War is a midwife: from the insides of the world, it causes another world to emerge. It doesn’t do it out of anger or any feeling whatsoever. It does it because that is its profession: it plunges its hands into time, with the arrogance of a fish convinced the sea exists because of it.
I set off along the streets of Nkokolani, and walked down the one lined with orange trees. They had just blossomed, and their sweet perfume spread through the village. The orange trees might not keep monsters at bay, but they conjured up the spirit of distant geographies. The roots of these trees, according to Tsangatelo, lie in another continent.
I was so intoxicated by the powerful scent that I almost forgot where I was going, which was, inevitably, to the Portuguese garrison. I changed direction and started walking purposefully. I needed to get the better of my relatives. It wouldn’t be long before they paid Germano de Melo a visit. They would request protection against the forces of Ngungunyane heading southward en masse.
Sergeant Germano de Melo was at the door, with a look of panic on his face.
Come quickly, Imani!
What’s wrong, Sergeant?
It’s my goddamned hands! My goddamned hands have gone. See here, look: I’ve lost my hands again.
He wandered, horrified, through the house. One certainty drove him forward: his hands had disappeared. He staggered sightlessly, with his arms stretched out in front of him shaking more than his voice. I’ve lost them, he repeated, in despair.
He had become a victim of such episodes with increasing frequency: He lost feeling in his hands. On such occasions, he would become helpless and dependent, like a child. This is what had happened shortly before my visit: his hands had become ever less visible, ever more transparent, until they had disappeared, weightless and without any memory of ever having belonged to him.
Sit down, Sergeant Germano. I’ll heat some water and wash your hands.
But what hands, if I haven’t got any?
I’ll wash your arms and rub your wrists. Your hands will come back—you’ll see.
These outbreaks of intense fear were the result of an accident he had had when handling a gun. He never told me the details of what had happened. I never asked him. Dark memories are like an abyss: no one should lean too far over them.
I’m very ill, Imani. They say Africa transmits diseases. But I have fallen sick from Africa, the whole of it.
* * *
Old Katini would surely be angry at my having anticipated his visit to the sergeant. He would want to be the first, before all others, to present a request for protection against the VaNguni soldiers. But no one was more capable than I of conveying our people’s fears in fluent Portuguese.
This is what I thought as I entered the garrison. The moment I got used to the half-light, I realized that nothing had changed. The old building was still a strange mixture of grocery store and military base. In some ways, it had even deteriorated further: weapons and merchandise, uniforms and rolls of cotton fabric, military reports and account books, everything there was jumbled up together. The grandiose plans for building the military post had long been shelved. Defensive fortifications were awaited; soldiers were awaited. From the other side of the continent, the promised Angolan platoon would never get there.
A bogus garrison and nonexistent troops: this was the void that Germano commanded. It was little wonder that he was contemplating his arms as if he had never seen them before.
So, where is your guard, my brother Mwanatu? I didn’t see him when I arrived.
I gave him the day off.
Then I noticed that the sergeant’s knee was bleeding. He had hurt himself on the edge of a crate. The flies were already buzzing around the wound.
We’d better clean that cut, I told him, waving a damp piece of cloth at him.
You can certainly clean it, but you’ll never get rid of the flies.
And why is that?
Those flies were inside me. They’re flying out of me. I’m rotten, Imani.
I went over to the wall, took down the rifle that was hanging there, and placed it on Germano’s lap.
Go on, take hold of the gun.
I can’t. I haven’t got enough feeling in my hands yet.
* * *
So, the Portuguese complained that he didn’t recognize his hands? Well, I didn’t feel my soul. I hadn’t felt it since I found out my grandmother had died without leaving any remains for the earth to take in its arms. My mother would die in the same way, and I would return to my initial name of Ash: without hands, without a body, without a soul.
