The Sword and the Spear Read online

  Do you know that Gungunhane has banned the consumption of alcohol? He decreed the law after his son died from the effects of alcohol last month.

  Ngungunyane doesn’t tell me what to do, Katini declared. And then he added: He’ll be the first to break the law.

  Stroking his long beard, the priest forgot my father’s skinny figure and turned his attention to me.

  I can’t help hearing what the other blacks say about you. And I must confess, dear girl: It would be better if you were white.

  More than to a race, I belonged to some cursed species. I was a friend of the whites. They would hurl this fact in my face just as they do to lepers and the insane.

  In the end, he said, you’ll envy your disabled brother for the disdain with which he is treated.

  And there was another lesson he wanted to transmit to me, maybe the last. Our land is an island. Those who arrive here do not want to stay. No matter how much we like them, we should not surrender our souls to them.

  Those who knock on our door are passing through. Open up your house but keep your soul shut away.

  He was referring to my attraction to the sergeant. But the priest was also talking about himself. A man between worlds, a soul between borders. For whites, he was a friend of the blacks. For the blacks, he was nothing more than a second-class white. For the Indians who shared the color of his skin, the priest was no one at all. He had the language, beliefs, and ways of the Europeans. He wasn’t even a traitor. He didn’t exist.

  This is the sad law of the world: Those who exist in halves end up being doubly hated.

  An empty bottle fell in the sand at my feet. It was from my father, who had returned and was seeking our company again, and now sat down in silence. By remaining speechless, he was asking for forgiveness. He rubbed his hands on his knees for some moments before plucking up courage to ask:

  Tell me something, Father. That wife of yours, that woman, Bibliana, speaks the language of folk around here, but she’s not one of our VaChopi women, is she?

  What a question, Katini. Did you ever ask what tribe the Portuguese sergeant belonged to? the priest asked. Then he added: Bibliana belongs to the women’s tribe. That’s what she’d tell you if you were to ask her.

  * * *

  We heard explosions in the distance. Then some shots. And the clatter of horses’ hooves receding. And then silence.

  I wonder who’s doing the shooting now, the priest said.

  No one knew the answer. How many wars are there within one war? How many different possibilities of hatred lie hidden when a nation sends its sons to their deaths? I could guess the screams unleashed afar. They were women screaming for sure, and no one paid them any heed, for they were far away, always too far away. The priest sighed, almost out of tedium:

  Now for the burials!

  And the two men drank. Every time they replenished their glasses, they cursed the king of Gaza:

  May his sons and daughters die! And let them lie out in the open air, to be devoured by hyenas.

  The inebriated are like prisoners: They create a time that exists only for them and cannot be shared. Feeling excluded, I asked to be excused. But the priest told me to stay. There was a matter he wanted to clear up with my father.

  The war is at our doorstep, Katini, my brother. Don’t you think it’s time Imani knew the truth about the girls who died?

  Let time take care of itself, my father said.

  It wasn’t the river that took your sisters away, the priest declared. It was because they drank water from a poisoned well.

  Poisoned by whom? I asked, with a serenity that surprised me.

  By the devil, the priest retorted.

  My old father confirmed this with a nod. In the ensuing tense, dense silence, the most insignificant details assumed the dimensions of an omen: the first drops of rain, the smell that seemed to emanate from the earth, but which came from a primitive recess of our souls. And once again, we seemed to hear the mute screams of women from the great beyond.

  These are things from the past, things of days gone by, the priest said, in an attempt to placate his soul.

  There are no things of days gone by, Katini declared. There are things that are empty, like this bottle.

  10

  SERGEANT GERMANO DE MELO’S SECOND LETTER

  … Though great conquerors of lands, the Portuguese do not make use of them, but are happy to scamper along their seashore like crabs.

  —FRIAR VICENTE DO SALVADOR, “HISTORY OF BRAZIL,” 1627

  Sana Benene, August 8, 1895

  Dear Lieutenant Ayres de Ornelas,

  You ordered me, sir, to serve as your spy. I immediately began to fulfill this duty, and through this letter wish to inform you of a strange incident that occurred here in Sana Benene. Yesterday, Queen Impibekezane, the mother of Gungunhane, came to this church. The great Vátua lady was accompanied by a small, discreet delegation. At the time, I was fast asleep, and did not emerge from my slumber despite the turmoil. The priest accommodated the royal visitor in a large shed made of timber and zinc, hidden away in a bushy thicket. At this point, it is appropriate to talk a little about these premises. Rudolfo Fernandes’s original intention was to install a printing press there for the reproduction of religious texts. All that remains of the old typesetter and printing press are a few bits and pieces scattered around in the corners. And there is still a wooden box with one or two metal type pieces lined up like soldiers on parade. It was with all this equipment that the priest had thought of printing the Bible in Txitxope, to be translated by Imani. But it never went beyond good intentions. The idea of the Bible in the language of her people dissolved into thin air, just like the smell of printing ink, so strong and prevalent that she still remembered the strangeness of it when everything was still at Makomani.

