On Sunday, the morning after the vigil, I woke up tired and with aching joints. But all the same, I felt strong, animated by an energy I hadn’t experienced in years. It was past eleven. I fed Baltazar, and then I prepared a toasted sandwich with cheese and tuna. I turned on the TV and sat on the sofa, to eat. A picture of a man with a very swollen eye appeared on the screen. The unharmed eye spun around anxiously, side to side, while a policeman standing in front of him was speaking into the camera.
‘This person was arrested at his home, after an intensive police investigation lasting several days. It didn’t take him long to confess to the crime. Say what you did, Ezequiel …’
It was only at that moment that I recognised Ezequiel Ombembua, or Jamal Adónis Purofilim. I felt sorry for him. The man stammered:
‘It was me. I shot and injured Hossi Kaley and then I killed his bodyguard, Mr …’
‘Adriano Patrício,’ whispered the policeman.
‘Exactly. I killed that Adriano man with a shot …’
‘With a shot to the chest,’ the other man completed the phrase for him.
I turned off the TV and went to have a shower.
It was midday when I received a call from Dona Filó. She told me that this morning her daughter had suffered a cardiac and respiratory arrest. They were able to attend to her at once and, according to one of the prison doctors, she was very weak but stable.
‘I’m heading over to the prison. Will you come with me?’
I said yes. Ten minutes later an old Citroën DS, a model I hadn’t seen in many long years, pulled up outside my building. I went downstairs. Dona Filó had her enormous bosom resting against the steering wheel. She didn’t look very comfortable. She was sweating, wedged against the leather of the seat. Despite the discomfort, the heat and her daughter’s condition, she received me with a big smile.
‘Come in! Don’t be scared.’
I got in and off we went. Dona Filó raced over the tarmac, dribbling around the other vehicles, the pedestrians, holes in the road, with movements of great precision and complete confidence. The distress with which she spoke to me, repeating what the doctor had said to her and telling me about episodes in her daughter’s life, were not reflected in the way she held that steering wheel. The woman who was talking to me, I knew already; the one holding the wheel, calmly euphoric, she was a surprise.
‘You’re like Fittipaldi.’
She laughed.
‘I learned to drive from my godfather. My godfather was a motor car racing legend around here. You’re from Huambo, you must remember the 6 Hours in Nova Lisboa …’
I did remember. People came from all over the country, even from Mozambique and South Africa, to watch the races. They’d put up bleachers along the city’s main roads. The roar of the engines used to drive the birds and dogs crazy. The air smelled of burned fuel. I liked the smell.
‘My godfather took third place once, in the 6 Hours in Nova Lisboa. And he won other important trials, in Moçâmedes and also here in Luanda,’ Dona Filó went on. ‘This used to be his car. I take very good care of it.’
She told me her godfather’s name. She seemed surprised I didn’t recognise it. I’ve never taken the least interest in any sports at all, least of all car racing. We reached the São Paulo prison faster than I’d expected. A guard blocked our entry.
‘It’s not visiting hours.’
Dona Filó phoned the doctor who had notified her about her daughter’s condition. The man came out to speak to us. He leaned on the high wall, hunched over, looking at the ground. He took a cigarette from his shirt pocket, lit it and put it between his lips. For an interminable minute, he smoked in silence. He couldn’t do anything, he said regretfully, never looking up. He asked us please not to call his cellphone again. He’d call as soon as he could. Lila was fine. In his opinion, however, she could not continue with her hunger strike. They were thinking about force-feeding her in the coming hours.
‘That’s not possible,’ Dona Filó protested. ‘My daughter left a signed document stating that she refuses any force-feeding, even if she loses consciousness.’
‘If she insists, senhora, she’s going to die. Is that what you want?’
‘Don’t be stupid! And it’s up to my daughter to decide if she wants to go back to feeding herself or not. Let me in. Let me speak to her.’
‘I’m sorry. That won’t be possible.’
‘Very well. We’re going to protest.’
She turned to me.
‘Come. I’ve got the stuff in the car.’
She opened the trunk of the DS and took out two large sheets of paper. She put one on the hood of the car and wrote in black marker, in thick letters: Freedom for the political prisoners!
She handed the paper to me.
‘Hold this. I’m going to make another one for me.’
The other said: Free our children!
‘And now?’ I asked, nervous. ‘What do you want to do with this?’
‘Now we’re going to go out to the road so everyone can see us.’
‘They’re going to arrest us.’
‘So let them.’
I followed her. As soon as I held up the poster I again felt that same energy and joy as I’d felt on waking up. The car drivers slowed down to read the posters, then sped up again. One of them gave us a thumbs-up, smiling at us. There was a good breeze. To the east, the sky was darkening. The sunlight was beating directly against a black wall of clouds. It wasn’t long, just ten or fifteen minutes, before five police officers approached. One of them, the tallest, moved ahead of the others. He made a beeline for me, giving me a solemn nod.
‘If you will excuse me, senhor, the boss has told me to ask what you’re both doing …’
Dona Filó laughed. In the distance, a lightning bolt shot across the sky. It was as if the distant rumbling was echoing her laughter.
‘Tell your boss we’re protesting. We’ll be here, on permanent protest, until they let us see our girls.’
‘The boss isn’t going to like that, Mamã.’
‘We’re free citizens, and we know our rights. Our children were arrested on a ridiculous charge. The period of pre-trial detention has expired and they still haven’t released them. They’re being illegally detained, which is why they’ve decided to go on hunger strike. My daughter nearly died this morning …’
‘I’m very sorry. I don’t know anything about politics.’
‘It’s not about politics, it’s about human rights. You’re a police officer. Your duty is to protect our rights. We have the right to protest.’
‘I’m just following orders …’
Another of the policemen stepped forward:
‘Please, if you stay here, we’re all going to have problems.’
‘We’re staying,’ I said. ‘We’re staying till they let us in to talk to our daughters.’
‘Don’t make things more complicated, old man,’ begged the first officer. ‘You can come back during visiting hours. Until then, go for a walk, have a soda, and then come in with the other visitors. It would be better for everybody.’
‘My daughter nearly died,’ insisted Dona Filó. ‘She’s suffered a cardiac and respiratory arrest. I want to see her now. I want to talk to her.’
The policeman shook his head.
‘You’re real stubborn, senhora. OK, we’ll pass that on to the boss.’
We stayed there, holding our pieces of paper. We saw the rain advancing, in a rapid tumult, even as the light receded. Then the water fell on us, like a vertical river, ripping our words of protest from our hands. We remained unmoving, soaked, clothes stuck to our bodies, hair streaming down our faces, while the cars drove past, indifferent, and the storm disappeared into the distance as quickly as it had come.