Palm Trees in the Snow

by Luz Gabás

  Kilian had heard stories about how the Bubis were going to name the governor their abba, or spiritual leader. The idea had seemed ridiculous to him. In Bubi culture, abba was the name given to the spiritual leader of the Moka region who had a sacred influence over the whole island. It was a hereditary title; not just anybody could be named abba. For that reason, he had taken it for granted that it was only a malicious rumor. No Bubi would ever think of bestowing the honor of being the supreme spiritual leader on a white man.

  “He was a whisker away from becoming it.”

  Simón was down with them in one leap. His face was red from the heat. He took a brush and began to vigorously sweep the shells that had fallen from the transporter belt.

  “I was with my father in several meetings between village chiefs and whites. You already know”—since he had stopped being Kilian’s boy, Simón had automatically stopped addressing him so formally—“that my people don’t like to be impolite, so they decided to consult the spirits of our ancestors.”

  “Ah, and what did the spirits say?” Kilian turned, trying not to laugh, and saw Bisila approach.

  She was wearing a white skirt and blouse with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Normally she left her short fringe loose, but that day, she had her hair done in fine braids, which highlighted her enormous eyes. The sight of her beauty gave him a pleasant shiver.

  She held his gaze. They said nothing so as not to raise suspicions among the other men. It was very difficult, but they tried with all their might not to show the slightest sign of their special relationship.

  Bisila raised her fingers to her lips to get Kilian to keep quiet while Simón continued his explanation in a loud and clear voice.

  “The spirits aren’t fools, of that I’m certain, and they spoke through different men to show us that such a thing had more to do with the Spanish interference than with actual homage. Some said that we Bubis wanted to sell the island to Spain. Others suggested to lease the island for forty years and continue with you as long as you looked after us. Others remembered that you hadn’t always wanted us, giving as an example the slaughter during the rebellion of 1910.” He paused for breath. “And others even defended you, saying there were a lot of good Spaniards, that you hadn’t come here to colonize, but to work, and that you had helped us prosper.”

  “I myself have heard more than one Spaniard criticize this act and call us stupid,” José intervened, forcing the young man to shift his eyes away from Bisila and pay attention to the conversation. “They are the whites that want the Bubis to be anti-Spanish and independent, I suppose with the intention of managing the country through their native friends if independence is ever achieved.”

  Kilian rubbed his forehead, shocked and confused. “I’m Spanish, I don’t have any hidden agenda, and I also think it’s stupid. So what’s it to be?”

  “To smooth the situation over and offend neither white or Bubi, it was thought that they could name him simply motuku or botuku, that’s to say chief, a good man, the visible head of a district or area, or person who should be obeyed because of his character. The title would be granted in a ceremony of respect where he would receive typical mementos of Bubi artisanship …”

  “And also a young virgin … ,” Bisila added as she came over. “Tuë a lóvari é. Good morning, Kilian.”

  “Wë á lo è, Bisila,” answered José with a smile. He could not hide how proud he was of his youngest daughter. “Ká wimböri lé? How do you feel today?”

  “Nimbörí lèle, potóo. I am feeling well, thank you.”

  Kilian loved the sound of the Bubi language, especially on Bisila’s lips. He remembered the times she had tried, unsuccessfully, to get him to learn more than just a few words of greeting and farewell in the makeshift classroom the hospital infirmary had been turned into. A very diligent student, Kilian allowed her to take his hand to feel the vibrations in her throat when there was an especially difficult sound, but he immediately forgot all about the classes and began to gently caress her, first the neck, and then her jawbone on his way to her cheeks. She then closed her eyes, raised her chin, and offered him her lips for him to absorb the letters, words, and sentences that he did understand.

  Kilian shook his head, feeling a pleasant throbbing in his groin. They were not alone now. He had to control himself.

  Bisila continued, with some irony. “Ah, but the deal was that the governor had to keep her intact, just as he received her, and would accept her as his daughter, with all his love and affection.”

