Woman of The Ashes

The soldier gains his uniform; the man loses his soul.

After our mother’s death, Mwanatu came back to live at home. Father received him as if he had never left—without a word or any attention. The person who returned was a stranger, a mere visitor, to whom one lends a sleeping mat. Mwanatu gave the impression of being less of a dimwit while still being at odds with himself. Sitting in the shade in the backyard, he was regaining his roots. We watched him with apprehension: his arm had gained the shape of the rifle he had held day and night.

That morning, however, Mwanatu Nsambe made a decision. Equipped with a shovel, he set off for the village cemetery. Someone coming from afar wouldn’t call that patch of scrub by the river, just north of the village, a cemetery. But it was there, in a sacred copse, that the dead of the oldest family in Nkokolani—the so-called lords of the land—were laid to rest. The whites use the term “bury.” We talk of “sowing the dead.” Forever sons and daughters of the soil, we give the dead what the earth gives the seeds: sleep leading to rebirth.

Apart from the shovel that he carried over his shoulder, Mwanatu also bore his rifle, a Martini-Henry, over his left arm, with all the pomp of a parading soldier. In this particular case, my brother would not have been able to use the word “sow,” for he was in fact going to bury the weapon that had accompanied him during imaginary battles against the Nguni invaders. He was thus entombing a part of himself. The other part had already been interred in the furthest reaches of his reason.

In his excursion to the cemetery, Mwanatu was fulfilling a command. Ever since his return home, he had been beset by the same dream. In this dream, the following happened: From the top of the tree where she had hanged herself, our mother ordered him to get rid of his rifle. And he should never again play the role of a Portuguese sepoy.

Get rid of that weapon, my son! Take that musket and bury it near the river.

Musket? Have some respect, Mother; this is a Martini-Henry—pronouncing the name slowly, as if he were painstakingly drawing each syllable.

Pronounced like that, the name took on the sheen of a medal. Our mother was unaware of the care he took with this other creature: the special cloth used for its external hygiene, the oil to grease its most intimate parts, the felt cover to wrap around its barrel. All these acts of respect showed that this was much more than a simple weapon.

I’m not asking you, Mother warned. Nor am I alone in speaking to you. There are many voices here, and they are all saying the same thing: Get rid of that rifle.

The order was unequivocal, and was not the result of some personal whim. By burying the gun, Mwanatu would be laying the war itself to rest.

* * *

On the way to the cemetery, my brother realized how heavy the rifle was, after all. In his forays as an imaginary soldier, he had never got as far as feeling its weight. On the contrary, the weapon had always seemed to be part of him, an extension of his own body.

It’s a congenital arm, he argued when facing his mother.

She must understand. He had many people struggling against one another inside him: a corporal and a kabweni, a black man and a white, a Christian and a pagan. How could he possibly become one single creature? How could he return to being just her son?

As he descended into the valley of the Inharrime, my brother’s step became vague and hesitant, revealing all these anxieties. Then, all of a sudden, he changed direction and made for the garrison. He was going to talk to Sergeant Germano before carrying out his promise. Although he had abandoned his duty as a sentry, he hadn’t lost his soldierly discipline. And he needed his superior’s blessing for such blatant disobedience.

* * *

At first the Portuguese feigned a lack of interest, but after a moment he raised his voice as if baffled:

You’re going to do what? Bury your weapon?

That’s what I intend to do, Sergeant, sir.

And what do you want me to do? Go with you and bless the burial?

Mwanatu was not so audacious. All he was asking was for the sergeant to approve his act of madness. He, the valiant soldier Mwanatu, a duly baptized Christian, was as defenseless as he was confused. He had always been puzzled, for instance, that a rifle should have a person’s name. Martini-Henry? With all due respect, and not wishing to offend God, a black man would never give a weapon a person’s name.

I’m sorry, Sergeant, sir. I just came to ask your advice.

You want some advice? Well, then, tell me something: It wasn’t you who bought that gun, was it? Do you remember who gave it to you?

It was you, sir. The gun and the uniform.

Have you forgotten that gun was given you to kill the enemies of God and of Portugal?

I don’t think so.

You don’t think so? Well, if I were you, I would return that rifle. In fact, you should have done that the moment you stopped being a sentry. So you’re going to give back the weapon and the uniform, the uniform you’re still wearing. The weapons, ammunition, and you yourself belong to the Portuguese Crown.

If I don’t bury the weapon, what shall I tell my mother when she visits me in my dreams?

Tell her whatever you like. Lie, tell her you buried the goddamned gun. She’ll never check your story.

