Irọ́
Lies
Irọ́ ló n’ilé ayé
Lies dominate the world,
Agàbàgebè ló ni dúníyàn.
Falsehood dominates humanity.
Sọ-dúdú-di-funfun ni gbogbo yín fi n jẹun
You all get your sustenance from prevarication
Ẹni tó kúrú lóun ò kúrú
The short person says he is not short.
Ẹni tó gùn lóun ò gùn jù.
The tall person says she is not too tall.
Èyí tó sanra ò gbà póun tói.
The fat person would not accept that she is big.
Bàbá tín-ínrin lóun ti n jẹbò.
The thin man says he is eating to fill up.
Ọ̀lẹ́dàrùn lóun n ṣiṣẹ́ ju gbogbo ayé lọ.
The chronically lazy person claims to work harder than all.
Gbogbo yín n tùrọ́ tà bí èlùbọ́!
You all peddle lies like yam flour!
Ẹni tó lówó, lóun ò lówó,
The rich say they are penniless,
Òtòṣì tààrà lóun ò tóṣí.
The apparent pauper says he is not poverty-stricken.
Ó ní bá a bá ti yó,
He says that once one has eaten,
Tow”o di yẹpẹrẹ!
Money is of no significance!
Olè níẹẹ́ ọwọ́ òun lòun n jẹ.
The lazy one claims to depend on gains of hard work,
Akútọ́ọ́lọ́ ni nnkan kan ò múun,
The sickly feeble one claims that nothing is wrong with her,
Gìrìpá-kùnrin lóun ò gbádùn.
Able-bodied men claim to be ailing.
Oúnjẹ tó nínú ilé, ẹ ní ò tó.
Food is enough in the house; you claim it is not enough.
Ebi n pa yín lode, ẹ lẹ́ ẹ ti jẹun
You are hungry on an outing, you claim to have eaten.
Bàbá pirọrọ, ó lóun ti sùn.
The father quietly closes his eyes, he claims to be asleep.
Ọmọ ọ̀dọ̀ sùn, ó lóun ò fojúboorun,
The servant dozes, and claims to be wide awake,
Àdúrà lòun n gba!
Claims he is only praying!
Ilẹ̀ ṣú, ẹ ní kòì ṣú, ẹ níbi í lọ.
It is dark, you say it is not yet dark, you have places to go.
Ó dààrọ̀, ilẹ̀ mọ́, ẹ ní kòì mọ.
In the morning, the day breaks, you say it has not broken.
Ẹ n sùn ẹ̀ n fa lala
You are sleeping soundly
Ohun tẹ́ ẹ fẹ́ẹ́ rí, lẹ̀ n rí.
It is what you want to see, that you see.
Èyí tẹ̀ ẹ̀ fẹ́, kò sí n bẹ̀!
Whatever you do not want, does not exist!
Orni tutu, elégbò ló gbóná tó,
The water is cold; the wounded man says it is hot enough
Omi ẹ̀kọ gbóná, ìyàwó ló ti tutu,
The water for the pap is boiling; the wife says it is cold,
Ó ni kọ́kọ ó máa jẹun lọ.
She says the husband should proceed with the meal.
Bí wọn n lọ,
If they are leaving,
Wọn a ní àwọn n bọ̀.
They will say they are coming.
Bówó tán lọ́wọ́,
When they become broke,
Wọn a lówó pọ̀ lọ́wọ́ àwọn,
They claim to have lots of money,
Ènìyàn tan ara rẹ̀ jẹ.
People hoodwink themselves.
Bí ìyá ìbejì,
Like the mother of twins,
Ọmọ rẹ̀ kú,
Her child dies,
Ó ní ó rÈkó rèé raṣọ ni.
But she claims the child went to Lagos to buy clothes.
Ẹ jẹ gba kádàrá,
You’d better accept your destiny,
Kọ́ Ẹ yéé tanra yín jẹ.
And stop fooling yourselves.
Bónígbèsè muti yó,
The debt will not be reduced by one kobo
Gbèsè ò ní í tori ẹ̀ din kọ́bọ̀.
