Ezequiel
THE PORTUGUESE REFER to Mozambique, and colonies like it, as Terras do Fim do Mundo. Driving north from Sofala through the province of Cabo Delgado—a thin coastal strip in the north where political control remains in colonial hands—it does feel like we’ve reached the end of the world. Except for me, who sees this place as a return. It is less than an hour’s drive to the mission. I could go back.
Most villages we drive through are shantytowns—the shed skins of snakes. People are left with nothing except promises. The Portuguese, in exchange for loyalty and continued servitude, promise safety and security. FRELIMO offers freedom, and the almost impossible dream: the right to decide their own futures, to determine their own happiness.
“I don’t want to visit the mission,” I say, after the Commander presses me.
He remains quiet in the passenger seat beside me, his hands on his knees. At one point the road plunges steeply toward a river and a ramshackle wooden bridge. He rolls the window down to look at a group of children swimming in the green water, and the kneeling women washing clothes. I’m afraid he’ll say something, or worse, ask me to stop so that he can stalk the women and children until they gather their things and run into the jungle.
“You’re certain you don’t want to return to the place you were raised?”
I can feel the motionless heat press on me. I roll my window down.
“Because that door will always stand open in your mind. A glimpse into your past might cure what troubles you.”
“I can’t go back.” Just one step in front of the next.
I can feel his yellow eyes on me, trying to determine what I am made of.
“Good. In this continent, to revisit the past is to learn that God and the Devil are one.”
It is late October and the promise of a long rainy season looms large. After a year of working by the Commander’s side I have become the perfect shadow he wants. I have seen the debris of his madness—at least three girls that I know of, butchered by his hands. I thought of their mothers and fathers, their siblings, not knowing whether their daughters ran away or were taken from them, as I disposed of their bodies.
I trust no one. Being alone with my judgments makes survival easier, since I don’t have to look out for anyone but me. I never felt comfortable leaving the Commander with girls, but often I never saw them enter his tent or room. Abel was in charge of procuring the young women. I would only find them the morning after, helpless in my inability to stop his madness. The truth is, even if I could, I wouldn’t be able to do anything. At least that’s what I tell myself. Commander Fonseca makes efforts to show kindness—setting me up in my own hotel room, giving me a few hundred escudos each week, leftover food and wine.
I make my way down to the lobby. People are chatting on the sofas. The hotel has been divided, refurbished to accommodate those in the military with titles: colonels, lieutenant colonels, majors, always in full uniform with shiny decorations. The hotel houses them and their families. The children are only allowed to play on the rooftop terrace, which overlooks Porto Amélia’s harbour and the Indian Ocean. The staff extends sheets across posts and antennae to create some relief from the blistering sun. Mothers stand by the railing, drinking tropical concoctions and smoking. They never leave and they do not discuss the one thing they all know—that the hotel had once been a brothel, and only recently repurposed for the war effort.
The lobby of the hotel with no name is wide and the light filters through the curtains. The windows are tall, constructed of small square panes filmed with dust. The chandelier is still the same as before the war, when businessmen came by large ship to claim crocodile suitcases and elephant tusks. They would stay at the hotel a few days before setting out to conduct their business up or down the coast. That is why there are claw-footed bathtubs in our rooms. The place smells of old mixed with a trace of cheap perfume. I am reminded of my birth mother.
Outside, the palm trees curve. The big sun is dull and looms over the ocean and the city. A black waiter dressed entirely in white carries a tray over to Commander Fonseca leaning against the jeep. The Commander picks up the pack of cigarettes and the waiter bows slightly before backing away.
The Commander is not dressed in his uniform. He wears cream-coloured pants and a linen shirt, open to display his dark patch of chest hair. His shirt is already soaked in perspiration, and through the shirt I can see his ribs and flat stomach. Nothing about his relaxed dress puts me at ease. If anything, he looks agitated.
“This place is filthy,” he says to me, spitting into the sand. “This would be a good country to live in if it weren’t for the blacks. Mondlane wants to be their father, but he doesn’t see what his children are capable of.” It’s always the same rant. “You drive,” the Commander says, tossing the keys to me. “Abel has errands today.” I never ask what the chores are and Abel, if he is within earshot of the Commander’s racist rants, remains expressionless. Whenever the Commander spews his poison, I think of my own ancestry. Increasingly, his words have an impact on me, and I often feel guilty. I am overwhelmed by them but remain straight-faced. For most of my life I saw myself as white. I chose to ignore any references to my blackness. I learned things would be easier for me that way. I can no longer deny that side of me. I am not safe here and a threat is always present.
