.

  For God’s sake, Granddad! Do you really believe that stuff?

  It doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is what the dead think. Without this—and he turned the piece of wood over in his hands—without this our ancestors will remain far removed from Kulumani. And you will remain far from the world.

  Forgive me, Granddad: but you, an educated man, should have abandoned these beliefs long ago …

  He gave me a vague, benign smile: That was his answer. Then he chided me. I shouldn’t throw leftovers of food into the garden.

  It attracts animals …

  Maybe that’s what I wanted: I wanted to lure the animals to the house, to reinstate the disorder of the jungle, to turn the hen coops into vultures’ nests.

  * * *

  In time, these nightly fits got worse: I awoke to torn sheets. Objects lay scattered across the floor of my bedroom.

  This is no longer hunger, I’m ill. What’s happening to me, Grandfather? I asked, tearful.

  The reason for this malady was a secret, Adjiru replied, on one occasion. A secret kept so deep that it had even forgotten about itself.

  I don’t understand, Grandfather. You’re making me scared.

  It was true I was ill. But this illness was the only thing protecting me from my past.

  The problem isn’t yours, dear granddaughter. The problem lies in this house, in this village. Kulumani is no longer a place, it’s an illness.

  Kulumani and I were sick. And when, sixteen years ago, I had fallen for the hunter, my passion was no more than an entreaty. I was merely asking for help, silently beseeching him to save me from this illness. Just as writing had previously saved me from madness. Books brought me voices like shade in the open desert.

  * * *

  Following Archie’s departure all those years ago, I had even thought of writing to him. I would have written endless letters in response to the deep desire I felt. But I never did. No one loved words more than I. But at the same time, I was scared of writing, I was scared of becoming someone else and then, later, no longer being able to return to myself. Just like my grandfather, who surreptitiously carved little pieces of wood, I had a secret occupation. A word drawn on a piece of paper was my mask, my charm, my home cure.

  * * *

  Today, I know how right I was to keep these letters for myself. Archie Bullseye would, indeed, have been suspicious if he had received letters written by me. In Kulumani, many people are surprised by my ability to write. In a place where the majority of folk are illiterate, people find it strange that a woman knows how to write. And they think I learned it at the mission, with the Portuguese priests. But in fact, my schooling dates from before: If I learned to read, it was thanks to the animals. The first stories I heard were about wild animals. Throughout my life, fables taught me to distinguish right from wrong, to unravel the good from the bad. In a word, it was the animals who began to make me human.

  This training occurred without a plan, but with a purpose. My grandfather and father would bring home the meat we ate and the furs we sold from their hunting expeditions. But my grandfather brought something extra. From the bush, he would bring little trophies that he gave me: claws, hooves, feathers. He would leave these remnants on a table by the front door. Underneath each of these adornments, Adjiru Kapitamoro would write a letter on an old piece of paper. An e for an eagle’s feather, a g for a goat’s hoof, an m for munda, the word for an arrow in our local language. That was how the alphabet paraded before my eyes. Each letter was a new color through which I looked at the world.

  On one occasion, there was a lion’s claw reposing on the piece of paper. Crouching next to me, my grandfather rolled his tongue around the roof of his mouth, and, like the sound of a small whip, he emitted a resounding l. His hand led mine while I drew the letter on the paper. Afterward, I smiled, triumphant. For the first time in my life, I was coming face-to-face with a lion. And there the beast was, written on the paper, kneeling at my feet.

  Careful, my dear granddaughter. Writing is a dangerous form of vanity. It fills the others with fear …

  In a world of men and hunters, the word was my very first weapon.

  * * *

  I peer at the village square from the top of the guava tree in the garden. I’ve never seen the shitala so full. They’ve had lunch, they’ve been drinking, and the sound of their voices has increased. I can’t see the guests who are hidden by the porch. I settle myself on the smooth trunk, and breathe in the scent of the guavas to pass the time while I wait. All of a sudden I see Archie emerge into the square to get some fresh air. He hasn’t changed much: He’s heavier, but still has the same princely air. My heart thumps in my chest. High up in the tree, I have the sensation of being above the world and time.

  Suddenly I see Naftalinda crossing the square, sure-footed. What is she doing in a place that’s forbidden to women? I’ve known her ever since she was a young girl, I shared my solitude at the church mission with her. Some people say that her weight has made her mad. I have faith in her insanity. Only small fits of madness can save us from the big one.

  * * *

  The sight of the square full of people draws me back in time. I recall the occasions my grandfather, Adjiru, would come and fetch me to go for a walk in the village. Holding my hand, he would lead me to the shitala, the hall of the elders. My very presence there was a heresy that only he could authorize. The elders would ask Adjiru about his hunting adventures. At first he would hesitate. Sometimes he would pull me into the center of the gathering and proclaim:

  You’re the one who’s going to tell stories, Mariamar.

  But I’m a young girl, I’ve never hunted, I’ll never go out hunting …

  We’ve all hunted, we’ve all been hunted, he would argue.

