This is how we bury our dead: We take them to the granary, and we gather the grain with which to fill their cold hands. Then we tell them: Go now with your seeds!
Early in the morning, a group of women burst into the house where the Portuguese lived, disturbing his sleep. They made so much noise that the sergeant could not understand what they were all shouting about. Finally, he managed to understand the woman who was gesticulating the most:
We have just seen the Virgin.
The virgin? What virgin?
We don’t know. Besides, how many are there?
Germano stumbled about as he got dressed and then skipped around the yard while trying to get his feet into his shoes. The group headed off in the direction of our house. It was dark, and the Portuguese guided himself by the bulky figures in front of him. The woman leading the throng pointed at the ground and declared in a mixture of Portuguese and Txitxope: See here, sir? Here are her footprints.
Are they hers?
No. These are the footprints of an angel.
What angel?
The angel who came with her.
The sergeant stopped to remove some sand from his shoes. He felt like putting a stop to this tomfoolery and going back home, but he feared being misunderstood. The sun wasn’t yet up, but the heat was searing.
Is it far from here?
We’re nearly there; it’s not far.
That’s what they always say, the sergeant thought: We’re nearly there. Why can’t these people measure distances? And once again, he expressed his doubt about the supposed apparition. At that hour, it was so dark, could they not have made a mistake? To which one of the women retorted: When we get there, you’ll see, sir: it’s a Virgin just like the one that was in the church.
It’s most probably her twin sister, another woman replied.
And this one also has her hands stuck together, a third woman added.
Hands stuck together? the sergeant asked, surprised.
The priest always called her the Virgin of the Stuck Hands, because her hands were always together.
The Portuguese was in no mood to correct her. It was difficult enough to understand what those women were babbling about. The oldest of the peasant women from time to time translated the jumbled speech of her companions. What the sergeant needed was someone to translate his own thoughts. And he imagined himself unsticking the Immaculate Virgin’s hands with a lover’s tenderness. Then he fancied he felt those hands, grateful and free, caressing his body. Damned heat that makes us sin, he thought as he wiped the sweat from his face.
That was when he heard the sound of a shot coming from the barracks. Then, just afterward, another shot. And then another. The women saw the Portuguese rush back to his house in a panic.
* * *
After my brother Dubula died, the birds no longer crossed the skies over our village. The few that did fell to the ground, helpless, like shreds torn from clouds. As they fell, their feathers broke loose and the wind made them spin around, each one in its fanciful flight. These apparitions became more and more scarce. Soon the inhabitants of Nkokolani lost the habit of looking up into the heavens.
While on guard duty that morning, Mwanatu didn’t stop looking at the skies. That was when he heard women’s voices behind the barracks. Then he saw the sergeant going out into the darkness, following a line of women. He even thought of following the unruly band, but he couldn’t abandon his duties as a sentry. At that moment, a huge fish flew over the roof. The creature landed on the trunk of the mango tree, but because it was difficult for it to remain on its perch, it took off again into the skies, moving its fins as if still swimming. Mwanatu raised his gun and fired. Once, twice, three times. The fish struggled through the air and seemed likely to collapse, but then, with a sudden series of lunges, it managed to regain height, revealing nevertheless that it was a novice in the use of wings.
The guard rushed out into the street, impatient to announce what he had just seen. Peasants gathered to listen to him, with a mixture of enthrallment and disbelief. Conflicting opinions emerged: The gods were confused and exchanging water for sky, some affirmed; it was the final punishment, others insisted; the more optimistic proclaimed that the disaster that had been announced would fall not upon our people but on the VaNguni. If the sky had turned into the sea, then the invaders, a people who disliked water, would be condemned to die. And the enemies of our nation, cursed, would sink beneath the swirling waters.
At that moment, the sergeant appeared, out of breath. Alarmed by the gunshots, he didn’t have the courage to deal with the news of the flying fish. The Portuguese crossed himself, shook his head, and looked up into the heavens to plead for help.