Don’t speak of my mother in such a way! Don’t …

Mwanatu withdrew, wringing his hands as if they were pieces of cloth. And for the first time, the Portuguese was scared of the dimwit sentry. It struck him that Mwanatu had undergone a catastrophic regression: he had gone back to being a mere black. And as such, he no longer merited trust. The sergeant’s suspicions deepened still more. What if the boy were capable of killing someone with that weapon? It would surely be better if he got rid of it. And, feigning remorse, he authorized the Martini-Henry’s burial. But before Mwanatu disappeared, he shouted after him: What about your sister? She’s never come back here …

Imani’s sad. That’s all …

Tell her I’ve unpacked some new cloth. If she wants, she can drop by. And you too, Mwanatu, drop by, because I miss having you around.

The young man waved a vague goodbye. And he even smiled sadly. How could the Portuguese miss him if he had never spoken to him all those months he had been there? Every time a white visitor greeted him, asking after his health, the sergeant would cut in: Never ask a kaffir how he is, because, the next minute, he’ll ask you for something.

When he remembered these incidents, the sepoy had an urge to kick the sergeant’s pet hen. He didn’t attack the creature, just spat at it. The spittle hung from its crest, but the chicken’s expression remained indifferent and vacant. That’s how Mwanatu wanted to be: with neither an inner nor an outer self, without remorse or fatigue.

What haunted him most were his memories of the advice given him by the Portuguese. To lie to his late mother? The sergeant must be a powerful man, yet he wasn’t aware that other gods ruled there, as ancient as the land itself. And Mwanatu set off for the cemetery once more.

* * *

It was noon, the hour when nothing moves, when shadows are devoured by the ground. In the sacred copse, my brother trod on the patches of shade with a leopard’s caution until he chose a great tree, supported by roots that emerged from the soil and resembled dark elbows. It was here that he decided to dig the grave. He dropped to his knees and mumbled some monotonous gibberish. Was he praying? No. He was naming all those who had fallen in war.

His voice was unleashed in a continuous murmur, but each name was pronounced with the same care with which we help the elderly and children dress themselves. In the end, he fell into a heavy, embarrassed silence, after which he lamented: I can’t remember anyone else. Damned war …

Such is the cruelty of those who die in combat: they never cease to fall, their claws clinging to time like dead bats. Even so, Mwanatu took a breath and brought his ritual to a close. I am here and call upon you, warriors of the Chopi nation!

He caressed his gun before starting to dig. The Chopi nation? he asked out loud. And he was mystified by his own words.

* * *

Mwanatu plunged the shovel forcefully into the hot sand. It was then that he heard a metallic sound, of iron striking iron. Once more he sank the shovel in, with the anger of someone killing a snake. And, yet again, sparks flew, as if lightning flashes were issuing from the ground. A somber presentiment caused the sepoy to look skyward in search of help. The sun in its entirety invaded his pupils, and this flood of light blinded him. That was his intention: Let the dead absent themselves for a moment. And let the gods, both dead and alive, forget him.

When he opened his eyes again, Mwanatu saw a javelin. This was the reason for the noises and the sparks. He loosened the sand around his discovery and saw, at the bottom of the grave, spears, bows, and arrows. The amount of weaponry was far too great to count. The relics from all wars were right there under his feet.

The sepoy did not fulfill his mission. Hurriedly, and with a frantic gait, he returned home. He dragged his rifle along the ground as if it were a useless hoe. He found the uncanny coincidence baffling: while seeking to bury his weapon, he had unearthed an old arsenal.

* * *

After leaving his boots at the front door, Mwanatu hastened to hide the Martini-Henry behind a cupboard. Then he went looking for our father, to tell him what had happened. Or, rather, what hadn’t happened.

He found his progenitor busy sweeping the backyard. Sweeping, his father argued, was like fishing: an activity that didn’t require any effort. After our mother’s death, Father gave up living for himself. The less alive I am, the less they’ll want to kill me. Those were his words. If it weren’t for me, his only daughter, he would have got rid of his possessions, his house, his very existence. In truth, it would take him longer than that to get rid of his liquor still and his marimbas.

Sweeping was now his only occupation. And he didn’t even put his broom down while Mwanatu was telling him what had happened in the bush—he couldn’t be seen to look upset in front of the neighbors. After a while, he leaned on his broom, pulled his hat down over his forehead, and muttered: There are matters we don’t talk about out in the open. Let’s go indoors.

In a corner of the room, Katini sank into a chair, overcome by apprehension. He took off his hat and placed it on his knees, and then, after a long pause, opened his heart:

What you found out there in the copse is something we cannot explain or understand …

Don’t frighten me, Father. What happened?

What happened is what is going to happen.

He slowly rolled a cigarette, as if he were seeking strength. No one likes tobacco leaf or smoke, he always told us. The pleasure the smoker gets is to be smoked by time. He coughed for a while and then, still breathless, he sputtered: I want to tell you something: I’m the father of that hole.

