Nkokolani, April 5, 1895
Your Excellency Counselor José d’Almeida
Yesterday I went to Chicomo by way of the river. There, I took part in a meeting of officers of the Northern Column, in which we reviewed the progress and difficulties of our campaign against Gungunhane’s main garrison at Manjacaze. Your Excellency will receive a detailed report of this meeting by special messenger.
The day after the meeting, I returned to Nkokolani, accompanied by Your Excellency’s adjunct and envoy, our mutual friend Mariano Fragata. We journeyed the whole morning down the River Inharrime in a pirogue. At a certain point in our travels, we were stopped by a man standing on the left bank, a tall black man of a certain age, who was waving his arms to attract our attention. I gave the order for us to pause in our journey, even though the others in the boat advised to the contrary. This black man greeted me with a mixture of submissiveness and pride, and made the strangest of requests: for me to alter the date of his birth on his travel document. He needed to renew his work permit in the mines of South Africa and could not reveal his true age. He was taking the opportunity to present himself to me and asked that no one in the village of Nkokolani should be told of his appearance.
I am Tsangatelo, the eldest of the Nsambe family. In Nkokolani, boss, you must have met my grandchildren, Mwanatu and Imani, the children of Katini and Chikazi.
He had another miner with him, who remained as discreet as a shadow, but who helped us as an interpreter during the remainder of our conversation. This other man was a Landin from Lourenço Marques, and seemed far more familiar with our customs.
I can’t tamper with your document, I began to argue.
Who mentioned tampering?
You did. You were the one who asked me to change it.
You could change it without lying. No one knows the exact day they were born. Or do they?
I certainly do.
But apart from that, the Portuguese are now our parents. You, sir, are my father. How can you refuse a request from your son? From a son who is older than his own father?
Fragata, who up until then had stayed out of the argument, climbed forward into the bow of the pirogue so as to put an end to all this talk. The elderly kaffir’s eyes narrowed, and then he raised his arm. I remember you, he exclaimed.
I don’t remember ever seeing you before.
Boss, you’re the one with the golden tooth. I’m Tsangatelo, the leader of the caravans—don’t you remember? I transported weapons for your soldiers …
Mariano Fragata cocked his head and strained himself to peer against the light. Then he clambered out of the boat and hugged the Negro. And there, with the interpreter’s help, they celebrated their reunion as if they were two companions in arms. At one point, noticing my curiosity, Fragata explained: This fellow had never seen a white man before me. He thought the horse and I were one sole creature.
And they both laughed—the Portuguese with an austere, restrained laugh, a buttoned-up display of contentment; the African with a loud, uncontrolled guffaw, a powerful river in flood. I confess that his laughter provoked in me some boundless rage, as if I were witnessing a manifestation of the devil himself. Those sudden coarse, clumsy ways reawakened a grim suspicion I’d felt before, that, no matter how much we may teach them our language, no matter how often they kneel in front of a crucifix, the kaffirs will never cease to be savage children.
Fragata then asked that we pause and share our food and water with the two miners. Only when we were sitting in some leafy shade did the envoy begin to explain that old Negro’s story. He was a former owner of caravans who, some years previously, had approached the expeditionary force, of which Fragata formed part, and offered his services to transport weapons and victuals. These services proved to be providential for the establishment of our first garrisons. At this time, Tsangatelo was a figure of authority and prestige throughout the area. His caravans had right of passage along the whole of their route, whether that lay in the State of Gaza or in Portuguese Crown Lands. Local chiefs were paid money and guaranteed their protection against armed bandits. It was this old ally, now haggard and dressed in rags, who stood before us.
Well, now, is it really you, old Tsangatelo? And you’ve decided to become a miner now?
What about you, boss? Have you still got your gold tooth?
Our friend Fragata seemed eager to open his lips to show the tooth, which glinted in the bright light of day. I’ve still got it and shall always have it, Tsangatelo, my old friend, he declared.
As he peered at Fragata’s teeth, the black man clicked his tongue and looked concerned.
What’s the matter? I asked, noticing his anxious expression.
It’s because this tooth is only the start, the black man said.
The start? The start of what?
The black man replied that Fragata’s entire skeleton would turn to gold. Every bone in his body, the tiniest ossicle he never knew he had, would weigh upon him. Our friend, to cut a long story short, was in the process of being transformed into a mine. With his years of experience as a miner, Tsangatelo warned: They’re going to kill you, boss. And they’ll strip you as they would a seam of metal. If I were you, I’d pull that tooth out. Or do you think you’ll escape because you’re a white?
We chuckled at this nonsense. And we offered him wine and some of the biscuits we had with us. He and his companion helped themselves with exaggerated stiffness. The old man wanted to know about me, and I informed him of my status as a newcomer in Africa. Then he asked the strangest of questions:
Can I ask you something: how big is Portugal?
I don’t understand your question.
Do you know how big these African lands are? Even we don’t know, boss. It’s just that these lands of ours are so vast that we measure our journeys by the rivers we cross. You, sir, are traveling along this river. As for me, I’ve lost count of all the rivers I’ve crossed.