In this land of yours, my dear Mwanatu, Jesus would be out of a job: here there isn’t a soul who can’t work miracles.
My brother walked away with his head held high, and his finger erect to emphasize his judgment: There are angels around. I’ve already shot at a few.
* * *
What was driving us crazy was the smell. That fetid odor coming from the fields of Madzimuyni was a declaration that the vultures and hyenas hadn’t yet turned all the bodies into mere piles of bones. It wasn’t the corpses that were rotting but the earth itself.
The smell clung to the walls of our house, stuck to the clothes Mother had worn ever since she was told of her son’s death. And even when my father arrived, yelling, Mother remained motionless and absent. Katini’s face was covered in blood. Like the other men, he made a great fuss of exhibiting his minor wound: I’m going to go blind! I helped him sit down, and he sat staring at my mother, waiting for her to pay him some attention.
Who gave you a scratch like that, husband? she asked at last. What woman has such sharp nails?
It was a tree! It was a tree that clawed me, he declared as we washed his face.
While out looking for materials for his marimbas, our old father would place his ear next to tree trunks. He was checking to see if the trees were pregnant. And this is what he had done that day, to choose wood for his very last marimba. However, someone was poisoning his tastes and gestures.
That damned tree had claws. I saw its claws pulling me down into hell.
He was talking in a loud voice to impress his spouse. To no avail. The sky was vast, and Chikazi’s gaze tempered its infinitude. My old father closed his eyelids so that the water might flow down his face. And with his eyes closed, he listened to his wife:
The white hen—why did you kill her?
Because I was hungry.
It was being kept for special ceremonies.
What ceremonies? No one has died.
Yes, they have. Your son, your first son has died. Don’t lie to yourself, Katini Nsambe.
And she went on, getting her worries off her chest in one go: The other boy migrated from his own head. And this daughter of yours has already left us. We’re alone, my dear husband.
Imani, are you going to abandon us? my mother asked me.
And without waiting for an answer, she continued: I was already absent, inventing visits from messengers as if Grandfather were still alive. And I made all these things up because I was scared. I was alone, without friends, without suitors. That’s what my mother said. She added that it was my father’s fault.
Are you accusing me of being a bad father? For wanting my daughter to leave this wretched place, for wanting her to go somewhere better?
She’s running away from her own self.
And Chikazi got up, her hands pressed against her lower back, in the same posture as pregnant women. After a long pause, she added:
The white hen was for our son. And he died.
Have we seen his body? my father asked. Answer me, Chikazi, don’t turn your back on me. Has anyone seen his body?
I was filled with a desire to tell them Dubula had died in my arms, but I remained quiet. The one whose life has ended in my arms was still on his way to becoming my brother.
* * *
A week had gone by since Dubula’s death, and not a single bird had returned to our skies. Early on Sunday morning, our mother was found hanging from the great zebrawood tree. She looked like a dried fruit, a dark, shriveled bat. We went and called our father, who approached cautiously, dragging his feet. Under the tree’s wide canopy, he sat down to contemplate the body as if he were waiting for leaves to spring from it.
She isn’t dead. Your mother has just got be-treed.
Every now and then, the breeze caused the corpse to sway. It was like a dance, of the type she had regaled us with so often.
When night fell, I asked: Are we going to leave her there? The wild animals will eat her.
It was dark, and I didn’t notice the sergeant arriving. He immediately exclaimed, horrified: Take that body down! Right now!
As always, Mwanatu ran forward to obey. My old father, however, raised his arm and proclaimed: No one’s going to do anything. That is not a body. That is Chikazi, my wife.
The sergeant walked around the tree, at a loss. He repeatedly tried to approach me, in a clumsy attempt to offer solace. During one of these approaches, he got as far as suggesting we pray together. But he immediately corrected himself: No, not pray, for no one prays for someone who has committed suicide. To which he added, with sudden conviction: For the love of God, Imani, ask your father to take her to the church.