  Simón’s face took on an air of triumph. “Between the protests and the letter we sent him asking for it to be canceled, the fact is the governor has said there will be no homage. And now, if you don’t mind”—he turned his back on them—“let’s not waste any more time and finish this as quickly as possible.”

  José smiled as Simón got back to work. He turned to his daughter.

  “And what brings you here today, Bisila?”

  “Are you going up to Bissappoo on Saturday for the crowning of the new chief?”

  José nodded while looking out the corner of his eye at Kilian, who listened intently.

  “I would also like to attend,” added Bisila, “but I don’t want to go up on my own.”

  Alone? Without Mosi? It was now clear to Kilian that he also wanted to go. He felt a stab of guilt in his chest. Bisila was a married woman, and in the last few weeks, both of them had acted as if she were not.

  But a few days with her away from Sampaka …

  “Ösé,” he began to say, seeking an invitation, “on Friday, we will finish work on the drying. There is no reason for you not to go with Simón for such a special event.”

  Kilian waited for José, finally, to say, “Maybe you’d like to attend the chief’s naming ceremony?”

  “It would be an honor, Ösé,” Kilian hurriedly answered, directing a quick, satisfied glance at Bisila, who lowered her head to hide a smile before returning to the hospital.

  “Ö má we è, Simón. Ö má we è, Ösé. Ö má we è, Kilian.”

  “Good-bye, Bisila,” answered Kilian, who, to the astonishment of the others, tried to repeat the same words in Bubi. “Ö má … we … è, Bisila.”

  Simón burst out laughing.

  Kilian quickly went back to work. It was only Wednesday. Still three long days left to finish. He began pacing, making sure that everything was going smoothly.

  Simón’s impatience had infected him.

  When they left the dryers, it was almost nightfall. It had been an exhausting day, in spite of the breath of fresh air that Bisila’s unexpected visit had brought.

  The men had not mentioned the political situation again, but Kilian had thought about it. While crossing the yard toward their respective rooms, he said to José, “After listening to Simón, I have the feeling that this new period is taking shape on the basis of gossip. We hear rumors rather than facts. Not in the Ébano, nor in the Poto-Poto, nor in the Hoja del Lunes de Fernando Po, not even in La Guinea Española or in ABC is a word said about all the different movements. They only talk of peace and harmony between whites and blacks.”

  José shrugged. “It could be that the government doesn’t want the whites to be nervous knowing that sooner or later, the colony will come to an end.”

  “If so, we all should be nervous.” Kilian raised his hands in the air and said, “You are as Spanish as me now.”

  “Ah, really? I’d like to see your neighbors’ reaction in Pasolobino if I moved in with you. Do you really think that they’d consider me Spanish? The laws might change rapidly, but people don’t, Kilian. Maybe I can go to places reserved for whites, go to the cinema, take the coach, sit beside you in the cathedral, and even bathe in the same swimming pool without fear of arrest, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t see the looks of disgust … My papers say I’m Spanish, Kilian, but my heart knows I’m not.”

  Kilian stopped and put a hand on his arm.

  “I’ve never heard you talk like
this, Ösé. Do you also agree with the ideas of men like Simón and Gustavo?”

  José looked at his friend. “There is an old African proverb that says that when two elephants fight, it’s the grass that suffers.” He waited for Kilian to understand before walking on. “No matter what happens, it will be the grass that suffers. It’s always been like that.”

  16

  Ribalá Ré Ríhólè

  Marriage for Love

  On the way to Bissappoo, Kilian felt privileged to attend the naming of the new Bubi chief. On more than one occasion, José had admitted to feeling sad that the new generations of his tribe were lax about tradition. Thanks to the Spanish influence on education and daily life, the young people did not listen to the words of their elders as before. One day, they would regret not knowing about many of their customs.

  The ceremony was special because although Spain had meddled in the life of the tribe by appointing the village chiefs and creating the position of Spanish administrator in the native villages, Bissappoo continued to name its own chief, even if it was just to uphold the symbolic value. It was perhaps one of the few villages that kept its traditions practically intact. And of course, the young man who contributed to this, Simón, was now guiding them with a speed and energy that surprised them all.