This is what occupied my thoughts as I knelt at the sergeant’s feet. The delays and despairing had so upset Germano de Melo that he had become unrecognizable. This white man, who had presented himself a matter of months ago with such an elegant bearing and such an impeccable uniform, sat there now, beaten and submissive, surrendering to the care of a black girl.
At that moment, I prayed that none of my family would walk through the door and catch me washing his arms in warm water. It would be of little use for me to argue that this white man was a special creature. I would be no more than a witch in everyone’s eyes. And I would be condemned to death. There’s no other fate in Nkokolani for those they call valoii.
* * *
Go on, take hold of the rifle, I insisted. Hold it with your hands. They’re yours …
Slowly, the white man’s fingers felt their way around the rifle, as tentatively as those of a blind man. To my surprise, he raised the gun and leaned it against his ear. He sat there for some time with his face against the butt of the gun, as if he were peering through the silence.
In my country, this is the way we know how many people the gun has killed. Do you know what we do? We listen to the cries of those who died by pressing our ear to the rifle butt. Why are you laughing? In my country we also have beliefs, just as you do here.
And has this gun ever killed anyone?
No. This gun is still waiting to make its debut. It’s a Martini-Henry. Brand-new.
He placed the gun on my lap and got up to go get another gun from the cabinet. I asked him to take the gun away. He reacted, offended and surprised: Are you scared? Raise your arm. There, like that. Now, this arm is a weapon, the most reliable of weapons. This rifle is merely an extension of your arm, your hand, your will.
And the sergeant’s hand ran up my arm, across my shoulders, up my neck. You’re trembling. Are you afraid? he asked. It wasn’t out of fear that I was trembling. Fortunately, the sergeant stepped away and became distant once more. He was lost in thought. Then he spoke: That devil Gungunhane has got one just like this, and do you know who gave it to him? The queen of England herself! They’re well suited to each other … But this other rifle—and he bent down to pick up the second gun—this one I really love … Take a good look at it, Imani, because this is the gun that’s going to defeat Gungunhane.
I’m sorry. But the way to say his name is Ngungunyane, Sergeant, sir. If you can’t say it, you can always call him Mudungazi. But it’s important that we call our enemies by their correct names …
Is that so? Well, then, listen: this gun is a Kropatschek. Now say “Kropatschek,” go on, see if you can …
The difference was that I would never have to call a gun by its name, and Germano would have to utter the name of the African emperor every day. That’s what I should have told him. But I held back submissively.
At that point, we heard the distant tones of a marimba. It was my father, trying out a new composition. Independent of my will, my body began to sway, something that the sergeant noticed immediately. He took a step back and exclaimed: At last, I can see you’re African! For a moment, I was convinced you were Portuguese.
I was surprised to see how still Germano de Melo remained, so removed from the allure of the xylophone. The Portuguese man’s body was unhearing. Something had died inside him, even before he was born.
* * *
At last, the sergeant succumbed to fatigue. His ravings tired him out, and when he came to his senses, he looked like a mat that had been thoroughly beaten and turned upside down. He was but a shadow of the man who had stepped ashore from the River Inharrime a matter of months before. Sprawled in a big old armchair, he fell asleep after muttering:
I’ll be back in a while, Imani. I won’t be long.
I saw myself in a situation that I could never have imagined: sitting in a chair like a wife, next to a white man who had given in to sleep, and with a rifle weighing heavily across my knees.
Gingerly, I lifted the gun, sluggishly and reluctantly, as if I were picking up a snake by its tail. However, I gradually became familiar with the rifle, to the point where I squeezed it against my breast, carefully, like someone cuddling a child. I peered at the barrel, fearing that the screams of those who had killed might emerge from it, along with the groans of those who had died. I allowed my finger gently to exert pressure on the trigger.
And I thought to myself: a millimeter, one tiny millimeter, was all that separated life from death. That was when I heard a voice. At first, I thought it was the Portuguese talking in his sleep. Then I realized the voice was coming from inside the gun, and I began to recognize it. It was asking for help. The intensity of the noise grew until I could bear it no longer. At that point, I shouted out in despair:
Dubula! My brother Dubula!
