Our highways were once as timid as rivers and as gentle as women. They asked for permission to be born. Now these highways are taking over the landscape and extending their great legs over time, just as the owners of the world do.
The VaChopi owe their name to their skill at handling bows and arrows. My father, Katini Nsambe, was the exception, growing up as he did outside this tradition, far from hunting and waging war. His passion, apart from alcohol, was music—the marimba. Maybe it was this gift for creating harmonies that made him so averse to violence. My father was a tuner of the infinite marimba that is the world.
Everyone acknowledged that he was the finest maker of xylophones. He would make them as if he were making himself. It wasn’t an act of creation but a process of gestation. Each stage in this long genesis was accompanied by a ritual of prayers and silences, so that other hands, so ancient that they were indiscernible, might guide his gestures.
From the time when I was a little girl, I would go with my dear old father to look for mimuenge trees, the only ones that provided high-quality material. I would help him cut the wood, tie the strips of leather linking the wooden boards, and look for the gourds to make the resonators, which are placed under the keys. Each gourd was tested a thousand times, until the right note was found. It was my job to look after the beeswax, which was then used to seal the gourds.
It was because of these marimbas that I got up early one particular day to accompany my father to the forest of the great fig trees we call mphama. Ever since I was a girl, I had been given a responsibility normally assigned to a boy: to climb the fig trees in order to catch bats and tear their wings off, without getting bitten by their venomous teeth. After drying, the membranes from their wings were used to line the resonators. This was the most precious secret in my father’s technique for making marimbas.
I began to develop skills in catching the large bats, the ones that are such voracious eaters of fruit. In the upper branches, they hang upside down, swaying like living pendulums, alert but without any apparent fear. I would watch them hanging aloft in a row for some time before casting my net over them. It was impossible to tell which were alive and which were dead. Their claws clung so tenaciously to the branches that even after they died they remained hanging there, drying out until they were no more than shriveled shadows. Some of us humans share the same fate: we die inside, and are only held together by our similarity to the living we once were.
On the highest branches, clusters of females were suckling their young. They were so like tiny people that I avoided looking them in the eye, so as not to cause my hunter’s instinct to falter. That feeling of compassion became more pronounced as my dreams of becoming a mother grew. Until that time when, facing the trunk I was supposed to climb, I plucked up courage and announced, I’m sorry, Father, but I’m not going up there ever again.
My old father was astonished by my attitude. A father in Nkokolani never takes no for an answer. But he smiled with unexpected sweetness. Don’t you want to go up? he asked, with a bewildered look on his face. I refused silently but firmly. To my surprise, he accepted my refusal. Have you taken pity on the bats? I understand, girl. And I’m going to tell you why I acknowledge your decision.
Then he told me an age-old story he had heard from his grandparents. In those days, bats crossed the skies with the pride of those who believe they are unique creatures in this world. On one occasion, a bat fell to the ground injured at a crossroads. Some birds passed by and said: Look, there’s one of ours! Let’s help him! So they took him to the kingdom of the birds. But when the king of the birds saw the dying bat, he remarked: He’s got hairs and teeth; he’s not one of ours. Take him away from here. So the poor bat was taken back to where he had fallen. Then some mice passed by and said: Look, there’s one of ours! Let’s help him! And they brought him before the king of the mice, who declared: He’s got wings; he’s not one of ours. Take him back! So they returned the bat, by now in its death throes, to the fateful crossroads. And there he died, abandoned and alone, the creature who aspired to belong to more than one world.
The moral of the fable was obvious, which was why I was surprised when he asked me at the end, Did you understand, girl?
I think so.
I doubt it. For this isn’t a story about bats. It’s about you, Imani. You and the worlds that mingle within you.
* * *
Katini’s artistry wasn’t limited to the creation of marimbas. He was a composer and the leader of an orchestra consisting of ten members. He put on shows in our village and toured others. I would attend his concerts and watch, fascinated, as dancers dressed as warriors pretended to fight, wielding shields and rattles. Lying on their backs, they would leap up as if possessed by spirits emerging from the depths of the earth.
Why do we play at wars? I would ask, frightened.
My father never answered. Maybe we were incapable of living without fear. By dancing with ghosts, we ended up taming them. The problem with ghosts is that they are forever hungry. One day, they devour us, and we turn into our own phantoms.
Whatever the case, the truth is that this display of virile rhythm tore me away from the world, and although the dance was performed exclusively by men, I swayed to its rhythm with my whole body, in spite of my modest status. It was as if another person were dancing inside me. Perhaps that person was “Live Girl,” or perhaps she was “Ash.” Maybe she was all those girls who had dwelt within me. At that moment, I was released from my body, freed from the obligations of memory. I was happy.
* * *
When the dance was over, the dancers plunged helplessly to the ground, as if they had been struck through by death itself. Only then were women allowed to participate. One or two mothers stepped forward from the audience and pretended they were looking for their sons among the warriors sprawled on the ground. In contrast to the exuberance and joy of the dance, that moment dragged me down into a feeling of hopeless anguish. And I invariably ended up crying.