  Kilian knew the route to Bissappoo by heart. The path through the palm trees. The stream. The cedar forest. The ascent of the slope. He had gone up to the village at least twenty times in the years he had been on Fernando Po. He no longer had to follow José’s steps or wait for him to clear the weeds with his machete. He knew for certain that, even in the darkness of the night, he would find his way.

  However, on this occasion, he preferred to be in last position, just behind Bisila, admiring the movement of her body.

  She was wearing a knee-length, green leaf-patterned dress, which was gathered at the waist and buttoned at the front, and a pair of white sandals. When walking up the steepest parts, Kilian could see how the material stuck to her body, outlining her figure. Bisila noticed his silence and turned her head from time to time to smile at him.

  Kilian thought it was an honor to attend the naming ceremony of a Bubi chief, even if Jacobo had criticized him for participating in an event that did nothing but add fuel to the fire of independence sentiments. His brother could not know the real reason for his escape to Bissappoo. What really excited Kilian was the possibility of enjoying Bisila’s company for a few hours.

  A short distance from Bissappoo, just after crossing the buhaba, they made out a large number of people nervously awaiting the arrival of the new chief under the wooden arch guarded by the two sacred trees, which sometimes served as the threshold to the village. That day, it was decked out with every type of amulet. Simón went off in a hurry to change. José began greeting one and all. Everyone was dressed up in the traditional style: the men sported huge straw hats topped with hen feathers; the women wore long strands of glass beads, shells, and snake bones on their arms, legs, and necks. The majority had rubbed themselves with ntola ointment, whose strong smell Kilian had become used to.

  Bisila used the commotion to explain to Kilian everything that had gone on up to that moment. She moved close enough for their arms to brush against each other but made sure that, in the eyes of everyone else, her posture seemed normal, raising her hand in the air from time to time to point out one thing or another.

  “The election and coronation ritual of a new chief,” she explained, “follows very strict rules on the burial and mourning of the previous chief, although some things have changed according to the area’s elders, like the ancient custom of burning the village of a dead chief.”

  “Could you imagine burning down Santa Isabel if the mayor died?” he joked.

  Bisila laughed and increased the elbow pressure. “Once the date for the ceremony is chosen, a house is built for the new chief and his principal wives to live in for a week—”

  “How unusual”—he interrupted again, with a keen look—“and tiring …”

  “… after which,” she continued, a smile on her lips, “the new botuku is placed under the shade of a tree, consecrated to the souls of previous deceased botuku. There we invoke the souls, the spirits, the morimò or borimó of the other world to bless and protect the new chief so that he never tarnishes the memory of those who occupied the seat before him. We also sacrifice a goat, and with its blood, we anoint the chest, shoulders, and back of the new chief. Later, the king has to climb to the top of a palm tree with wooden arcs on his feet and undertake the task of extracting the palm wine and cutting the bunches from where the palm oil comes. And last, we take him to a beach or a river, where we wash his body to purify it and remove all the stains of his previous life. We anoint him with ntola, and we dress him before returning to the village in procession, joyfully singing and dancing the batele, or ritual dance.”

  Kilian’s voice became a whisper. “I would love for you to name me botuku and bathe me in the river, but I’d have problems going up a palm tree, unless you were waiting for me.”

  Bisila bit her bottom lip. She was finding it very hard not to jump into his arms and let everyone know how happy she felt.

  The people began to gather at the chief’s new house. Kilian and Bisila stayed behind and watched from a back row. A murmur indicated that the chief was leaving for the public square. Kilian could not make out the face of Simón’s father, a small, muscular man with wide shoulders. What he did notice was that his whole body was decorated in white shells called tyíbö, which was used as currency by the Bubis in the past. The shells had been strung in bracelets and rings for his arms and legs and as a belt from which a monkey’s tail hung.