The Portuguese awoke and came over to calm me down. I dodged him like a caged animal.
Don’t touch me! Please, don’t touch me!
I’m not touching you.
Yes, you are! And don’t look at me, because I’m all dirty.
How could I explain to him that I was dirty from a death that was half mine? But Germano de Melo wasn’t waiting for an explanation. It was his turn to placate me. It’s a good thing I got my hands back, he said as he placed a capulana around my shoulders.
Your trembling will pass; you’re just nervous …
It wasn’t my nerves. Neither mine nor his. It was that house, and its invisible inhabitants competing for cracks in the roof tiles: owls, moths, and bats.
You should leave this house, Sergeant, sir. Go and live somewhere else, anywhere except here.
It seems impossible that you should believe in witchcraft, Imani, a girl like you …
I have to go, but I can’t do so without telling you the reason for my visit. We are all alarmed here in Nkokolani. Do you know that large numbers of Ngungunyane’s soldiers have been spotted?
Yes, I know about that, they told me. Mudungazi is moving his capital from north to south. He’s marching south with thousands and thousands of Ndau people.
Tomorrow my father will come to see you. He will ask you to defend us …
And you will have our support, you may be sure. Tomorrow I shall send a message to Inhambane. You can rest assured: our army will help you. You can tell your people.
My people? I have no people …
I mean your family.
I’m sorry, Sergeant, sir, but there are those in my family who think that “ask” isn’t the right term. We pay tribute, that’s what they say. We have the right to be protected.
And that right will be respected.
Pardon me once again, but people also ask: Where are the troops you are going to protect us with?
They will send troops from Inhambane. As for weapons, I’ve got them here.
As I was leaving, he came to me with a piece of paper, waving it in front of his face. You can tell your father I’ve received guarantees from the highest order that the VaNguni won’t disturb you. You can see that this letter has come from António Enes himself. Come back inside; sit down and write a copy in your own hand.
I sat at the table in the living room, my back straight, elbow propped securely, just as I had learned to do at the Mission School. In a leisurely tone, the sergeant slowly dictated each paragraph:
My Dear Gungunhane:
I, great king of the Province of Mozambique, beholden to King Dom Carlos I to assess the situation regarding the war and to send for forces from Lisbon (this being at last necessary), dispatch my envoy with this letter in order that we may engage in some honest talking, and that we may know once and for all whether you are a true son of the king of Portugal.
You need no reminding of what the king has done for you, because you know only too well that if the king had not given your father, Muzila, weapons to overcome Mahueva, you would not now be the ruler of Gaza. You remain powerful because of the king’s great friendship and his constant gifts, which show that you are a true son to him.
My great leader told me you asked permission to fight the Guambas and the Zavala. He has forbidden it, and I confirm this. I do not give you permission to fight them, and if you do so, you will regret it. I want to ensure the rule of law, and if they harm you I shall punish them, if necessary by sending them to Guinea.
Signed: The Royal Commissioner
Standing behind my chair, Germano surveyed the manuscript, his hand on my shoulder. I begged the gods that no tremor of mine might signal to him how much I was disturbed by this contact.
Have you copied it all? Well, now go to your family and read them what you have just written down …
As I left, I could still feel the touch of his hand. I asked him if he could smell the orange blossom. He answered that he had long ago forgotten the perfumes of this world. And his words saddened me.
* * *
Royal commissioner? asked Musisi.
Among the crowd of relatives and friends assembled in our yard to hear about my visit, there were some who laughed. In the middle of this circle of people was Uncle Musisi, who was ready to disbelieve both the messengers, me and the sergeant. Farther back, Mother was busy, bustling around a fire. She was making salt. She had been occupied with this task ever since morning, when she had set off for the mudflats bordering the lagoons. With a snail’s shell, she had scraped the saltpeter that had accumulated on the wide patches of sand. At that moment, she was washing off the dirt in a pan of boiling water. In due course, the water would evaporate and the salt would appear like a white towel in the dark bottom of the pan. While she toiled, she sang: “… sand is yearning, salt is forgetting…” My mother made salt so as to forget.