Didn’t you like it, daughter? my mother asked when it was all over.
I nodded and replied that, yes, I had enjoyed it. And she would put her arm around my shoulder and comfort me: It’s all a game, my girl. But in the tone of her voice and the weight of her arm, there was a much greater sadness than mine. And she explained the reason for her melancholy: Whether it was on the dancing stage or on the real battlefields, we never found a son who was ours alone. All those who have fallen are our sons. The mothers of my homeland mourn all sons lost to war.
* * *
It was almost noon, and my father was sitting with an open book on his knees. On the cover were the words Manual for Learning to Read. I had found the book ages ago, among the old odds and ends left in the church, and made a point of giving it to him at the time. Never before had he been so touched by a gift. Not a day went by without his passing his fingertips over the pages as if he had just created them. Instead of words, he said, I hear music. And he would drum his fingers on the pages as if they were the keys of a marimba.
Father, aren’t you scared of the VaNguni?
We need to put fear into those who want to scare us. That’s the reason why I’m learning, with the help of this book.
He closed the book with extreme care, and with the same solicitude he put it away in a leather bag. Then he gave a deep sigh.
They say I surrendered to the Portuguese; they say I sold my soul to the whites. But let me ask you this: do you know the little bird that lives on the hippo’s back?
I knew the bird and, what was more, I knew the saying. My father repeated the old fable once more: Everyone says that little bird lives off the hippo’s leathery skin. But when the bird leaves, the hippo dies within a few days. To which he concluded with the enthusiasm of one who had made a new discovery: I’m that little bird on the hippo’s back. I’m the one who sustains the VaLungu, the whites in the Lands of the Crown. As far as your mother is concerned, all I do is drink and make marimbas …
Father, I’m not going to do those tasks anymore.
Your tasks haven’t yet begun. Let the Portuguese sergeant settle in, and then present yourself at the barracks, all clean, pretty, and nicely dressed. Ready for your tasks …
It wasn’t those tasks I was talking about. I’m telling you that I’m not going to climb trees anymore, I’m not going to kill any more bats …
Ah, that work’s over and done with. You’ve got other duties now. And I’ll tell you this in advance: When the sergeant gives you a reward, it won’t be out of generosity. It will be payment for the favors I’ve done him. I’ve handed them a daughter, and, what’s more, I’ve given them a son. Hasn’t what I’ve given them got a price?
I made a promise that I wasn’t going back to that man Sardinha’s store …
Don’t call it a store. It’s a garrison. And it’s there that you can help your brother. He’s a good boy, my little Mwanatu, and he never fails to deliver the mail. You can’t imagine what he goes through to bring those papers.
You know perfectly well how dangerous the task is. Just imagine what would happen if my little brother lost a letter, slipped and fell into the river …
That’s nothing to do with you—it’s men’s business. What I want to know is this: you’ve read the letters, haven’t you, my girl?
Some of them, yes.
So satisfy my curiosity, then. When does this big Portuguese chief get here?
As far as my father was concerned, all the Portuguese were big chiefs. But he understood my hesitation and explained himself better: I’m talking about the one who left Lisbon to come and kill Ngungunyane …
Mouzinho de Albuquerque? I don’t know, Father. The ship he was traveling on was hit by a storm.
A storm?
Just as he was leaving Lisbon, the ship was almost sunk by a storm.
His son Mwanatu had already told him of the early setback that had befallen Mouzinho de Albuquerque’s voyage. No one should have any illusions, my old father confided: that wasn’t a storm, it was the result of an invocation.
Father, be careful. No one must know that I read the telegrams of the Portuguese.
Do you think I’m crazy? Do you think I don’t know what the Portuguese do to spies? I’ve exposed a good few myself.
The news I’ve brought you is contained in secret messages sent from Lisbon and Lourenço Marques. No one else must know …
I suspect someone is passing along information. And that someone has given a witch doctor, a maker of storms, some news.
Don’t ever say the name of your suspect. I beg you, Father, for the love of God! Even here, out here in this wilderness, I’m scared someone will hear us.
He may be your brother, he may be my son, but one of these days I’ll forget I’m his father and I’ll turn him in.
For God’s sake, don’t say that. It’s not fair. Father, you always treated Dubula as if he weren’t your son.
Tell me this, then: who’s his hero?
I’ve never asked him.
The great hero of that brother of yours is the emperor Ngungunyane. So answer me this: can such a person be my son?
What are you thinking of doing? Turning him over to the Portuguese?
That’s exactly what I’ll do. One of these days, when I meet your brother, I’ll do something that will make him regret he once stood up to me.
But, Father, please think carefully. There have always been storms. Why should this one be any different?