  He was playing for time in order to become the center of the world. For later, he would draw himself up like a colossus, devoid of age, and his words would roll proudly around the room. At a certain point, Adjiru would pause, sigh, his eyes seeking out a target, suggesting that this was going to be a long story. He would sit down, sweating profusely. But it wasn’t support that he was seeking. It was a throne. Because from then on, Adjiru Kapitamoro would reign. Indeed, he wasn’t recalling the hunt: He was hunting again. In the middle of that gathering, at that very moment, before the gaze of his listeners, my grandfather lay in wait for his prey. And in its tense silence, the assembly feared putting to flight not the hunter’s memories, but the animals he was chasing.

  Tell us another story, Adjiru. Tell us about that time when …

  My grandfather would raise his arm in reprimand. He refused the invitation: In a hunter’s tale, there’s no such thing as “once upon a time.” Everything is born right there, as his voice speaks. To tell a story is to cast shadows over the flame. All that the word reveals is, in that very instant, consumed by silence. Only those who pray, surrendering their soul completely, are familiar with the way a word ascends and then plummets into the abyss.

  * * *

  One night, the story had been going on for a long time, and everyone was well oiled with drink, when Genito Mpepe, his
voice slurred, interrupted:

  Hey, there, Adjiru! You’re a hell of an imposter!

  It was like a stone thrown into a puddle without any water. Adjiru’s astonished look was like a wound ready to be opened. Raising his finger, he declared rancorously:

  You, Genito, have just snapped the fork when it’s still in the mouth.

  Shattered, my grandfather withdrew from the shitala and melted into the night. Only I went with him. I sat down in the dark and waited for him to speak. Finally, after a long pause full of sighs, he complained:

  Why? Why did Genito do this to me?

  My father’s drunk.

  Ungrateful. Ungrateful, the lot of them. What they call lies, I call gifts.

  His gaze became lost in infinity. A thousand thoughts swept through Adjiru, a thousand memories. Gradually, his anger subsided.

  Do you know something, Mariamar? The saddest thing is that Genito may be drunk, but he’s right. All that bragging in my tales: It’s all smoke and no fire.

  You shouldn’t trust the hunter, he admitted. Not because the hunter is a liar. But because hunting contains the truth of a dance: bodies in flight from their own reality. This was how Adjiru understood it.

  In fact, he explained, a hunter’s career is made up of fiascoes and forgetfulness. No matter how perfect his aim, a man who hunts is a bungler. For one victory, he has to suffer a thousand defeats. That’s why the hunter is an inventor of his own prowess: because he doesn’t believe in himself, because he’s more fearful of his own weakness than he is of his most ferocious prey.

  I’d rather be a liar. For, at heart, I’m nothing. I’ve never done anything.

  Don’t say that, Grandfather. You’ve done so much hunting.

  Do you want to know something, dear granddaughter? In hunting, the prey works harder than the predator.

  He wasn’t complaining. Deep down, his ambition was to be free of all obligations. Happiness, he used to say, consists in not doing anything: To be happy is merely to let God happen. And he fell silent, his hands nervously rubbing his knees.

  Suddenly he jumped to his feet, decisive, as if visited by some new spirit. And with firm step, he set off again for the assembly hall. Climbing up on a chair, he puffed out his chest and faced the crowd.

  Do you want stories? Well, I’m going to tell you a story. Your story.

  Here we go again, some mumbled.

  Have you forgotten you were once slaves? Adjiru continued.

  We’re doomed, others commented.

  Or have you forgotten that we were once taken across the ocean? None of us came back. Or have you forgotten about my father, Muarimi Kapitamoro? He was taken to São Tomé, remember?

  We’re going, the men shouted in chorus. And, turning to me, they added: Come with us, because the words are going to fall thick and fast now.

  One by one they walked off, until I was the only one left in the hall, my heart in my hands, as I stared at the wobbly chair on top of which my grandfather continued his impassioned rhetoric. I even dared, with timid voice, to call him back into the world. But at that moment, I was invisible to him. An enraged prophet had taken possession of my old relative.

  Do you know why the slaves left no memory? Because they have no grave. One of these days, here in Kulumani, no one will have a grave anymore. And there will no longer be any memory that there were once people here …

  Grandfather, let’s go home.

  Nowadays, we don’t even have to be put on ships. São Tomé is right here, in Kulumani. Here, we all live together, the slaves and the slave owners, the poor and the owners of the poor.

  * * *

  At that moment, in the now-empty hall, I watched my grandfather Adjiru as if he were a little boy, more solitary and vulnerable than I was. I walked over to the chair that was his stage, and reached up to touch his hand.

  Come, Granddad. Let’s go home.

  Arm in arm, we walked along the path next to the river.

  The Hunter’s Diary

  THREE

  A Long, Unfinished Letter

  A man sees the mist; a woman sees the rain.

  —A PROVERB FROM KULUMANI

  That same night, availing ourselves of the most lavish hospitality they could provide, we are installed in the administration building. It is suggested that we shift the piles of folders belonging to the archive to one side, and that we use one or two threadbare sofas that were rotting away there. That way, we would have some improvised tables and beds.