I make a slow turn away from the hotel and onto the beach road. A group of women wrapped in their colourful capulanas walk with baskets on their heads. They hear the jeep coming from behind them and form a line. Commander Fonseca taps me on the shoulder to slow down. The women are Makua. Their faces are covered in mussiro—the thick white paste I’m familiar with. Only the mussiro prepared for me by Mother Anke was laced with bleach, and there are days when I look in the mirror and notice a tinge of blue to my skin.
The women look straight ahead. They know better than to look inside the jeep. At the front of the line is a girl, no more than fifteen, I would guess. She does not wear mussiro, nor does she carry a basket on her head. Instead, she holds on to a rope, which is secured around the neck of a goat. The girl is trying hard not to look our way.
“Menina,” Commander Fonseca calls out, before whistling to get her attention.
I see her sidelong glance. She is beautiful as she fights a smile. The Commander sticks his head out the window and opens his mouth to say something, but before he can, I shift the jeep into gear and it kicks in acceleration. He keeps looking at the reflection of the girl in the side mirror.
We drive along the dirt road. The ocean breeze is never far from our side. A film of salt dusts my cheek and makes it difficult to run my fingers through my hair.
“Do you know where we’re going?” the Commander says.
I do not answer.
“I need to get away from that suffocating place. Nothing ever happens there.” He lights another cigarette, blowing smoke through his nose like a bull.
After an hour’s drive past deserted beaches on one side and, on the other, fields of mango spread across the sandy terrain like a forest, the Commander asks me to veer onto a narrow dirt road. At the end of the road there is a weathered shack of bamboo and behind it forest.
“This is it,” the Commander says. “Perfect spot for some target practice.” He opens the back of the jeep and unfurls a cowhide. There are five guns, all different types.
“Go ahead,” he says, and picks up a shotgun for himself.
My hand hovers over the guns before it settles on a black revolver with a wooden handle, a Colt Python.
“We’re hunting, not playing a game of Russian roulette.” Go for the Armalite seven sixty-two.”
The Commander leads the way. He carries his gun over his shoulder, and I do the same. He keeps looking back as if assessing how I hold a gun, my comfort with its weight. Perhaps it is a bold taunt or challenge, to see if I will take aim at him. I have never revealed a thing to him, but every so often he says something that tells me he knows details about my life I have buried deep. I don’t believe the lieutenant would have shared the information he learned from my fevered mumblings. It makes my ears itch when the Commander alludes to my family on the mission or the men who took me into the jungle. I cannot show my discomfort.
The Commander spots a strip of mud at the edge of the sea. A flock of flamingos stand in the shore’s shallow water, their heads and necks tucked underneath their wings. But the flamingos are not the animals that dazzle the Commander. A little farther off there is a troop of vervet monkeys. They have come to the water’s edge to wash their food, twirling fruit or some other meal in the water in quick motions.
The Commander prepares to cock his weapon without taking his eyes off the monkeys. He aims the barrel of the rifle toward the open ocean, then lowers it to the mud, before scanning his gun from left to right. I want to bury my face in my hands. The gun goes off. The shot vibrates in the air. I am surprised the flamingos do not take flight. We are close enough that I can see the chaos surrounding the monkey that has been hit. It twitches before lying still. The other monkeys screech and yell, jump up and down in frantic motions. One of the bigger monkeys is trying to drag the dead monkey away. The Commander fires again. The bigger monkey collapses over the first one. There is pandemonium, but the monkeys do not leave the side of their downed family members. The flamingos unfurl their necks and poke at the shallow water as if nothing has happened.
The loyalty of the monkeys overwhelms me.
“Your turn. Shoot,” the Commander says.
Dread surges up my throat.
“Shoot!”
I pull the trigger and miss.
The Commander looks up to a shimmer of green slowly covering the sun.
“It’s going to rain,” I say.
“Not rain,” the Commander says, holding out his hand. A locust falls from the sky and lands dead in his palm.
“What’s happening?”
Exhausted locusts begin to drop all around us. Some still flutter from their dive and fall.
“Can you hear the noise they make?” the Commander says, with a renewed enthusiasm.
The air turns glass-bottle green, as does the sea. The cloud of locusts descends on us. They rain down and I feel somehow privileged to witness the event. It’s a sign.
The flamingos engage in an eating frenzy. They pluck the juicy insects that bob on the surface of the water, mistaking the locusts for fish. The monkeys remain unimpressed, huddled over their dead, preening them as if for a funeral. One of the monkeys stands on watch, his masked head scanning the surroundings. The locusts fall all around its feet, but it does not pick them up to eat.
When we arrive back at the hotel, the Commander insists that I come to his room to turn down his bed. This strikes me as suspicious, since a hotel worker comes every night to do this. The Commander says it is our last night before we push off from the coast and into the heart of the battle, Mueda.
