Confession of the Lioness (10 page)

Animals have a different way of distinguishing between night and day, bush and village.

I begin to get an idea of the size of the village. The huts extend over the other side of the river and cover the slopes on the opposite bank. The village has grown since the last time I was here. Those who have settled along the banks of the Lideia are almost certainly war refugees.

The villagers greet us, standing aside to let us pass along the narrow paths. Some seem to remember me. And I go along distributing pleasantries:

Umumi?

Nimumi
, they answer merrily, astonished to hear me greet them in the local language.

They smile. But their happiness gives way to a look of apprehension. These men are bound together by the same vulnerability: They are doomed, awaiting the final blow. For centuries they have existed in the margins of the world. That's why they are suspicious of this sudden interest in their suffering. This suspicion explains the reaction of one of the countrymen when Gustavo asks to interview him:

Do you want to know how we die? No one ever comes here to find out how we live.

Mangy dogs cross our path like wandering shadows. Yet these dogs, at first so shy, surrender to the slightest caress and nestle against our hands as if they yearned to be people. The writer calls them, and tries to stroke them. People watch him, puzzled: They don't expect dogs to be caressed, much less spoken to. These domestic creatures are never addressed by word, nor are they given any scraps of food: They just eat what they can hunt, so that they won't begin to take existence for granted.

*   *   *

Dozens of villagers have gathered together under the mango tree out of curiosity. It's incredible how someplace so deserted can suddenly fill up with folk who seem to have emerged from the sand. I look at this trading of self-interest with cynicism. The writer is a bird of prey: He seeks tales about the war. The villagers expect some gratification. A gift, in local parlance. How can someone criticize me for my professional activity? I practice hunting. Well, the writer lives on carrion. He embarked on this journey in order to peck at misfortune, among survivors who sorrow in silence.

Scratching at the wounds of the past: That's what Gustavo is doing by dragging up memories of the civil war.

What do you remember most about the war?

There's nothing to remember, my good sir
, one of the countrymen replies.

What do you mean by that?

We all came back from the war, dead.

I turn my face away. I don't want anyone to detect the vengefulness in my smile. No war can be recounted. Where there's blood, there are no words. The writer is asking the dead to show him their scars.

It's then that I realize what the pleasure is that I get out of hunting: to delve back beyond life, free from being a person.

*   *   *

The blind man who followed us around the night we arrived is in the crowd waiting to be interviewed. At one point, he leans on the shoulders of the person in front of him and salutes us extravagantly. He is still barefoot, wearing the same military fatigues.

Which army did you fight for?
the writer asks.

I fought in all of them
, comes the immediate reply. And pointing toward me, he adds:
And I remember that gentleman's voice very well.

My voice? That's impossible.

Forgive me, I don't want to offend, but I'd like to ask you a question: Why did they send for a hunter? They should have summoned me, a soldier.

I don't understand
, the writer argues.
What's this got to do with soldiers?

Don't you see? This, my good sir, isn't a hunt. This is a war.

It was war that explained the tragedy of Kulumani. Those lions weren't emerging from the bush. They were born out of the last armed conflict. The same upheaval of all wars was now being repeated: People had become animals, and animals had become people. During battle, bodies had been left in the bush, along the roads. The lions had eaten them. At that precise point, the creatures of the wild had broken a taboo: They had begun to see people as prey. At last, the blind man brought his long speech to a close:

We men are no longer in charge. Now it's they who control our fear.

Then he pontificated eloquently and without interruption:

The same thing happened in colonial times. The lions remind me of the soldiers in the Portuguese army. These Portuguese took over our imagination so effectively that they became powerful. The Portuguese weren't strong enough to defeat us. That's why they organized it so that the victims killed themselves. And we blacks learned to hate ourselves.

The old man spoke, full of certainty, as if he were giving a speech. At that moment, he was a soldier. An imaginary uniform enveloped his soul.

*   *   *

The writer knows this: The real interview will happen during the welcoming reception scheduled for the lunch to be held in the
shitala
, the open-sided hall in the center of the village. It's in this patch of shade that the men habitually hold their meetings. Women are excluded. They don't even dare walk past this covered space. Florindo Makwala would rather it were taking place somewhere else, more modern, less subject to the dictates of tradition. But the writer was insistent: Under one roof, he would be able to pit all the various explanations for these feline assaults against one another.

The administrator has not yet arrived when, at last, we enter the hall. He was following the protocols of power: He was the one awaited. The elders get to their feet to welcome us. When they greet me, they do so with their left hand supporting their right elbow. It's an act of respect, a sign of esteem. They are trying to tell me my arm has “weight.”

Finally, Florindo Makwala appears, accompanied by his bodyguard and a secretary carrying a briefcase. An elderly rustic gets to his feet with a certain cautious respect, and welcomes the administrator with the following words:

We never see you here, in this
shitala
. Welcome to the core of the village. Take a seat, but remember that we are the ones to speak first here …

Very well
, the administrator agrees.
Afterward, when we've finished, I'll formally close the session …

The old man waits for Florindo to take his seat and then immediately confronts me and Gustavo, hands on hips:

Why are you visiting us?

Haven't you been told?
the writer asks in surprise.

We want to know why we were chosen.

So what's the problem?

The others, from the other villages that haven't been visited, will complain. We'll be victims of their envy, and we, who are already dying, will die even more because of what you've done.