If the debtor gets drunk.
Ìkìlọ̀
Warning
Eti ẹ mélòó?
How many ears do you have?
O jẹ́ ṣọ́ra,
You better be careful,
Àṣẹ̀ṣẹ̀ yọ ọ̀gọ̀mọ̀
You young unsullied
Ẹ jẹ́ ṣọ́ra,
You better be careful,
Ẹyin ìpẹ́ẹ̀rẹ́ ọkùnrin.
You fledgling men.
Ojù lẹ̀ṣẹ̀ wà,
The-eye-directs-the-leg,
Kílọ̀ f’ójú ẹ.
Warn your eyes.
Βí o n rìn ní tífì,
As you walk on the road,
Ràntí ilé tó o ti jade.
Remember the house from where you emanated.
Àwọn ìdí nlánlá n ponijẹ
The plump backsides are attracting clients
Ọ̀ràn,
Trouble,
Ikú,
Death,
Gbèsè!
Debt!
ÀwỌn ỌmỌsòdẹ̀,
The bejeweled nippers,
Àwọn ìbàdí-àrán,
The-ones-with-the-velvety-posteriors,
Àwọn ọ̀pẹ́lẹ́ngẹ́ Awẹ́-lẹ́wà,
The pretty slender beauties,
Ìdí ìlẹ̀kẹ̀.
Beaded rears,
Àwọn ọ̀gẹ-gèlè-sí-ìpénpéjú
The-ones-that-wear-their-headgear-just-above-the-eyelashes
Abitan bí ita afárá oyin.
With thighs like honeycombs,
Àwọn tí kò gbọ́jà Iérí,
The-ones-that-bear-no-wares,
Tí wọ́n sì n pòníbàárà.
But are beckoning to customers.
Wọ́n gbọ́jà s’íbàrá-ìdí,
They have their wares at their hips,
Wọ́n dẹ tàkùté itan.
They have set the traps of their thighs.
Wọ́n n wọ́mọ tí kò gbọ́ tìyá.
They are seeking the child who has not obeyed his mother.
Wọ́n n wẹ́ni tó kọ̀rọ̀ sí baba lẹ́r
They are seeking the person who has rejected his father’s counsel.
Ọmọ tébi n pa,
The ravenous child,
Tí kò bọ́ sí búkà
Who would not go to the restaurant
Kó jẹ̀bà,
And consume èbà
Tí kò bọ́ sí yàrá,
Who would not go into the room,
Kó bubẹ̀ sámàlà,
And pour some sauce on àmàlà,
Kó fẹran méjì síyán,
And add two pieces of meat to the pounded yam,
Kó jẹun,
And eat,
kȯ yȯ bi erin.
And be full as the elephant.
Wọ́n n wọ́mọ to fẹ́ẹ́ jadùn-m
They are seeking the child who wants to eat the-sweet-that-doesn’t-touch-the-mouth
Bá a jẹ ẹ́ tán,
Once it is consumed,
Ebi a tún máa pa ni.
One will still feel hunger pangs.
Bá a jẹ ‘mìíràn tán,
Whenever we consume some,
Àkùkọ ọ̀run a máa kọ.
The heavenly rooster might begin to crow.
PAULINA CHIZIANE
Translated from the Portuguese by DAVID BROOKSHAW
Who’s In Charge Here?
PAULINA CHIZIANE is one of Mozambique’s most celebrated authors. Chiziane considers herself a storyteller, who bases her work on the rich heritage of the oral tradition. In her own words: “When working with the Red Cross I finally understood that pen and paper are my arms for fighting.” Her nov
el Niketche is forthcoming with Archipelago Books.
DAVID BROOKSHAW is an Emeritus Professor at the University of Bristol, UK. He has published widely in the field of Lusophone Postcolonial Studies. He has also translated the work of a number of authors from Portuguese. These include, most recently, The Tuner of Silences (2013) and The Confession of a Lioness (forthcoming in 2015), both by Mia Couto.
