As the days went on, the hunger strike of the seven activists took on dimensions that the regime hadn’t anticipated. Newspapers from all over the world tried to keep track of the prisoners’ health. In Lisbon, a group of Portuguese and Angolans came together outside the Angolan consulate in a peaceful vigil that began at eight in the evening and didn’t end until the small hours. The demonstrators were carrying candles. Some of them wore masks of the prisoners’ faces. In Praia, in Rio de Janeiro, Maputo, London, Paris and Berlin, similar initiatives took place. The international repercussions gave the democratic movement a new lease of life. Twenty-five high-profile names, including writers, musicians, artists, actors and cultural agitators, posted a video on social media demanding the freedom of the magnificent seven. All around this initial nucleus, a wave of solidarity was growing. There were young people from the outskirts, and others from powerful bourgeois families, linked to the ruling party. Some were taxi drivers, electricians, trades unionists, small businessmen, others were human rights activists, journalists, university professors.
Armando Carlos was unusual among the original group for being one of the oldest. One afternoon he showed up unannounced at my house. It was a Saturday. He dragged me to a ruined villa in the lower town, which for decades has housed a variety of theatre companies and capoeira groups, artists’ studios and a lively bar, with a stunning terrace, called Nomenklatura.
Armando’s company, the Mukishi, occupies one of its rooms. I wondered whether we were going to see a new play by the group. The place was full. I noticed most people were wearing white. Many had T-shirts with the faces of one of the seven young imprisoned activists and the slogan ‘Freedom for Angola!’
Strangers came up to hug me.
‘Be strong, old man! We’re going to get your daughter out of jail!’
‘Karinguiri’s an inspiration to all of us.’
‘You must be suffering so much, senhor. Please know we’re suffering with you.’
Dona Filó, Lila Monteiro’s mother, was also there in a big group. She was wearing a T-shirt with her daughter’s face on it. She moved away from her friends to greet me. She held me firmly against her huge chest.
‘Just as well you came! It’s so important having you here. How is your friend?’
‘Hossi?’
‘Yes, Sabino’s uncle.’
‘Still in a coma.’
‘Do you know anything new?’
‘No.’
‘You’re never going to know,’ said Armando Carlos. ‘It was an operation carried out by State Security.’
I got annoyed.
‘What are you saying?’
‘You told me yourself – that night, just a few hours before the attack, you saw an agent who’d been watching Hossi.’
I grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to the bathroom.
‘Seriously, man, are you crazy?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re telling people I know who it was that shot Hossi?!’
‘Yeah, I’m telling everyone. I tell them you saw a skinny black man with close-cropped hair, that 20Kill guy …’
‘Are you trying to get me murdered?’
‘They won’t kill you, not you.’
The bathroom door opened, and – bright as an apparition – in walked 20Kill. He was wearing a silk shirt printed with orchids in very bright colours, which made him look like a tourist strolling down Copacabana beach. He didn’t seem surprised to see me. He smiled:
‘I’ve been looking for you.’
I turned to Armando:
‘Talk of the Devil …’
My friend looked 20Kill up and down, with a cruel smile.
‘This is it? This multicoloured thing is a murderer?!’
The agent took a step back. He opened the door, as if he was going to leave, but he didn’t. He stood there, one foot out, one foot in, his anxious eyes flitting between me and Armando:
‘And who are you?’
‘Come on, comrade. You know perfectly well who I am. You must have studied my file. I’ve got to admit, you’ve got some guts showing up in this lion’s den.’ He laughed darkly. ‘But guess who the lion is today?’
20Kill sighed.
‘It wasn’t me who attacked Senhor Kaley.’
‘It wasn’t?’
‘No. It wasn’t us. Why would we do something so stupid, at this exact moment, right when we’ve got every journalist focusing on Angola?’
‘Because you are stupid!’