“That girl,” he says, looking at me, daring me to pretend ignorance. I won’t walk into his trap. “Find her.”
I walk out to the beach and step into the water. Gusts of wind kick up the sand in swirls. My face is blasted with a million pinpricks of sand and I feel alive.
It is past midnight. More than enough time to make the Commander believe I have scoured the city. I knock lightly on the Commander’s door.
“Come in.”
The room is dark, except for light from a single candle. Commander Fonseca is sitting in a chair. A shadow blacks out half of his face. There is enough light that I see a glass filled with drink and the revolver resting on his lap.
“I could not find her, Commander.”
He shakes his head.
“I asked around. Spoke to everyone, and no one knows this girl. Perhaps she is not from these parts,” I say, hoping he is too drunk to catch the tremble in my voice.
“Beatriz,” he says. He holds up a hand to stop me. “Her name is Beatriz.” He lifts the revolver and waves it toward the bathroom door. I open the door. The girl is hog-tied in the bathtub. Her face is plastered with mussiro; her tears have wet the area under her eyes. She is gagged and rests her forehead in exhaustion against the rim of the bathtub.
“I sent Abel out to find her for me. I knew you wouldn’t do it.” He clicks his tongue as though I’m a child who has misbehaved.
I step back into the room and there is nothing I can say. I take a step back toward the wall and lean against it.
The Commander directs me to the bamboo shack where earlier that day we spent hours taking refuge from the plague of locusts. The wind is strong, and with every gust the shack rattles. Shards of glass and splinters of wood cover the floor. A few rags and clothing are tossed on top of the stained mattress in the corner. Apart from the wooden table, two chairs, and a lantern at the edge of the table, the room is bare.
I am tied into one of the chairs. Abel drags Beatriz inside. He ties her torso to the back of the chair, the same way I have been tied. Our arms and hands are free. One of my eyes is shut and will not open. My head throbs and I take hold of it. I am beaten and too dazed to understand the wisdom of this.
Commander Fonseca is drenched.
“Abel, wait for me in the car.”
Every breath I take is met with a sharp pain across my chest. I shiver, suddenly cold. The smell of pine cuts my nostrils and I remember the forest just behind the shack. With my one good eye, I take a clear look at Beatriz. It is clear she has been drugged. Her eyelids are heavy and her head hangs down and to the side, her chin touching her collarbone.
The Commander stands at the table. The six-chamber cylinder swings out to the left and he loads one bullet before spinning it to a click. He slams the revolver onto the table. “One of you will disappear tonight, become a ghost. I think it’s only fair to let fate decide that.”
I look at the gun and stare at what remains of this world. I feel defenceless, and the thought that I could grab the gun and fire at the Commander is futile.
“Spin it,” he tells me through clenched teeth.
I spin the cylinder and press the gun to my temple. With my eyes closed I try to conjure Papa Gilberto. I want it all to be over. I want to run over the canopy of trees and reach the sun before it drops on the other side. I press down on the trigger. Click! I exhale and return the gun to the table.
Commander Fonseca slides the gun over to Beatriz. She is not quite sure what she is supposed to do. The Commander curls her fingers around the handle. While she holds it, he grabs her other hand and forces her to spin the cylinder. She can barely lift it to her head. The Commander wedges her mouth open and lets the gun barrel rest between her lips. I hear the clicking of her teeth against the revolver. She heaves, then clicks the trigger. She tries to stand up but she is firmly tied to the chair.
I take the revolver and for the second time I spin the cylinder. I raise it to my temple. I hold it firm and look directly at Commander Fonseca. I pull the trigger.
The Commander takes a long drag from his cigarette, holds his breath. He flicks the butt across the room, takes one step forward and the back of his hand strikes my cheek.
The revolver is in the girl’s hand.
“Give it here! I’ll go again.” My voice cracks.
Beatriz spins the cylinder and places the gun upside down in her mouth, its black metal brutal against her delicate face.
“Give it to me!” I yell.
She holds the wooden handle of the revolver with both her hands to steady it. She uses her thumbs to ready the gun. She closes her cracked lips around its barrel.
A sudden pop is followed by the tinny sound of metal expanding. The furnace kicks in. Warm air from the vent blows into my bedroom.
The door is still locked.
After I let the furnace man into my apartment, I closed myself off in my room and got under the covers. I want to stay here till the repairman leaves. I’ll let the heat fill my room and remain inside until dark.
“Sir?” He’s knocking. “I’m leaving now. The furnace is running fine.”
“Thank you.”