  Exuding bonhomie, the administrator bids us good night as he leaves, and, smiling broadly, says:

  Tomorrow a lady from the village will come to do the cleaning and prepare a meal.

  It was supposed to be Tandi, our maid, the First Lady corrects him. But it so happens that she—

  She’s indisposed, Florindo cuts in hurriedly.

  Indisposed? What do you mean by that, husband? Indisposed?

  Makwala pushes his wife gently but firmly out into the front yard. They go on arguing outside. Gradually the sound of their voices fades. They seem to have moved away, but the sound of Naftalinda’s nervous footsteps indicates that she is coming back, determined to leave us with the last word:

  This is just to clarify things: Indisposed means assaulted, almost killed. And it wasn’t the lions that did it. The biggest threat in Kulumani doesn’t come from the beasts of the bush. Take care, my friends, take great care.

  The woman leaves once more and I think what a miracle it is that there are doors for such girth. I pass my finger along the top of the desk and smile: It’s among the dust of time and piles of dead letters that I’m going to write this diary. This manuscript is no more than a long, unfinished letter to Luzilia.

  * * *

  I awaken the writer with unnecessary energy. The man had fallen asleep a short time ago, and he must now be emerging from a deep well.

  I need your help. Follow me in the car and with the headlamps on so that I can see in front of me …

  What’s happening?

  These guys have filled the paths with traps.

  So what?

  I’m a hunter, I don’t use traps.

  I go ahead on foot, while the sleepy writer drives the vehicle slowly behind me. Here and there I pick up traps, which I chuck in the back of the jeep. Farther on I come face-to-face with a structure made of trunks the height of a man, on top of which there’s a thatch roof.

  It looks like a house, the writer warns.

  It’s an utegu, a trap for catching lions.

  I throw a rope around the trunks and tie it to the jeep, ordering Gustavo to reverse and drag the roof and palisade away.

  Go on, harder, put your foot down!

  The straining of the engine, along with my impatient cries, makes me recall my childhood. I remember one time when my father decided I would go with him into the bush. My dear mother opposed this vigorously: Apart from the dangers of hunting, we were in the middle of a war. They argued at the front door to our house, it was early morning and my mother’s yells attracted the attention of our neighbors. Old Bullseye decided to put an end to the dispute: He bundled me into the jeep and locked himself in with me. The vehicle reversed in such crazy haste that I was suddenly hurled violently against the windshield, which shattered. The blood flowed hotly down my face. I remember how my mother carried me away, weeping silently. As she lay me on my bed, my blood staining her arms, she declared, mysterious and serene:

  Let us be clear about this, husband: This child will never be a hunter.

  * * *

  Once the traps have been collected, I return home, and by the light of an oil lamp open my notebook. I look distractedly at my recollections for the day.

  Are you left-handed, then? the writer walks over and asks.

  Yes. But I’m right-handed when I shoot.

  Then, suddenly inspired, I explain that I hold children with my left hand. I can’t do that with the hand that kills.

  That’s strange, Gustavo responds. In most cultures,
it’s the left hand that is ill-fated. What tribe did you get such an idea from?

  From my own, the Bullseye tribe. Nowadays, I’m the only one left in the tribe.

  And what are you writing, if that’s not an indiscretion?

  I’m writing this story.

  What story?

  The story of this hunting expedition. I’m going to publish a book.

  Gustavo can’t conceal a nervous smile. My disclosure’s had the effect of a punch in the stomach. Questions then follow, one after the other: A book?… And who is going to publish it?… And what format would I adopt, a novel, reportage? I put a stop to his barrage of doubts and interrogation. As if to placate him, I ask:

  Do you think I won’t manage to do it?

  And why wouldn’t you be able to?

  Writing isn’t like hunting. You need a lot more courage. Opening yourself up like that, exposing myself without a weapon, defenseless …

  Gustavo understands the irony of my words. Then he decides to attack me on my own terrain:

  I’ve already told you I hate hunting.

  So why are you here?

  In this instance, there’s no alternative if we want to protect human life.

  Do you know what I think it is? Fear.

  What do you mean?

  You’re scared.

  Me?

  You’re scared of yourself. You’re scared of being hunted by the animal that dwells inside you.

  Gustavo turns his back, but I don’t give up: No matter how long he might live in a modern, urban world, the primitive bush would still remain alive within him. Part of his soul would always be untamed, full of insuperable monsters.

  Come with me to the bush and you’ll see: You’re a savage, my dear writer.

  Call me what you like, but I don’t find it at all heroic to fire on defenseless animals. There’s no glory in such an unequal contest.

  Without a word, I take a lion’s claw and tooth from my haversack and place it on the table.

  What do you think this is?

  They’re parts of a lion.

  Parts? They’re weapons. These are the lion’s shotguns. As you can see, the creature is better equipped than I am. So, who’s the hunter? Me or him?