I beg your pardon, Father?

You dug where I had already dug before. That place was where I hid my javelin.

Did you bury your weapon as well, Father?

You don’t bury a weapon. You hide it while waiting for the next war. Now, let’s go there, let’s have a look at this grave.

Leaning on his broom as if it were a walking stick, he slammed the gate shut and set off along the road. They followed the path, Mwanatu in solemn silence, Father dragging his boots along. It was an indulgence to use the term “boots” to describe the two soles lashed to his feet.

Then they paused next to the tree where Mwanatu had busied himself digging before. The roots now seemed even more exposed, hugging the ground as if claiming it as their exclusive property.

Leaning into the grave, our father picked up the javelin and expressed his concern with a click of the tongue: It’s the same hole. And this is my javelin—see the mark here.

So how did the other weapons end up here?

They didn’t end up here.

What do you mean?

They were born here. They’re alive.

He asked his son to help him collect all this material and place it in different categories. They piled up the javelins on one side, the spears on the other, and the shields in a third heap. Old Katini then slowly surveyed these piles as if he were a general inspecting his arsenal. Finally, he said: Let’s leave it like this, the weapons well away from the grave. And let’s get out of here as quickly as possible. And don’t look back while we walk away.

* * *

When Mwanatu joined me in the yard, where I was lighting the fire, he wore the burdened look of a condemned man. He told me what had happened during his frustrated attempt to bury the gun.

Did the sergeant ask after me?

He says he misses you. I’ll have to tell him something when I return the uniform to him. The weapon I’ll keep, but this uniform I’ll give back. If Ngungunyane’s people come, I don’t want them to get the wrong idea about me.

He insisted I should tell him the message I wished to convey to the Portuguese. I remained silent for a while, but then jumped up so quickly that I alarmed poor Mwanatu. Take your clothes off, little brother. I’m telling you, I’m older. Take that loathsome uniform off.

Now?

Yes, right now.

Trousers, shirt, tunic all fell to the floor like a sigh. I picked up the different bits of the uniform and hurled them into the fire. In a matter of seconds, the clothes were consumed by the flames, as Mwanatu looked on, dazed. And before he could say anything out of regret, I declared furiously: It was men in uniform who raped the women in this village.

This is what men did, in obedience to the orders of war. They created a world without mothers, sisters, daughters. War required such a world, deprived of women, in order to thrive.

My brother withdrew, ashamed, when he sensed that our father was entering the house. Busy untying his boot soles, Katini mumbled as if he were addressing the ground, I presume you’ve already cooked the food.

I suddenly had a thought about a lifelong burden of responsibility. Rather than ask for love, the men of Nkokolani ask their women to be punctual in serving them their meals. In this, my father was the same as all the other men in Nkokolani. He existed in order to be served. He was passing along this time-honored woman’s duty to me.

Father and son sat down at the table in our backyard, under the old mango tree. I did what I had always done when my mother was alive: I brought the pitcher of water and a towel, and the men washed their hands. I served them their dinner in silence, as if I were paying heed to our mother’s absence. Katini was perturbed, and served himself generously with nsope. His voice was thick when he declared: Did you tell your brother to take off his clothes a little while ago? Well, I’m the one giving the orders now. Get up, daughter. Get up and unfasten your capulana.

Mwanatu went as far as making an indignant gesture, but Father repeated his command. I didn’t obey him immediately. Father was drunk, incapable of linking words and ideas.

You, my daughter, think you’re very clever, dreaming of faraway places. Tell me something, Imani: Does that white man look at you? Has he ever touched you?

Father, please …

Shut your mouth. Didn’t I tell you to take your clothes off? he suddenly remembered.

I undid the cloth tied around my waist and, stripped naked, stood there without moving, my arms straight down, like a soldier standing at attention. My hair was tangled; my legs were skinny and apart; my body was more fragile than the light of the fire that crackled next to me.

You’re thin—you look like a bullet, my father commented.

Katini Nsambe seemed surprised to see me like this, so womanly, so full of that sad silence worn by wives who, when they stop talking, cause the world around them to become speechless. He looked at the shadows that danced on the ground and told me to get dressed again. Then he affirmed: Bullets are living things. That’s why they kill—it’s because they’re alive. And you, dear daughter, seem like a dead thing.

To which he concluded: No white man is going to want you like that, so lacking in pulp, so lacking in body.

Now that Mother was no longer with us, I couldn’t revert to the excuse that I had been scrawny from birth.

If you’re thin, you’re going to stop being so. Especially since you’ve got clearly marked tattoos on your waist, on your thighs. Did you see them, Mwanatu?

I’m not supposed to look, Father.