“I left my number tagged on the furnace. If you have any questions, call and ask for Eduardo.”
His name speeds through my brain and I cannot stop it. Eduardo. Eduardo. Eduardo. Monday, February 3, 1969, and everything changed.
Lately, a persistent call has been waking me early each morning.
Propping myself up in bed, I free my legs from the hotel sheets and run my hands lightly over my blistered feet. Ten thousand miles, maybe more, mining track in the bush of northern Mozambique, and hundreds of innocent people, women and children among them, all gone because of me. I need to break free, make amends. The Commander says I must do this one more thing for him. He saved me, he said, so I could atone for my disloyalty.
With one hand I change the direction of the antenna and use my other hand to turn the dial on the transistor radio on my nightstand. The signal from Mozambique is strong enough and a voice crackles through the tiny speaker. A commentator mocks FRELIMO. The guerrillas are resisting colonial rule. They demand a role in a new government. But the man tells his listeners FRELIMO can’t have a voice in shaping Mozambique’s future because they simply don’t understand how to run a country. He is speaking of the country I am in now, Tanzania. He says the Africans there have grasped nothing, learned nothing. When the British flag was struck down and they raised their own, it was the beginning of a funeral procession. The man reassures his listeners that an increased military presence in the northern provinces has begun and soon all will be secured.
I roll my shoulders and slap my thighs awake. I yawn, stand up to stretch, naked, staring up at the ceiling. A water stain travels down one corner. I step into a rectangle of light on the floor and catch my reflection in the full-length mirror. My eyes are dark. I try to arrange the straggling wisps of hair that stick to my forehead. The mirror makes me look tall, even though I am of medium height, but I am pleased with what I see, toned and lean. My skin is darker. I need to shave. All attempts to grow a beard have failed. There is a patch of hair on my chest that trails down to my pubic area. I touch my cock.
I feel powerless as I look down at the reflection of my hands; at the ink the Commander cut into me—five dots between my thumb and forefinger. I will not let him possess me again. I am hungry and at war, but after today, everything will change.
The streets of Dar es Salaam are coming alive. Vendors set up their wares: bolts of fabric, pails, sandals dangling from hooks, small bags of teas and coffee beans, piles of folded khangas, their colours bleeding into each other. There are scarves, kofias stacked high, twine, locks, chains, washboards. Some of the vendors sit to smoke and drink strong coffee. Soon, they will all be shouting over each other.
I dodge the traffic—broken-down taxis and dubious dala dala buses mix with bicycles and wooden toroli carts all honking for a way out. Dar es Salaam is far more energetic than Porto Amélia. I’ve been scoping the city for a few weeks, going over my planned route, timing everything. In all this time I haven’t adjusted to the early-morning stench of sewage wafting from the gutters or along the roads where water and urine and blood from the butcher shop sit stagnant at the curb.
I turn around quickly. I do not see Abel. The Commander sent him here to ensure I carry out my orders properly. Abel has become my shadow. I am certain that once this task is completed, I will be killed.
I reach the unmarked storefront. As planned, no words are exchanged. A hard-boiled egg and a pot of spiced coffee are brought to my table. I manage a few sips of coffee before the waiter returns with a parcel.
“Do not stop. Do not speak to anyone.”
The recipient’s name is written clearly, Mr. Eduardo Chivambo Mondlane, the leader of FRELIMO. PIDE has gone to great pains to make the parcel appear as if it has been posted from the Netherlands. The combined counter-intelligence of two states has devised a simple letter bomb wrapped like a book. If asked about the contents upon delivery, I’ve been instructed to simply drop the package.
“And run?” I had asked the Commander.
“No need,” he replied. I did not allow him the satisfaction of seeing my fear, the flush of panic, and the way the muscles in my face ticced underneath my skin.
Leaving the shop, I hold the parcel in both hands and think of Eduardo Mondlane, the soft-spoken intellectual. They say he abandoned his texts for war. A true freedom fighter.
A black car is parked in the small square. Whoever is inside has a clear view of the storefront I have just exited. I cannot see the driver, but I know it is Abel. I turn the corner and lose my footing on the curb that has crumbled away. One step becomes a hundred. Just one step in front of the other. I tuck the parcel in my satchel.
I shift the carrier bag so that it rests flat on my lower back. I can feel the parcel through the bag’s thick canvas. I straddle my motorbike and turn on the ignition. The ride is not bumpy. I have mapped out every divot and every portion of unpaved coastal road. I pass the railway station and the ferries that shuttle people across to Zanzibar. I lean forward and shift gears, allowing my chest to vibrate in tandem with the engine. In my rear-view mirror, I can see the black car tagging along. I breathe in the clean ocean air mixed with the pungent scent of eucalyptus from cook fires. These are the smells that waft through family homes and outside camps. I push the thought out of my mind.