Then he fell silent. I wouldn’t have understood him had Fragata not explained the logic of what he was saying: the black man was alerting me to the hardships I would have to face in order to cross the rivers that lay ahead of us. I couldn’t begin to imagine the painful crossings, wading through treacherous riverbeds, with men, oxen, horses, guns, and baggage. This black man is right, said Fragata. Such crossings were, my companion added, a war within a war. And the more arms we had, the less prepared we would be.
It was already late when Fragata tried to convince the kaffir to come with us to Nkokolani. Tsangatelo was adamant in his refusal. He had left the village years before, and he explained that he would not be well received. That was why he wanted to spare himself the disappointment. But why on earth would he not be welcomed? He answered in a rancorous tone: Everyone knows the anger of those who stay, when faced with those who have had the courage to leave.
That was the end of the conversation. The old miner got to his feet, and it was only then that I fully realized how skinny he was. The man looked more like a pole than a person. But his fragility was a lie, and, like everything else in this land, either false or an illusion. Slowly, as if unhurriedness was a sign of good manners, the man began to say his farewells. He held Fragata’s hands while he repeated his urgent plea that he should get rid of his gold tooth.
Be careful, boss. If we miners go down into the tunnels, it’s because we trust your gods.
This is what the old man declared. I did not understand why he was making such an assertion, which, to my ears, seemed such shameful heresy. Why was he speaking of “our” gods? Then Tsangatelo shot the following question at me, and not Fragata:
All this gold, all those diamonds: who do you think they belong to, boss?
Well, they belong to whoever digs them out of there.
On the contrary, my good sir. They belong to whoever put them there. And they were sown by the spirits of the ancestors. So I ask you whites, did you ask permission?
We asked your chiefs.
Which ones?
Those who have authority in the area.
Those chiefs have no authority over the earth, or what lies beneath it. That is why I say to you, the black man continued, that it would be good if your gods protected us. For we have long ceased to be protected by our own.
The good Fragata, who will return to Inhambane in a few days, after witnessing this picturesque conversation, fell into a state of melancholy for the rest of the journey. I could but think that our compatriot had become receptive to the childish beliefs of that Negro. The truth is, even I allowed myself to be downcast because of his lassitude. What type of illness is this, esteemed counselor, that contaminates us here in these tropical domains?
I mentioned this incident because I am aware of Your Excellency’s sensitivity regarding these issues. Or who knows, perhaps you feel the need to forget the farcical assertion of our feeble powers that we have displayed here throughout the centuries. The journey to Chicomo and, in particular, our crossing of the river raised in me the most agonizing doubts. What Lands of the Crown are these that have never seen the king? Has it ever dawned on King Dom Carlos that he might visit his overseas territories? And if the king ever came here, is this the Africa he would be shown? All these questions pain me, and if I share them with Your Excellency, it is because I feel that, by committing them to paper, I manage to lessen their gravity.
I remember the almost poetic way the old black man Tsangatelo alluded to the vastness of these lands compared with those of Portugal. The words of that African native lead me to ask another question: Can such extensive territories really be ours? Can lands that cannot be contained in one map really belong to Portugal?
The English in South Africa already accuse us of compromising the prestige of the white race. And they went as far as proposing the enlistment of Boer mercenaries to put down the rebellion of the Landins and deal with Gungunhane’s disobedience. Maybe we would do well to accept mercenaries in our ranks. If we shamefully accepted the British Ultimatum, it would be better to forfeit some territory and by so doing save our dignity where we maintain an effective presence.
* * *
P.S. Your Excellency urged me to use a less formal tone in our correspondence. You told me you were tired of dealing with official documents, as tired of them as you were of sleeping away from home. You asked me to compose letters rather than reports and to write as if I were a friend. Your broad-mindedness is a true blessing as far as I am concerned. And so, dear counselor, I shall use a more familiar tone from now on.
For this reason, and confiding in you as a friend, I shall tell you what happened last night. I fell asleep as if far removed from myself, or as if my body were more boundless than the African veld. And I slept fitfully, aware that a river was flowing through my slumber. When I awoke, the old miner Tsangatelo was sitting at the end of the bed. He looked like a black swan and was gliding silently along while the sound of lapping water filled the room. I realized at this point that the bed was a canoe, which the miner was paddling. I held out my arm to him and pleaded: Teach me to laugh, Tsangatelo! Teach me to laugh!
The heat of African nights induces the strangest of dreams. The truth is that these ravings have taken up all my time. I keep recalling my childhood house, in a cold village up in the north of Portugal. In that first home of mine, laughter was left outside, as if joy were something that had to be wiped clean from our feet on a threadbare mat by the front door. My father, stern and serious, wore black, as if we were mourning all the dead in this world. In the darkness of night, when the whole household slept, my mother would tiptoe to my room so that my father wouldn’t hear, in order to say good night. Your father won’t let me kiss you, she would murmur. And she added in a whisper, Your father is afraid that I will belong to him less if I am too much of a mother. In a hushed voice, she would tell me stories. They were simple fables, some to provoke laughter, others tears. But by that time, I had already learned to hold back my tears and swallow my laughter.
I was born and lived among shadows. My home had the smell and the silence of an orphanage. I had everything I needed to be a good soldier.