The Sword and the Spear

by Mia Couto

  And now, my sweet Bianca, this gentleman wants his just reward.

  Do you want me? I’m very expensive, Captain.

  A man like me needs a great deal of sustenance. I want you and one other woman. One to light the flame, and the other to douse the fire.

  I understand. I’ll go and speak to Imani.

  No, not that one. I want a real black woman. Do you understand?

  No, I don’t.

  I want the other one, the black woman with the boots.

  Ever since he had watched Bibliana parade in her red gown, her black gloves, and her cartridge belt, the captain had thought of nothing else. A mischievous smile lit up Bianca Vanzini’s face. The captain’s interest confirmed what she had already confided in me: A macho man prefers a masculine woman.

  I don’t know whether I’ll be able to persuade that woman. We’ve had our differences; I think Bibliana hates me.

  I’ll pay you double, Dona Bianca.

  I’m very expensive, Captain. I’m made of gold, or have you already forgotten?

  Well, between you and me, let me tell you something: It won’t be long before I discover where Gungunhane has buried his fortune in pounds. And I know where that storekeeper Sardinha has hidden a hoard of ivory tusks.

  In his case, I only want what he owed me.

  He owed you a debt?

  All men owe me a debt, Captain.

  * * *

  Leaning against the trunk of the mango tree, Captain Santiago Mata was the conqueror who, from the heights of his fortress, watches the trophies being gathered together. From where he was standing, he could only guess what was being said by the two women he had chosen to satisfy his desires. What they were saying, however, was very far removed from what he might imagine. Not even I could guess the contents of the dialogue if I weren’t standing behind the tree where they were talking.

  Never, the sorceress complained. That money’s hot, it’ll burn my hands.

  The captain’s summoned you. If you don’t go of your own free will, you’ll be forced to, you damned witch.

  Suca! Famba khaya ka wena.

  The answer in a language she didn’t understand infuriated the white woman. And she launched herself against the other. They fought, scratched, and ruffled each other. I tried to separate them, but to no avail. The Portuguese captain was grinning, thinking that the scuffle was some sort of an erotic performance put on especially for him. And the confrontation got louder until Bianca, exhausted, collapsed on the ground and burst into tears. At that point, Bibliana suddenly hugged her in a gesture of maternal warmth. Then she laid Bianca’s head on her breast and caressed her hair.

  Why are you so aggressive toward me, Dona Bianca? This is the second time.

  Sobbing, the white woman confessed what she herself had not understood previously. At the moment when Bibliana was dancing during the ritual in the yard, she had been struck by a strange feeling: That woman could not possibly be, as people were then proclaiming, a black Our Lady. She could not be, as was being heralded, the Mother of the Word. The truth was, however, that the black woman had caused her to experience an epiphany and the Italian woman had felt the ground disappear under her feet.

  Suddenly, my only son appeared before me, the child I lost when he was one year old.

  Her son’s death seemed to her to signal the end of her life. When Bianca decided to return to Africa, she was merely looking for somewhere to extinguish herself. The opposite had in fact occurred. Life had embraced her with the arms of a boundless mother.

  I wasn’t able to die, the Italian admitted.

  Do you feel guilty? Bibliana asked.

  Incapable of articulating a word, Bianca Vanini nodded, her expression drained like that of an orphaned child.

  Let’s go to the river, Bibliana suggested. At nighttime, it’s another river, a nocturnal river that is the domain of women alone.

  As if no longer in control of her body, the white woman followed in her footsteps. She looked back over her shoulder, and saw the flag drooping from the cross at the top of the church tower. And she got the feeling that underneath that church, another church had been established. It was this subterranean temple to which she was now descending, led there by a heretic priestess.

  Santiago Mata watched, puzzled, as the two women walked off, hand in hand. He was sure they were exhibiting themselves erotically in order to heighten his appetite. On the banks of the Inharrime, the two women danced, clinging to each other. The white woman, shaking her head, hissed: I’m drunk, dancing with a black woman by the side of a river. But suddenly, the black woman stopped her in her tracks:

  These hands, sister. I see grains of sand under your skin, I see earth under your nails.