With my sweaty palms gripping the handles, I ride for twenty minutes until I begin to see the large homes and manicured gardens of Oyster Bay, a very different Dar es Salaam. The houses are a brilliant white, surrounded by high fences and barbed wire. There are uniformed guards and armed policemen on watch. A group of men with machetes on their belts and hedge clippers in their hands loiter by the guards.
I stop behind a bus in front of Mondlane’s home. The gates are open and a guard stands by the door. The car is not in the driveway, which means Mondlane has left for his office. He is following his routine. I had to be certain.
It is still early when I get back to the city. I stand across from the building where the FRELIMO offices are located. There are police officers in front. I do not cross the square. Instead, I walk along the storefronts and office buildings. As I approach, a couple of police officers notice me reaching for the parcel in my bag. They stop their talk. Their hands go to their guns. Relax. Breathe. It’s not wise to look these men in the eye. I look down at the parcel, the intended’s name so clear. The FRELIMO office is too noisy and crowded. Mondlane goes in every morning but only to pick up his mail. I walk up to the entrance where a uniformed man sits at a desk. The police officers resume their discussion.
“I have a package,” I say, raising it up to my chest and tilting it slightly. “Mr. Mondlane?” I say, reading the label as if I’m uncertain of the name.
The guard at the desk shells pistachios and pops them into his mouth. He looks at the officers. They are indifferent. He motions me closer. He stands up, reaches for his rifle and taps its muzzle on top of the package.
“For Mr. Mondlane?” he says, in Kiswahili.
“It’s a special delivery from the bookshop on Samora.” Although I could communicate, I practised the words in Kiswahili until there was no trace of a Portuguese inflection.
The guard drinks his beer and upends his glass. A moustache of foam remains on his lip. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’ll take it,” he says.
The door swings open and a tall man walks out. I know it is Eduardo Mondlane from all the photos and newspaper clippings. I didn’t think he’d be such an imposing figure close up.
“A package for you, sir,” the guard says, standing up to block his glass of beer from Mr. Mondlane’s sight.
I hold the package in my hands. Mr. Mondlane’s eyes lock with mine and I see the kindness and intelligence of this man.
“For me?” he says, reaching for the parcel.
I hold on tighter than I thought. Once it is firmly in his grasp, I can do nothing but look at the coin he has placed in my palm. He brushes by me, his mail and the package tucked under his arm. He slips into a waiting car. As he does every morning, he will make his way to Betty King’s house. She is an American lady who works for the African-American Institute, an NGO sympathetic to the cause of independence. An informant has told me that she has given him a corner office in her home—a place to reflect and meditate and discuss important issues with his comrades.
I turn to leave. I see Abel across the square. He has surely witnessed the exchange. Closing his car door, he begins to cross the square. I slink behind a slowly passing truck and walk with it, blocking Abel’s view. I fight the urge to run. I need to stay hidden and get lost in the crowd. As the truck pulls away I drop and roll under a parked car. I do not want to look back, but I must. When I do I see Abel, searching the busy square. I slip out from under the car and dart into a side street. For an instant my mind goes blank and I’m afraid I’ve lost my bearings, until I see the motorcycle I have stowed at the entrance to a building.
I jump on my motorcycle and begin to weave through the narrow alleys and streets. Abel’s car cannot follow me at the same speed, but he will soon figure out where I have gone. I cannot stay long, and I’m not certain why I am drawn to King’s house—my role is done.
I ride slowly by the house and see that Mondlane’s car is parked in the driveway. His driver and a guard lean against the car, smoking.
It is a clear day, and looking over the glittering ocean I catch a glimpse of Zanzibar’s coastline. The dhows skim the sea’s surface. These are the same boats that have sailed these waters, unchanged, for centuries.
It happens in an instant—the heat of the explosion hits me and I’m thrown to the ground. I hear yelling and the scraping of metal against concrete, the sound of a car horn that will not stop.
From close by I hear a rifle’s quick snap. In a daze I see men from neighbouring homes raise their guns, shaking themselves into motion, running toward the little house by the sea. It is all unravelling in horn-filled slow motion. I manage to get up on one knee. A corner section of the house is hollowed out like the bite of an apple. The billowing white smoke turns grey.
Perhaps the war is over now. Everything will go back to the way it was. Cashews will drop into my palms. Papa Gilberto will appear from the mountains unharmed.
The dust has a familiar smell—a whiff of iron, like the scent of dried blood. My ears ring to the sound of the sea: “Run, Ezequiel. You are free.”