But you’ve already had a look at your own body, Katini Nsambe cut in. And you know that no man can resist those tattoos. That Portuguese knows very well that you won’t prove slippery when he …

The Portuguese have other customs …

That’s enough, Imani. Now come here and drink, so you can forget who you are: a poor black woman smelling of the soil … Tomorrow go back to the Portuguese man’s house and make that foreigner’s head go giddy like the flames in that fire.

While he filled my glass, I set about thinking: Yes, I’m a tattooed bullet. I’m going to fire off at that man’s heart. And I’m going to get away from this godforsaken village once and for all.

* * *

The day had broken overcast, and Aunt Rosi—who, following our mother’s death, lent us a helping hand at home—wrapped herself up well before going out to tend the crops. In Nkokolani, when we wake up to a gray sky, it is time to prepare ourselves for the rigors of winter. It can be very hot, but on a cloudy day we all make use of warm clothing. Among the inhabitants of Nkokolani, the sky has greater authority than the temperature. And the colors have such authority that we don’t even have names for them.

So it was with warm clothing on that gray morning that Aunt Rosi headed for the field. She carried with her all the sadness in the world. When she got to the plantation, she spread her legs and bent over slowly, like a dying star. The hoe rose and fell in her hands as if its blade were thumping the neck of a condemned prisoner. And this prisoner was her, unable to change her fate.

Little by little, the woman was assailed by an irrepressible urge to weep, but she didn’t stop digging while her body performed an earthly dance. It wasn’t long before she heard a metallic sound, as if her hoe had scraped against stone or bone. She scratched away the sand with her fingers and saw that there was a pistol buried there. She ran to call her neighbors. The women thought that it would be better not to touch the weapon, and that the only thing to do was to fill the hole and smooth the disturbed soil. They pretended that they hadn’t seen anything, that nothing had happened. However, when they scratched away at the sand to cover up what had been found, they uncovered hundreds of bullets, all identical, like tadpoles recently born in a puddle of rain. They hurriedly gathered up their hoes and got out of there.

As soon as she got home, our aunt told us about the episode. The two men remained silent. It was a foreboding silence. Until Uncle Musisi spoke:

Tomorrow, go and dig farther away. But don’t go alone. Take the other women with you.

* * *

In our house, Mwanatu awoke with a start in the middle of the night. Once again, his mother had visited him. She had reminded him that he was delaying in carrying out her order. But it wasn’t his gun alone he should bury.

All the guns? her son asked.

All of them. Those of the Portuguese as well.

We can’t bury the Portuguese ones, Mother.

There’s something you don’t understand, my dear son. It’s not that war asks for arms. It’s the opposite—the arms give birth to war.

* * *

Early the following day, Auntie burst into the house in a state of panic and shook her husband, who was still lying in bed.

The war, husband …

What’s happened? Are we being attacked?

She nodded by way of confirmation. Uncle Musisi jumped up and, still naked, crossed the room to take an old musket out of a leather bag. He shouted for Mwanatu. His nephew appeared in a flash, his eyes gleaming, clutching his rifle.

What’s happening? he asked. Is Ngungunyane attacking us?

I don’t know. I haven’t heard any shots, his uncle declared. What direction are they coming from?

Standing stock-still, Aunt Rosi contained herself, as if sensing an invisible presence inside the house, but then she pointed discreetly at the ground.

I don’t understand, Uncle said. Is there someone underneath the house?

She nodded. They’re everywhere, she added. With a subtle wave of her hand, she once again blamed the floor.

But who?

Them.

Something seemed to groan in the skeleton of the house. So I tried to allay the existing tension and suggested, in a confident tone: It’s Tsangatelo. Grandfather has come to fetch us.

Be quiet, Imani. Let me ask you again, wife: is there someone under the floor?

It’s them, it’s the weapons.

In a whisper, Rosi related what had just befallen her. Once again, she had set off to open up a new plantation, this time farther away, down by the riverbank. But it wasn’t long before the previous macabre discovery was repeated: In this new terrain, among the smooth, round pebbles, she glimpsed the carcass of a horse. And a little farther on, a saddle and a pair of stirrups. Lying at her feet was one of those steeds that had galloped through her dreams. Who knows whether it wasn’t the mount of Mouzinho de Albuquerque himself?

Around the carcass, countless cartridge cases were scattered, and Aunt Rosi swore that these capsules moved around like greedy insects now shorn of their feet, devouring everything they came across. This subterranean army was digging tunnels that extended beneath the entire world, and even at a distance, as she fled, she could hear their talons scratching away at the earth. The women in flight were yelling that they needed to get away from that place as quickly as possible.

We are finished, she concluded, all the while preserving her contained, dignified pose. We’re going to die of hunger; we have nowhere else to plant crops.

This is what had happened in Nkokolani: War had turned our land into a cemetery. A cemetery that could accommodate no more dead.