Well, I’m going to tell you something, and it’s this: I went to the nyatisholo, I consulted the soothsayer. I went there, to Aunt Rosi, to find out whether the storm had been invoked or not.
He had sat down before the prophetess, unfolding his legs out of respect, so sad and subdued that his legs went numb on the seating mat. He asked Rosi to listen more carefully than ever before, for he was about to read out loud the text that his daughter had brought from the sergeant’s quarters.
You took the report to Aunt Rosi’s house, Father?
That’s right.
But that’s madness! And what if the sergeant discovers his papers are missing?
There’s only one paper, and that’s the one I’ve got here.
He took a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and began to read it as slowly as someone deciphering one letter at a time. Turning the paper over and over, pretending that his difficulties in reading it were merely the result of fleeting shadows cast by the clouds, he uttered each sentence, stumbling over words so much that saliva dripped from his chin onto his shaking hands:
“… The Peninsular, on which our Captain Mouzinho de Albuquerque was traveling, upon leaving the port of Lisbon, was struck by a storm such as had never been seen before along that coast. The sea plunged into chasms and rose as high as mountains, rendering the ship so tiny that not even God could see where it was. The waves were so high that the ship’s propeller came loose and was lost at the bottom of the ocean. The Peninsular thus drifted, detached from human control. French and English ships came to her assistance. They threw her cables, but the cables snapped. They launched lifeboats, but these were unable to make headway, so rough was the sea. Eventually, without anyone being able to understand fully, the storm abated and Mouzinho’s ship returned to Lisbon for repairs and thereafter to continue her journey with the Lord’s blessing…”
Are you surprised I’ve read all these words? Katini asked with a mocking look. It was you who taught me, he concluded as he folded the paper and put it back in his pocket.
But, Father, have you only got that one sheet of paper? What happened to the others?
The nyatisholo needed them.
Aunt Rosi, his most respected sister-in-law, didn’t need to raise her voice in order to be obeyed promptly during his consultation with her: Put those bits of paper in the water!
The sheet floated in the basin that the woman had placed on her ample thighs. The paper swayed like a boat in a storm. Then the ink began to dissolve, and a storm cloud darkened the water. That stain would forever flood Katini’s soul.
That ink isn’t coming from the paper, the soothsayer announced. That ink is coming from your veins.
Katini Nsambe watched, aghast, as the now blank sheet sank into the water. Rosi asked him to give her the rest of the report.
I need that writing, she said. Written words are mighty spells, capable of potent magic. I want to use these papers for my task.
I’ll give you everything, but first I want to know the outcome of my visit.
Of one thing you can be sure: The storm didn’t come from the sea. The storm had an owner. Whoever arranged for this spell to be cast will repeat it. And the victim will always be this Portuguese, this man Mousey …
Mouzinho, my father corrected.
More witchery will follow, in Africa and in Portugal.
Who arranged for the storm, Aunt Rosi?
You know that, Katini. The one who opens the door is the one who’s inside the house.
* * *
Katini handed me the only page left from the report on Mouzinho’s voyage. He thought that this would mitigate my sadness. And it was to distract me that he began to talk again:
I’m going to tell you one thing. When the Portuguese army comes to our rescue, you’d better be careful, daughter.
Why, Father?
Those whites will be riding horses. Have you ever seen a horse? I saw one in Inhambane. You’ve got to be careful with an animal like that, girl. Never look one in the eye.
The eyes of a horse are incandescent. They are made of dark water, like deep lakes, but water that’s ablaze. Whoever looks into their eyes will be left with a soul that’s no more than a cinder.
That’s where wizardry likes to dwell: in the eyes. On the day I first met your mother, our eyes met with such passion that you, Imani, were born at that exact moment.
He swatted the flies circling around his face. His gesture followed an arc, as if he had really captured something in the air.
So have you gone to start classes with Sergeant Germano?
Yes, but he seems to have no wish to learn.
In the very first class, the Portuguese didn’t even look up from the correspondence scattered across his desk. Without looking at me, he made it clear that he only wanted to learn the minimum—whatever he needed to know to give orders. In fact, he would never learn a single word. He was, after all, going to live in complete solitude. Who would he give orders to?
The sergeant’s right. I’ve never understood why they want to learn a black man’s language, my father said with a sigh.
They don’t. They have their orders.
Whether he has classes or not, always show up at his house. That man is going to be our guarantee. As long as the sergeant is here among us, we’ll be protected.
I’ll make sure I do, Father.
And let me say something else. If, one day, that white man wants something more from you, you know what to do.
I don’t understand, Father.
What I’m saying is quite simple: you’ve got to be for him what all women are in this world. Do you understand?
I silently dug my feet into the sand as if I were damming a river. And it was my tears I was damming. It would have been better if I had allowed myself to weep out loud. Our mother used to say that when we weep our soul follows the example of the earth under rain: it becomes clay. Clay gives us the house we live in; it is clay that shapes our hand.