We can't visit everyone
, I argue, in support of Gustavo Regalo in his efforts.
Besides, what are you talking about? People are dying, and not a week goes by without another victim.

Time isn't a running race. The legs of time lie within us. Apart from this, many more people are going to die now. By visiting Kulumani, you're summoning the killer lions.

If you don't want me here, I'll go
, I declare, getting up from my chair.
I'll go back to the city right now.

The administrator raises his arms anxiously, and tells us all to sit down. Then he addresses the assembly in Shimakonde. It's obvious he's trying to correct any misunderstandings that might arise. Silence follows. The flustered old man ends up smiling and addresses us in Portuguese:

It's all right. Let's eat first. Then, when our bellies are full, it will be easier to talk.

They give us a plate of cooked mealie flour that's called
shima
around here. A huge pot in the middle is filled with chunks of goat. There are whole pieces of the animal there: the head, the hooves, the meat, the horns. I stick with the flour and some dribbles of a sauce whose origins I would rather not know.

Don't stand on ceremony
, Makwala reassures me.
This is the goat you offered the villagers.

We are served
lipa
and
ugwalwa
, fermented drinks, and I don't commit the indelicacy of not accepting, although I only wet my lips. Before the meal, a bowl of warm water was passed around for us to wash our hands. In the absence of a cloth, I let the water run down my drooping arms. We eat in silence. Only the sound of feverish chewing can be heard. Only when the bones, sucked free of all meat, are returned to the pot does someone address us. The old man was right: The atmosphere is less tense, there's laughter and jokes are told. Gustavo and I are asked if we have wives. They all exchange glances when we reply in the negative.

Neither of you is married?

Suspicion suddenly reestablishes itself: So manlike and yet single? We could only be witch doctors, for only they remain single their whole lives.

Forgive us for doubting, but do you gentlemen live according to the ideology of God?

The old man launches forth again. He comments on our refusal to serve ourselves from the big pot. Who in this world would turn down such an invitation?

They're deceiving us, brothers. These whites eat meat every day. It's this greed of theirs that will put an end to the world.

The problem
, another countryman corrects him,
isn't what they eat but how they eat.

What do you mean?
Gustavo asks.

You eat on your own. Only witch doctors do that.

The man rolls a chunk of
shima
in his hand, dips it lingeringly in the pureed cabbage, and lets it drip before putting it in his mouth.

People who eat alone have something to hide. You can be sure, Mr. Hunter, it's not us that have received you badly. You're the ones who've arrived badly.

Let's put all this aside
, the writer proclaims in a conciliatory tone.
What I want to ask is this: Are these lions that have appeared real?

What do you mean, real?
comes a chorus of voices.

They explain their surprise: There's the bush lion, which in these parts is called an
ntumi va kuvapila
; there's the invented lion they call an
ntumi ku lambi-dyanga
; and then there are the lion-people, known as
ntumi va vanu
.

And they're all real
, they conclude unanimously.

All of a sudden a woman's voice is heard joining in, unexpected and heretical:

It should be another type of hunt. The enemies of Kulumani are right here, they're in this assembly!

This intervention alarms those present. Surprised, the men turn to face the intruder. It's Naftalinda, the administrator's wife. And she's challenging the most time-honored prohibition: Women should not enter the
shitala
. Much less are they authorized to state an opinion on matters of such gravity. The administrator hastens to put things right:

Comrade First Lady, please, this is a private meeting …

Private? I can't see anything private here. And don't look at me like that, because I'm not scared. I'm like the lions that attack us: I've lost my fear of men.

Naftalinda, please, we're meeting here in accordance with age-old tradition,
Makwala pleads.

A woman was raped and almost killed here in this village. And it wasn't the lions that did it. There's no longer anywhere I can't go.

She advances proudly past the elders, smiles disdainfully at the administrator, and eventually stops in front of me:

Have you come back to Kulumani, Archangel Bullseye? Well, then, get hunting these rapists of women.

Mama Naftalinda, you've got to ask to speak
, Florindo Makwala warns.

The floor's mine, I don't need to ask anyone. I'm talking to you, Archie Bullseye. Aim your weapon at other targets.

What's all this talk, wife?

You pretend you're worried about the lions that take our lives from us. But I, as a woman, ask you: What life is there left to take from us?

Mama Naftalinda, for the love of God. We've got an agenda for this event.

Do you know why they don't allow women to speak? Because they're already dead. Those people there, the powers that be in the government, those who've got rich, they use us to work in their fields.

Maliqueto, please take the First Lady away. She's disturbing our little workshop here.

A few get rich. The dead work through the night for one or two to get rich.

The meeting turns into a riot. Suddenly no one is speaking Portuguese. The acrimony is happening in another world. A world where the living and the dead need translation in order to understand each other.

 

Mariamar's Version

FOUR

The Blind Road

A word that can't be spoken eventually turns into poisoned spittle.

—AFRICAN PROVERB

Today, my mother told me she's working as a maid in the administrator's house, where Archie Bullseye is staying. Every day, she passes my hunter. Perhaps she's doing this on purpose, to humiliate me. Without me even asking her, my mother volunteers:

This fellow Archie is sick, the sickness of hunters has taken over his body.

If her intention is to hurt me, I feign no interest in my reply. I don't want to know. My nation is no longer just the village, or even my own home: It's this solitary spot. The garden where I'm confined.