  Could it have been any other way? the Italian retorted, her voice no more than a delicate thread. Can a mother see her little son being buried by strangers? A woman gives birth, a mother opens and seals closed the earth. That winter’s morning, Bianca Vanzini pushed aside the gravediggers and dug the cold, stony ground with her own fingers.

  I put my little boy to bed. As I do every night.

  In silence, the priestess plunged Bianca’s hands into the river. And she saw how Santiago was swallowed up by the darkness.

  25

  SERGEANT GERMANO DE MELO’S EIGHTH LETTER

  Anything of gravity you have to say to an enemy, you must say it in his language. No judge passes a sentence in a tongue the defendant cannot understand. No one dies unless it is in their own language.

  —A SAYING FROM NKOKOLANI

  Sana Benene, October 22, 1895

  Dear Lieutenant Ayres de Ornelas,

  This time, I bring you substantial news. At last, my dear lieutenant, something is moving in this lifeless land. You are absolutely right, sir: something out of the ordinary is altering the fate of this Portuguese territory. And it was in the context of such change that Xiperenyane passed through here yesterday morning. He made a brief stop on his way to his lands at Zavala. The man is unstoppable, constantly roaming through the bush on campaign. He is an extraordinary fighter, a Negro of proven loyalty to the Portuguese crown. I only hope that this time we know how to repay him with due generosity. Strangely enough, Bibliana confessed to me that she had seen Xiperenyane in her dreams, skinny and in rags, sweeping the streets of Lourenço Marques. This was the pitiful future that awaited him. No more than the premonition of a witch, you will say, sir. Perhaps. Time will tell.

  I know that our forces are preparing for a huge battle at Coolela. Part of me would like to be present at what will certainly be one of the most glorious events in the history of Portuguese Africa. Another part of me hesitates. Maybe there is more glory in these letters that are written independently of military confrontations. Maybe this unlikely encounter between such different people is nobler. Who knows whether Portugal may not achieve more for itself in this interweaving of such different people than in these bloody wars?

  Were you concerned, sir, about my presenting myself at Liengme’s hospital? Did you fear that I would avoid appearing at the Chicomo military post, as my situation as a soldier requires me to do? Well, as things stand now, both destinations are out of the question. The military tension felt around here does not permit anyone to leave Sana Benene. At the moment, it is not even safe to travel down the river. We are surrounded, sir. And I suspect that we are besieged more by fear than by any real threat.

  The person who suffers the most from this confinement is Bianca Vanzini. Between you and me, what worries her most is being away from her business interests in Lourenço Marques. Yesterday, however, the sun once again gleamed in the eyes of the Italian woman when our friend Xiperenyane promised to accompany her back to Inhambane after the upcoming battle at Coolela. From there, she would return to Lourenço Marques by sea. At one point, she even came up to me and asked me, in that evasive way of hers, whether it would not make more sense for her to go to Chicomo instead of Lourenço Marques. At least I won’t die without seeing Mouzinho, she said.
I pitied her, but all I did was to shake my head, smiling like an idiot.

  I have talked about Bianca, but the one who is going through a period of deep sadness is Imani Nsambe. The death of her brother has pitched her into a colorless abyss. My whimsical changes in mood and hesitation over my future make her melancholy still more intense. Last night, the girl was assailed by a nightmare that had been recurrent in the past, but which had not visited her since leaving Nkokolani. The truth is that once again she dreamed that she had become pregnant. After nine months, nothing had happened. After a year of being pregnant, her belly became immense, so much so that her legs could barely support her. Her breasts burst through her blouse, spilling abundant fountains of milk. Until at last she went into labor. In her first spasm, a machete emerged from her belly. The midwives stepped back, horrified. Then they returned quietly and cautiously in order to peer at the ghastly spectacle. After the machete, a spear emerged from her insides, and when her contractions seemed to have finished, a pistol popped out. The weapons came out of her body one at a time, and she hadn’t even recovered from the spasms when the news spread throughout the whole area. Warriors turned up and wanted to take her weapons away from her, but she resisted them firmly: No one lays a finger on my children!