  I was shaken awake with the announcement of the arrival of our strange visitors. Still in a daze, and leaning heavily on Imani and the priest, I slowly crossed the yard, anxious to meet the old lady who exercised such influence over Gungunhane and his court. As you, sir, very well know, Queen Impibekezane is not the monarch’s blood mother. His real mother died recently and in accordance with the express wishes of her husband, Muzila, was buried wrapped in the Portuguese flag.

  The reason for this unexpected visit, unbelievable as it may seem, was myself! Impibekezane had heard of the arrival of a white soldier at Sana Benene and wanted to meet with the Portuguese in private. This was why I had been shaken awake, for they did not want to keep such an illustrious visitor waiting. At the door to the shed stood two Vátua soldiers who were serving as the queen’s escort. They bore no military insignia by which they might be identified. They inspected the cloth that bound my arms. Then, with a nod, they let me pass. At the same time, they did not allow the priest or Imani to enter.

  Inside the building sat two women. The queen mother was distinguished by her combed-back hairstyle and the many strings of beads that adorned her wrists and ankles. As I had been advised, I greeted them with a word that was only permitted when addressed to royalty.

  Bayete! I said, bowing somewhat unconvincingly.

  I confess, sir, that I was attracted to the other woman, who was much younger and blessed with a rare, delicate beauty. I have no words to describe this young damsel. Her skin was coppery in tone, she had a perfect body and well-sculpted face. I was so fascinated by this black girl that, noting my discomposure, the queen told her to sit farther away in a shadowy corner. I spoke in Portuguese in the vain hope that they would allow Imani to serve as an interpreter. The beautiful girl astonished me by replying in my language. She explained that the matters that we would be dealing with were of the utmost secrecy. She said that her name was Mpezui, she was a sister of the king of Gaza, and in her childhood had attended a school that the Portuguese had built at Manjacaze. And she gazed at me with her deep, dark eyes, made to lay siege to a man’s soul.

  The queen mother was alarmed by the tension afflicting our region. The two armies w
ere bringing together thousands of men on the plains of Magul. She wanted to know what position I occupied in the military hierarchy. I mentioned my rank of sergeant and the two women exchanged a few words between themselves before leaning forward and displaying various signs of respect. Mpezui enthusiastically declared that the king of Gaza held the same rank in the Portuguese army, and for that reason I was worthy of the highest esteem. They were mistaken. They were confusing the ranks of sergeant and colonel, which was the distinction D. Carlos had accorded Gungunhane. I did not contradict them. But the unusual nature of their visit had such an effect on my nerves that I relapsed into feverish tremors. My pulse raced and blood seeped through my bandages. I concealed this leakage behind my back.

  My late husband, Muzila, was a great friend of Portugal, the queen announced. The Vátua sovereign had died a disillusioned man. Some of the promises made by the Portuguese had not been kept. But this truth could also be applied conversely: The African monarch had also forgotten to honor his commitments. You, sir, will raise the matter of these omissions again with both sides. You know well that it is a question of human nature; if we possess memory, it is to forget our own faults.

  The queen mother gazed at me fixedly as she warned me never, but never, to disappoint her. I lowered my head, not as a sign of obedience, but because a moment of giddiness clouded my judgment.

  In times such as these, deception is paid for with one’s life, the queen intimated.

  The land upon which I trod was sacred, she declared. Her dead lived in the ground here. She described Muzila’s funeral ceremony in deliberate detail. I heard the narration of his funeral rites as if from far away, in a fragmented form, my auditory senses occasionally failing me. The dead Muzila’s corpse had been hung from a tree so that his bodily liquids could be collected in a large basin. These would later be used to fertilize the soil.

  We die in order to become a seed, the visitor concluded, straightening her coiffure without appearing to touch her hair. She took a deep breath before speaking once again.

  I am queen. But first, I am a mother.

  Men, she declared, are educated to wage war. They fail to recognize, however, that no army is as powerful as a woman defending her family.

  Though not of her blood, Gungunhane—or Umundungazi, as she called him—was her favorite son. And she was determined to protect him at all costs. This was why the queen had come here: She had conceived of a way of saving the emperor. This plan would, at the same time, save the lives and the honor of the Portuguese, who in the eyes of the world would be the only winners. The only people who would never recognize this victory would be the vanquished. And because of this, they would celebrate their triumph in a different way down the centuries.

  The queen mother leaned forward toward me as if she were about to tell me a secret. The beautiful Mpezui imitated the sovereign’s gesture and her lips brushed my ear in order to translate Impibekezane’s murmur:

  Listen to me as if you were a son of mine.

  At that crucial moment, however, I felt a violent hemorrhaging flooding the ground behind me. I got as far as realizing she was speaking of Sanches de Miranda and the name they have for him in their language, Mafambatcheca, which means the One Who Laughs as He Travels. But by this time, my life was flowing out through my wrists. I tried to cry for help but words failed to reach my mouth. The world was becoming darker as I collapsed into my own blood.

  I cannot bear witness, sir, to what happened during that temporary loss of consciousness. Someone must have dragged me out, for I awoke in my own quarters, alarmed by the infernal racket coming from the yard.

  I have to stop here in order not to miss the messenger, who is about to leave. I shall give more news soon.