AFTER THE meal of pure white xima, ground up in the big shallow pan, served with boiled nhewe, milk curds and grilled meat, the emperor felt very hot! And it wasn’t from the food, no. The heat came from the sun and from the rolls of fat on that elephantine body. The emperor took care in what he ate. For breakfast, he would have curds or fresh milk still warm from the cow. He liked grilled meat, cooked rare, and dry bread. He would have his shot of brandy, but not much. Nature has this effect sometimes: a big size, resulting from little food. He was of good stock, the emperor!
He shuffled his great body over to his favourite resting place under the vast rubber tree. He lay down, face up, next to his favourite lady. He fixed his gaze on the creator’s horizon. He decided that the terrestrial spaces were his as well as the infinity of the heavens. That the stars that shone at night were his, along with the trees that transport the late afternoon breeze.
He contemplated his work and gave a proud sigh–it was I who transformed all this in life. I put light in the eyes of this riff-raff. When I arrived here, the land was wild, and male. I tamed it. I made it female, it’s all mine, I do what I want with it. It gives me good fruit, cereals, livestock. It gives me sun and rain. In this female land, men serve me on their knees, because they’re no longer men. I’m the only male on the earth’s surface.
A swallow sang happily high in the air. Its belly full too, it danced. It emptied its bowels, and the dropping hung from its backside. Surrendering to gravity, it fell in the emperor’s eye.
His bulging body sprang up, moved by anger. The slumbering dragon deep inside him leaped from his turgid eyes. Could the emperor put up with such an insult: bird shit? No, it was intolerable. He who had won all his battles, who had transformed life, who had cut off the ears of his prisoners, who had fertilized all the women on the earth, who had brought all under his control, couldn’t be abused by a mere bird.
Furious, he called for his warriors. Today, he is a dragon, a lion. He roars:
“Nguyuza? Lumbulule? Marivate? Khumalo? Sithole?”
The cry he unleashed cut the breath of whoever heard it. The men came running. Kneeling before their sovereign, they uttered in unison:
“At your command, Highness.”
“Who rules under the Sun?”
“God,” they answered, once again in unison.
“God?” The emperor’s rage increased.
“Yes.”
“Who is God here?”
Nguyuza spoke first. He was the Chief. He had the first word and the emperor had the last.
“Our emperor is God. He is the Lord of all Lords, the Nkulunkulu!”
They responded with the same litany as always, their warriors’ voices trembling all the more. They sensed that nothing good was going to come from this summons.
“I ordered there to be silence,” the emperor blustered.
“The whole village is in silence,” Lumbulule answered. “There isn’t a single woman grinding grain. Nor a child crying. There’s complete silence.”
“And that bird?”
“The bird?” Khumalo asked.
Staring up at the ceiling of the sky, the men began their search. They saw them. The heat of the hour had caused the birds to return to the comfort of their nests. They swayed and danced. Their merry chirping rained down on their ears like the freshness of the breeze.
“They’re the voices of the swallows, Majesty,” answered Marivate.
“They’ve been sent by the spirits to sing the praises of Your Majesty, to lull you in your repose, Hosi!” Lumbulule added.
“They are divine voices with a prophesy of peace,” said the philosophical Sithole without any conviction, “and their song tells us that Your Majesty is the most potent of men, who will fertilize all the women in the world. That cows will become pregnant and the hens will lay more eggs. That the barns will burst with grain in the next harvest.”
“Do you know the language of birds, you idiot?” The emperor bellowed.
“I don’t know it, but I understand it.”
“What do you understand, half-wit?”
“They say that our emperor is the God everlasting, the king of all kings,” Khumalo added.
“Idiots,” the emperor cried, “silence all the swallows. Catch them. Bring them to me for their punishment, so that all the birds in the world may know who’s in charge here!”
The men forgot the usual litanies of Yes Highness, Long Live Your Highness, for every tiny thing. They were quite simply dumbstruck. They drifted, lost on a sea of bewilderment. Trained to obey without question, they carried out their orders blindly, but today, they had their doubts …
Might the emperor have lost his senses?