  So this is what happened: Wherever she went, she took her death-dealing babies with her, treating them with a motherly care that deeply moved other women. Men reacted differently. During the months that followed, various men queued up to make her pregnant. If that woman was capable of giving birth to weapons, there was an opportunity for them to accumulate power and wealth. And never again would blacks need to fear their enemies.

  This was Imani’s dream. The following night, the poor girl must have relived the nightmare, for she woke up shouting and sobbing, begging that no one should touch her children. I calmed her down with my usual clumsiness. Imani got up and walked around and around in confusion until her father, Katini Nsambe, burst into the room. I remained by the door as a precaution. He ordered Imani to get ready, for as soon as morning broke, they would set off downstream. They would take with them one of the black soldiers who had arrived with the captain. Katini said that the purpose of the journey was to make sure that Mwanatu had been buried in accordance with the precepts of their folk. He had lost faith in everyone, blacks, whites, Chopes, and Machanganes. Imani’s father complained bitterly that life had become a whole string of betrayals. His daughter asked him to explain what particular instances of disloyalty he was talking about. Katini replied that they would talk about this matter when they were in the boat.

  Imani had known for some time of the ghosts that tormented old Katini Nsambe. She was always aware of them, but pretended not to know. It all had to do with the name she had been given in her early childhood. Everyone knew what was hidden behind that choice. Imani is the name given to girls whose father is unknown.

  At that moment she suspected that this was the ghost now haunting Katini Nsambe. And she gently sought to put his mind at rest: He was her only father, the only one she had ever known. I’ve already told you, Katini snapped back. We’ll talk when we get back from Mwanatu’s burial.

  Old Katini Nsambe asked me to pour him a glass of nsope, for he needed to bless their mission. The term mission seemed a bit strong to me. He guessed my uncertainty. And with an emperor’s pride, he declared, I am the last of the Nsambe. It falls to me to preside over the closure of our ancestral home.

  I offered to go with them down the river. Katini refused. It was a family matter. Imani would be the only one to help him, his only company. Up until some time ago, he said, he would have gone alone. But now he was beginning to be as fragile as a little bird. At the least sign of rain, he didn’t take to his wings.

  I accompanied father and daughter to the landing stage. I followed the old man’s steps through the gloom. His footsteps were light, as if there were some studied delicacy in his gait. And I pondered on the courage of that man who, for all those years, had had to cross the terrain of his own humiliation. His daughter told me how he avoided the company of the other men in the village. And how he lowered his eyes every time the name Imani was mentioned. Everyone considered him a coward. But it would be hard to find similar bravery. Katini Nsambe forfeited his dignity and defended his daughter, regardless of whether he was her progenitor. I wasn’t therefore surprised that his steps were so light.

  We passed the ruined steps in front of the church and noticed how they had slid farther toward the river during the night. Did it rain last night? I asked. Imani’s father commented evasively that the stones were merely returning to where they had been born.

  When we reached the wooden jetty, Bianca and Father Rudolfo were already there. They had come to say goodbye. Each of them had brought something by way of a gift. Bianca wrapped a scarf around Imani’s neck. And the priest gave Katini an iron crucifix. So that he could place it on the grave of his son Mwanatu.

  I took a few steps back. Bibliana came and joined me, watching the flowing current of the Inharrime. It was the healer who broke our silence:

  Your mother was here.

  Here at Sana Benene?

  It wasn’t just African forces that had cured me. I too had brought my medicine from afar, the soothsayer said. My medicine? I asked, astonished. My dreams had been my most effective cure. For, according to her, they came full of cargo, like ships. And many relatives had visited me without my knowing.

  Your mother was here with me, tending your wounds.