Take her to the church? my old father retorted. But she’s already in a church. Our church is that tree.
This was a puzzling observation, coming as it did from my father. The reaction of the Portuguese was one of incredulity. Wasn’t Katini a converted kaffir? Germano shook his head in an effort to expel his bafflement. What guarantee could one have of a black man’s fidelity if even such a respected head of family could skip from one belief to another with such ease? The sergeant crossed himself discreetly and muttered between his teeth: They don’t feel the burden of guilt, nor do they know the meaning of shame. How can we expect them to be good Christians?
* * *
So the body stayed there until the following day, suspended like a bat in the dark. I approached it early in the morning, fearful of seeing the person who had always seemed to me to be immortal suffering the effects of time. But there were no signs of degradation, no smells, no flies or ravens. And in the cloudless sky there was no sign of vultures. I sat down next to Father, who had sat there the whole night. His eyes were fixed on his deceased wife. At one point, he said:
She’s so pretty!
He was right. Even shriveled as she was, Mother retained the grace of a living creature, perhaps because her body was soaked by the rain that had fallen in the early hours. Drops fell from her feet, feeding a tiny, sad puddle. That’s how she should be, my father said, nodding slowly. The dead should be washed by the rain.
Do you want me to climb the tree, Father? I asked after a long silence.
Let’s leave her where she chose to be.
* * *
Gradually, the same rope that had strangled our mother began to suffocate me. At noon, when the dead woman lost her shade, the neighbors began to disperse, astonished and full of sadness. I too made a point of moving away. My father prevented me, grabbing me by the arm.
Stay here, my girl!
Then, with unexpected agility, my father climbed the tree, armed with a big knife. With one stroke, he cut the rope. I thought the fallen body would produce an abrupt thud, as felled trees do. But no. There wasn’t a sound. What fell was a severed cloud, soundless and insubstantial.
My crazy brother, Mwanatu, still tried to catch the corpse. He almost succumbed to the weight that fell on top of him, and for a moment, with both him and Mother spread-eagled, we feared we might be dealing with a double fatality.
* * *
From the start, Mwanatu helped with our mother’s obsequies and behaved as if he were at ease with both the village rituals and the Christian ceremonies. He seemed different, more lucid, when he offered to help Father, who was carrying the body as if his back were the earth where he was going to bury her. He bore her for longer than necessary, for he was determined, without anyone having spoken to him about the matter, that she would be laid to rest under the tree where she had hanged herself.
Father walked around the grave a few times and then dropped, helpless, to his knees. We all rushed forward to help the dead woman to settle in the hole dug for her. Then we closed her grave just as we had closed her eyes. I asked myself why we close the eyes of the dead. We fear they may contemplate us. Why do we hide their cold bodies in the depths of the earth? Because we fear we may recognize how dead we already are.
When the soil had been flattened, the sergeant stuck a metal cross over the grave, and, with his eyes closed, he invited us to pray. Only Mwanatu answered his call. Uncle Musisi pushed past those present and tore the cross out of the ground. Then, speaking in Txitxope, he started to invoke our ancestors in a loud voice. The sergeant looked at us as if asking for help, but Musisi ignored his silent plea and, making use of me to act as an interpreter, asked the soldier: Let me ask you, Sergeant, since this God of yours is the Father of us all and Creator of all the languages, can it be that he only understands Portuguese? And you, niece, don’t limit yourself to translating. Tell him what we blacks do. Or have you forgotten your race, Imani Nsambe?
My race? I asked myself silently. At that moment, I understood how great my sadness was, but also that I had already been orphaned before. This vulnerability was not mine alone, but belonged to all my black brothers. Orphanhood doesn’t require death. It begins before we are even born.
I bent over the patch of sand where the cross had fallen and once again placed it over our mother’s grave. And I recalled the words she spoke in that gentle way she had: It’s not the dead that weigh so heavily. It’s those who never stop dying.