Might he have had a glass too many?
Could it be that he has been smoking those grasses that grow wild in the fields?
The emperor’s mind shifts like the wind blowing out candles. Today, madness and lucidity dance to the same rhythm. Insanity makes its presence felt with subtlety. Sometimes, human greatness is written down with the letters of impotence.
“Silence the swallows, Majesty?” Nguyuza asked.
“Are you deaf? Didn’t you hear me? Have you lost your ears?”
“I beg your pardon, Majesty. My question is merely a technical one. I just wanted to confirm your order so as to organize the procedures better, find the best method, refine the strategy for this mission.”
“Nguyuza, I want silence, absolute silence. I want Nature to remain quiet while I take my rest.”
“Yes, Highness.”
Power. Invisible armour that sustains our spirit. Because of it, warriors have bled the earth and castrated man’s virility. With so much power, the emperor wished to reside in the pyramid of Zulwine, of Heaven, but he had forgotten the most important detail: on the very apex of that pyramid, his elephantine body would have no support. He would fall.
“The order has been given,” the emperor reiterated.
“We are here to obey you, Highness,” Nguyuza concluded. “Your orders will be carried out to the letter. Apart from this, swallows are useless birds that aren’t even worth eating. They don’t respect our emperor or our empire. We shall punish them.”
“I want a quick, decisive solution.”
“Yes, Highness. I just need a little time to organize a substantial expedition to teach these insubordinate creatures a lesson.”
“That’s the spirit, General, that’s what I like to hear,” the emperor smiled, stroking his belly that gleamed with good food.
“Our strategy will be infallible, Highness,” Nguyuza assured him. “Our victory will be complete. We shall bring you these little birds for solemn trial, we promise. They’ll be punished and they’ll learn through their pain who commands the sun’s rays and the direction of the winds. All the swallows in the world will know, once and for all, who orders the tempests and the fearsome thunderclaps that rule the world.”
“I shall only allow you this one night to prepare yourselves.”
“Yes, Highness.”
“Now, be off with you.”
All bowed their heads and clapped their hands as a sign of total submission. They knew that each word uttered by the emperor was a drop of bile in their lives. People were killed here. People died here. To breathe your last, all you had to do was step on a line.
“Immediately, Highness!” Marivate replied.
“Long may you live, Highness!” Lumbulule said with a woman’s voice.
His soul glutted with grandeur, the emperor returned to his repose and snored, serenely.
This was Mudungazi, Ngungunhana, the Lion of Gaza!
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Who ruled over men and women.
That is why the world belonged to him!
Nguyuza felt hot and cold. He was sweating. His stomach heaved with a profound feeling of nausea. He was close to vomiting. He ran into the bush, for his intestines were also in a state of rebellion. Crouching down, he defecated. His vomit was bitter, very bitter. Freed from his discomfort, he tried to rest in his favourite piece of shade under the mafurra tree. His purging enabled him to think clearly.
The fat man’s words were a pot of fire. The general was suspicious. The emperor wasn’t playing. What he was looking for was an excuse for another bloodbath. The man’s tongue was more murderous than the bullets of the Portuguese.
The general trembled. The expression of his fear was in his diarrhea. In his vomiting, his panicking. In his sweat and his disquiet. He talked to himself like a madman. I’m the one who sustains that man’s vanity. In every battle, I bring him a victory, like a woman bringing a bundle of firewood to warm her old husband’s feet.
The sunset reflected his image as he addressed his own conscience. No, that’s not me you see there, all covered in blood. What have I done, from one battle to the next, carrying out orders and bellowing others, running after the emperor on his conquest of nothing at all? Where did I get this blindness, which allowed me to mount a maddened steed, which perfected in me the art of accepting lies as the truth? Where did I get this illusion that I could preserve my own life by killing others? I should have been anyone else but this. Maybe it’s not too late for the real me to be born. Today’s emperor, he’s repugnant. It would be easier to accept orders to kill a man. But a bird?