  Then we went and joined the others sitting on the landing stage, feet dangling in the waters. The swirl around our ankles gurgled gently, like the most ancient of lullabies. We almost failed to hear an approaching raft, pushed along by the current. Riding it was an unclad man, with matted hair and the look of an animal. The priest sighed and commented: That’s all we need! The intruder, he explained, was a madman called Libete who traveled the river constantly, carrying with him his foul-smelling bag.

  The craft hadn’t yet reached the bank and the area was bathed in a nauseous stench. The priest addressed the man in Txichangana, asking him to throw his stinking bag away. The intruder refused, pulling toward him a large leather bag, in which he claimed he carried his children. Sensing that the priest doubted his word, he offered to spread the entire contents along the landing stage if he were permitted. The priest reacted in alarm: No, for the love of God, don’t do that! He should continue down the river, for the priest would give him his blessing. The raft drifted farther away, dragged by the current. And the man could still be heard shouting:

  It was Ngungunyane who killed them! He killed my children, he killed me.

  Katini Nsambe got up and we thought he was going to head for the dugout to start his journey. But he stood watching Libete’s raft zigzagging along on the current. Eventually, he murmured:

  Don’t call him mad, Father. That man is me.

  26

  A LIQUID GRAVE

  The recruitment of soldiers in Angola to fight in Mozambique began in 1878 and finished in September, 1879. The bearing and discipline of these soldiers from Angola caused surprise in Mozambique. Soon, however, their splendid qualities began to be obliterated and within a year, no one would have recognized those fine battalions recruited in Angola. Either because of the lack of any regime of beatings, to which they were accustomed, or because their generous leave caused them to lose the rigors of discipline, or, the most likely, because the officers assembled in the Province neglected their duties, the Angolans, from being orderly, became unruly brawlers and a danger to the peace and security of the capital.

  —COLONEL JOSÉ JUSTINO TEIXEIRA BOTELHO, “MILITARY AND POLITICAL HISTORY OF THE PORTUGUESE IN MOZAMBIQUE FROM 1883 TO THE PRESENT DAY,” 1921

  I watched the sergeant waving from the landing stage, with his large white handkerchief fluttering, somewhere between a pennant and a mirage. I waved too in order to fulfill our false farewells. And we continued downstream, looking for the grave of my brother Mwanatu. Guid
ing us was a black Portuguese soldier who had been assigned us by Santiago Mata. He was dark, much darker than those from our part of the world. He was a mangolê, one of those soldiers originally from Angola. On the journey, he remained silent, cautiously keeping his distance from my father.

  When we stopped for a rest and my father walked off into the bush, the soldier opened up. He spoke Portuguese like a white and only his skin color and his name reminded me he was African. His name was João Ondjala because he had been born in the year of hunger. We laughed because that is how we say hunger in Txitxope. He spoke quickly, as if the end of the world were peeping at us from around the bend in the river. He said he wasn’t to blame for the death of our relative. For he was a poor wretch, unable to exert any control over his own life. He said that a month before, he had been captured by Ngungunyane. He was brought into the presence of the emperor and one of his sons, named Godido, had served as interpreter. Godido had studied in the School of Arts and Crafts on the Island of Mozambique and could speak Portuguese fluently. The Angolan laughed as he recalled how terrified he had been as he knelt in front of the king of Gaza.

  Don’t harm me, Ondjala stammered as he knelt. I’m your brother, I’m black like you.

  A brother? Ngungunyane asked. A brother who kills us?

  Ondjala invoked his situation as a victim of discrimination in the Portuguese army and recalled the way the mangolês were sent to the front as cannon fodder.

  So you’re one of those mangolês, then? Ngungunyane asked.

  The Angolan pointed to the flagpole planted in front of the VaNguni emperor’s house.

  I am like you, Nkosi, we both obey the same flag.

  At the time, the blue and white flag of Portugal hung limp and soulless. When it droops, a flag is no more than a pathetic piece of cloth. Ondjala thought: It isn’t the cloth that makes a flag, but the wind. That was how his soul was: empty, far from any wind.