Be careful, mind you don’t burn yourself, woman, my father warned.
She stifled a mischievous smile. Uncle Musisi persisted: he wanted to know who this royal commissioner was and what credit he merited that made him so different from all the other whites, whom we viewed with such distrust.
His name is António Enes, I explained. He’s the representative of the king of Portugal. He’s the one who gives the orders in the Lands of the Crown.
And did he write that piece of paper?
Yes, it’s a copy that I wrote in my own hand. The commissioner sent that same letter to Ngungunyane. It’s written here that we can stop worrying about the threats by Ngungunyane’s soldiers. I’ll read it and translate it for you.
* * *
When I had finished reading, the letter hung from my fingertips. It was as if that piece of paper had gained some unexpected weight in the face of my family’s reticence. One of the neighbors broke the silence:
Where’s Guinea? Is it before or after Inhambane?
Be quiet, all of you, Musisi ordered. As far as I’m concerned, this letter just proves how they treat us like children.
Sometimes it’s nice to have a great father, my mother retorted.
Speak for yourself, sister. Do you want to know what I say to these promises? I laugh. That’s what I do: laugh. And do you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to ask one of our own for help. Tomorrow I’m going to speak to Binguane.
Is Binguane a Chopi? my father asked.
At least it’ll be among us blacks.
Binguane lived in the vicinity of Nkokolani. He was a feared military leader who fiercely opposed the VaNguni hosts. I had already seen him. He was a tall, powerful man in spite of his age. Like me, he was of mixed Makwakwa and VaChopi descent.
My father warned: That’s a very bad idea. Ngungunyane will be even more enraged at us. There’s no one in the world the emperor hates more than Binguane and his son, Xiperenyane.
There was more than an element of truth in Katini’s words. When still a child, Xiperenyane had been kidnapped by Muzila, Ngungunyane’s father. This was common practice in the Empire of Gaza: the children of eminent families were kidnapped. The quickest way of ensuring loyalty is through blackmail.
Xiperenyane grew up in the bosom of the royal family, and it was said that he beat Ngungunyane in all games and competitions. As soon as he fled the court, he became the leader of a formidable group of rebels. What Katini said was really true: there was no one Ngungunyane hated more.
You’re giving the wizard his witchcraft, my father said, renewing his warning.
Musisi, who had withdrawn into himself, now returned to the fray in a different tone of voice: While Imani was reading the letter, I began to have an idea. And this idea has to be discussed now, because tomorrow I’m going off to war, and I don’t know whether I’ll come back.
Don’t talk like that—it will bring bad luck, my mother reminded him.
For me, this tale of the unfinished garrison is nothing but a pack of lies. It’s no more than a store disguised as a military post. The real garrison always was in Chicomo, and they never intended to build another one.
So what’s this white man doing here?
Ask yourself that question, brother-in-law. This man’s here to spy on us. That’s why, my dear brother-in-law, we’re going to spy on the spy.
You’re out of your mind, Musisi.
And do you know how we’re going to spy? Through your children.
That’s enough, Musisi, said my mother. I don’t want my children mixed up in these matters.
No? But your children, dearest sister, are already very much mixed up in it. Let’s spy on the Portuguese through the letters that the sergeant sends and receives, like this one your daughter has just read to us. These papers can be our eyes and ears.
I beg you, dear brother: don’t involve my daughter in something like that, my mother insisted. My elder daughters died; my sons are sleeping goodness knows where. This daughter is all I have left to make my life worth living.
Then she grabbed my hand more firmly than ever before. And in those fingers of hers, I felt the extension of my own body.