‘Careful, Senhor Armando! I don’t know you. I’ve never shown you any disrespect …’
Armando leaped across the room, grabbed 20Kill by the collar and threw him against the urinals. The man brought his delicate hands to his shirt, which had been torn from top to bottom, while at the same time giving us a look of genuine distress.
‘Such an expensive shirt, Senhor Armando. Such an expensive shirt …’
I positioned myself in front of Armando:
‘Calm down! Calm down!’
My friend pushed me away. He hit 20Kill in the chest with his open palm. The little man was left sitting in one of the urinals. At that moment, three young men walked in. I recognised one of them: Flávio da Cunha, a former pro basketball player, one of the partners in Nomenklatura.
‘What’s going on in here?’ asked Flávio.
‘This is the guy who shot Hossi,’ said Armando.
‘Seriously? …’
‘Yeah, it’s him.’
They shoved him out to the bar. On the stage, a young Rastafarian stood tall and thin in front of a microphone, even taller and thinner than the microphone itself, while with large gestures and loud yells, in a deep booming voice, he declaimed lines by Pablo Neruda:
‘If each day falls, / into each night, / there is a well / where clarity is trapped. / We must sit on the edge / of the well, of the shadow / and fish for the fallen light / patiently.’
Flávio said something in the Rastafarian’s ear. The lad bowed slightly and moved off, surrendering his place by the microphone. The ex-basketball player adjusted the mic to his height.
‘Good evening, friends, comrades. I’ve got a surprise for you.’
Armando and the other young men forced 20Kill onto the stage. The murderer looked more embarrassed than terrified, like a shy bridegroom at his wedding forced to give a speech.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Rui. Rui Mestre.’
‘Very well, Comrade Rui. What do you do for a living?’
‘I’m a civil servant …’
‘Speak louder!’
‘I’m a civil servant at the Ministry of Information and Security …’
The whole room exploded into violent booing. Flávio raised both his hands, asking for silence. The audience took a while to settle down.
‘And tell me now, Comrade Rui, what did you do to Senhor Kaley?’
More boos, kicking. Shouts of ‘Murderer! Murderer!’ 20Kill straightened up. With a worried look, he scanned the room, as though hoping to find some help. Then he coughed, clearing his throat, a solemn expression on his thin face. He tried to rearrange his torn shirt. He straightened himself up, puffed out his chest, like a head of state addressing the nation:
‘I solemnly declare, as Africa and the world are my witness, my complete and utter innocence. I swear by the holy blood of Christ that I did not shoot Senhor Kaley. I don’t kill people. I never have, I don’t, and I never will.’
Five policemen, two of them holding nightsticks, the others light machine guns, opened a path through the crowd. They climbed onto the stage, struggling to ignore the hostile clamour around them. They came back down, almost at a run, protecting the fragile body of 20Kill between their own. The man passed me and smiled. He said something that was lost, stifled beneath the shouts of the mob. One lady standing beside me was laughing heartily, pointing at the agent’s wet trousers:
‘Hey, look! The little fag totally pissed himself!’
The rest of the night went by without any further upsets. My brothers, Samuel and Júlio, showed up accompanied by their respective wives. Júlio also brought his two eldest daughters, one of whom, Ginga, is Karinguiri’s age. They’ve always been very close. We hugged. We hadn’t hugged in years. I also saw, or thought I saw, Melquesideque and his wife. A lot of people made speeches, recalling the young people in prison, praising their courage and determination. The Rastafarian with the deep voice and big gestures recited some more Neruda, and then Fernando Pessoa, Viriato da Cruz and Agostinho Neto. Three very well-known singers, who had never performed together before, got up on stage to do some old Angolan songs from the fifties and sixties. The sun was already rising when Armando took the microphone to announce the end of the vigil, to read messages of support that had come in from several countries and share the next actions to be taken. I remembered the piece of paper Karinguiri had handed me during my visit to the prison, I got up, and took a couple of steps towards the stage.
‘Can I read a message from my daughter?’
Armando looked at me, surprised. The people applauded while I climbed onto the podium. I unfolded the piece of paper and read.