  11

  THE THEFT OF A METAL WORD

  This is what they say before we are even born: Woman’s great virtue is to be present without even existing.

  —WORDS SPOKEN BY BIANCA VANZINI

  I was woken by a great ruckus, and through the sacristy window saw people running chaotically. The first thing that flashed through my mind was that we were under attack. It might be my own people, the VaChopi, with the intention of kidnapping the queen mother.

  It was Rudolfo who explained what was happening. After the VaNguni delegation had left, it was discovered that the visitors had stolen all the metal stored in the shed. The boxes were empty. The metal type sets assembled to spread the word of God were now going to be used to make bullets.

  At that point, Sergeant Germano emerged from his billet. He was quickly made aware of what had happened, and with a raised finger he warned the priest that he expected a full report on the robbery. He behaved as if he were the proprietor of the church. The priest dismissed the order with disdain. What importance did the disappearance of a few bits of metal have in the face of the news that the Portuguese had won a crushing victory at Magul?

  Aren’t you celebrating your army’s triumphs? Rudolfo asked.

  The news seemed to make the sergeant worry. Little did he care that six thousand enemy troops led by the odious Zixaxa had capitulated before a few hundred Portuguese soldiers. Little did it matter to him that his countrymen’s machine guns had left four hundred dead on the plains of Magul. The only thing that Germano de Melo wanted to know about was the bits of stolen metal. Rudolfo looked the soldier in the eye and said:

  I see fear in your soul, my son.

  Then he turned his back. But the sergeant went after him: The priest shouldn’t forget that, although injured, he had his sacred duties. And he would have to formally explain what had happened.

  Explain? To whom?

  I have my superiors.

  The priest picked up a bucket to go and fetch water from the river. Halfway there, he suggested:

  Go and see Imani, my son. You’re in urgent need of someone to comfort you.

  At that point, Bibliana passed by and, without stopping, addressed the delirious sergeant in Txitxope:

  How many Bibles are there, my young soldier? One for the English, another for the Portuguese? One for the whites, another for the blacks? This God they say is the only god, what language does he speak?

  The questions cascaded over him, and the Portuguese understood none of them. When he came toward me, it was obvious how deranged he was. His look was unrecognizable as he stretched out his arm toward my face:

  That hair, Imani …

  What about my hair?

  Can’t you straighten it?

  Is it askew?

  From now on, you must straighten it. I don’t want it woolly because it’s bad for my hands. Those damned curls get into my bandages and infect my wounds.

  The fever has come back, I thought. But it wasn’t a return to his previous state. There was a harshness in his expression that I had not seen before. Timidly, I stretched out my hand to stroke his hair. But he pushed me away abruptly. The Portuguese looked around him suspiciously, as if to make sure that no one was listening to us. Then he shot an unexpected question at me: Was Father Rudolfo worthy of our trust? In the face of my utter astonishment, he repeated insistently:

  Isn’t he involved with the blacks?

  The blacks? I asked, astounded.

  The sergeant did not realize the oddity of his words. And he was even beginning to doubt whether Rudolfo was really a priest.

  Do you know this rogue’s story?

  It was fairly widely known in Sana Benene: Every morning, the priest looked at himself in the mirror. He was convinced that, day by day, his brown eyes were becoming blue. That he was shedding his race just as snakes shed their skin. And that he was becoming more and more like his Portuguese mother, whom he only knew from what people had told him.

  I don’t believe this fellow has a Portuguese mother. To tell you the truth, I don’t know whether he has a mother at all, Germano declared.

  Do you want to know who Rudolfo Fernandes is? There is no one better to tell you this priest’s story.

  * * *

  Rudol
fo Fernandes’s mother was one of the so-called orphans of the king. After she was taken in at an orphanage in Lisbon, the Portuguese king sent her to Goa. In India, she was supposed to marry one of the few Portuguese men serving there. The intention was to maintain what they called “racial purity.” In the case of Rudolfo’s mother, this objective was not carried out: The orphan girl didn’t choose a white man, but an Indian of much darker skin. The son of this unusual couple was placed in the seminary in Goa, which was where he received his religious education. When he had completed his education at the seminary, the Portuguese authorities sent him from India to Mozambique, for there were no more than half a dozen priests in the whole territory capable of evangelizing in Portuguese, a civilized and civilizing language. The other Christians, the Swiss Calvinists, were spreading an erroneous version of God’s word. They were encouraging the blacks to write in their own languages. They were teaching them to be Africans.

  It was with the mission of counteracting these influences that Father Rudolfo landed at Makomani, a village on the coast. And this was how he landed in my childhood as well. At first the Goan was enthusiastic. The church was packed with people at mass on Sunday. The so-called natives keenly received their alphabet primers so that they could learn to read. The missionary believed that the Africans were diligently attempting to decipher the letters. How naïve he was! The older residents resorted to tearing pages out of the books to light fires in order to fry fish.

  My father, Katini Nsambe, viewed catechism as more than just a religious conversion. It was a door that opened onto the white world. This was his intention: that I, Imani, should free myself from my origins, escape from myself and seek another destiny, without a return, a race, a past.