  The new botuku walked on a few meters accompanied by the enthusiastic shouts of his neighbors and sat down on a rudimentary stone throne where he was crowned with a headpiece of goat horns and pheasant and parrot feathers. In his right hand was a scepter, a cane with a goat’s skull on top and with corded shells hanging. Everyone, Kilian included, made a high-pitched noise to express their excitement.

  When Kilian shouted in unison with the crowd, he felt Bisila’s soft fingers cradle his own, and he caressed her palm with his thumb, memorizing her creases and savoring the gaps in her fingers.

  An old man approached the chief and placed his hands on his head, murmuring a prayer in which he urged him to honor previous chiefs. He finished his sermon with a phrase that Kilian repeated in a low voice after Bisila translated it for him.

  “Do not drink any water that is not from the mountains or the rain.”

  Kilian nodded. For someone who came from a valley surrounded by high peaks, the words had a special meaning. For him there was no purer water than that from melted snow.

  Bisila squeezed his hand a little more tightly before letting it go. As best he could, he again focused his attention on the ceremony with his heart beating wildly. A group of men escorted the new king, all dressed as warriors and armed with long wide-bladed serrated spears and enormous cowhide shields. All were well built and muscular, and the vast majority bore scarification on different parts of their bodies. They had dyed their hair—which, for some, fell in tiny braids like Bisila’s—with reddish mud.

  She pointed to two of them.

  “Look who’s there!”

  It took a bit for Kilian to make out Simón, one of the ancient warriors! It was the first time that Kilian had seen African warriors with his own eyes, as the wars had ended years ago, and they dressed up only on special occasions.

  “Despite his youth,” Bisila commented, “Simón is a good keeper of the customs of our people.”

  “And who is that beside him?”

  “Don’t you remember my brother Sóbeúpo?”

  “But surely he was just a child the other day! And look at him now. All grown up.”

  “Yes, Kilian. Time passes quickly …”

  Especially when we are together, they both thought.

  The ceremony ended, and the festivitie
s began that, according to Bisila, would last a week. They would do nothing but eat, drink, and dance one balele after another.

  “It’s a shame we can’t stay that long,” he complained.

  “We should make the best of what we have,” she replied.

  During the banquet, Kilian and Bisila kept a prudent distance from each other, although every now and then, they pretended to scan the scene to steal a look at each other. Beside José, his sons, and other men, Kilian ate goat meat with yams and bangásúpu, or banga sauce, and drank topé, the palm wine, and brandy.

  José cajoled Kilian into taking his shoes off and trying to imitate the men’s dance, which was not easy, as he did not have an African or any other beat in his body. However, he was pleased that the Bubi dances had a slower tempo than the hectic dances of the Nigerian laborers.

  With his eyes closed, he managed to relax his body and feel the syncopated rhythm of the bells guiding his feet. A sudden shiver made him open his eyes, and he turned to meet Bisila’s clear gaze, shining in the reflection of the bonfire’s flames. Without taking his eyes from her, he danced as well as he could manage, without stiffness. His efforts were rewarded by the approving smile she held on her lips until the dance ended. Though a bit dizzy, he accepted a final bowl of palm wine from José and began to wander around, saluting everyone, just like Bisila, with the aim of getting a few seconds together with her.

  He remembered festivals in Pasolobino: the men clambering up a tree trunk placed in the square, the dances to the beat of the castanets decorated with colored ribbons, the band music, the saint’s procession …

  Kilian realized that he had thought about Pasolobino and its inhabitants very little lately. He hardly missed them at all! When did that start? He was sure it began with Bisila.

  Even his own mother had reproached him by letter that his notes were getting shorter and shorter, centered only on managing the House of Rabaltué.

  Jacobo had commented on it as well, maybe because Mariana had written that she was worried about Kilian, but had not gone into detail because he himself was too busy with work, his friends, and parties. It had been years since they had shared the same pastimes and companions. They had a good deal: each one led his own life and did not meddle in the other’s.