by Luz Gabás
She slid her small hands across his cheeks. Kilian listened with closed eyes.
“Kilian, if I weren’t married, your situation would be difficult. You would be choosing between two worlds, and sacrificing a lot.”
Kilian was dumbstruck.
Bisila always found the hidden parts of his heart. The fact that Kilian would live his days for Bisila did not mean that the ties that held him to the House of Rabaltué could dissolve like the threads of a cobweb. He knew perfectly well that he was tethered to his past, in the same way his father, Antón, had been and many more before him. For that reason, on his deathbed, Antón had asked him to take charge of the centuries-old house, which was nothing but a millstone inherited generation after generation: a millstone whose weight was not so easy to renounce.
His brother, Jacobo, was lucky not to worry about anything. He worked and sent money home, yes, but sooner or later, he would return to Spain. He did not even consider settling in another place other than his own country.
However, for Kilian, the House of Rabaltué was a burden.
Bisila knew this. She knew it better than anyone. She understood that the ties that held him to his world were stronger than chains; they could slacken, but also become taut and squeeze harder. Maybe that was why Bisila had never asked him for anything. She was fully conscious of each one’s place in the world.
But he was as afraid as she was of the day when the whites would have to leave the island. For months they had lived in romantic oblivion, especially to the movements toward independence, a word that neither of them wanted to say out loud. Sure, it was inevitable that nearly all conversations at that time had a political bent. And it was difficult to ignore the voices, growing louder: “We’ll kick out the whites. We’ll expel them all.”
It might be the work of the spirits. Maybe it was written that their paths would end up crossing only to continue on their way. In the deepest recesses of their souls, both wanted those same spirits to stop time, so that nothing would happen, that nothing would change, that they would not be forced to decide.
Kilian took Bisila’s hands in his and kissed them.
“How do you say ‘beautiful woman’ in Bubi?”
“Muarána muèmuè,” she answered with a smile.
“Muarána … muèmuè,” he repeated in a hushed voice. “I promise I’ll never forget it.”
Jacobo cocked the 9 mm Star pistol, extended his arms, squinted his eyes, and fired. The bullet whizzed through the air and went through the target a few centimeters from the bull’s-eye.
“A few more weeks, and you’ll be as good as me,” said Gregorio, mopping the sweat with a handkerchief. “Who wants to try next?”
The others shook their hands and said no. Gregorio shrugged, prepared the pistol, positioned himself in front of the line, and fired. The bullet tore through the center of the target. He grunted in satisfaction, put on the safety catch, and hung the gun from his belt before sitting down with everyone else.
The afternoon sun beat down on the shooting club, just below the gardens of Punta Fernanda. Sampaka’s Spanish workers were finishing some beers. It had been a while since they had all been together. For one reason or another, there was always somebody missing. That afternoon, Mateo had invited his companions for a few rounds, like the old times, to celebrate his birthday before going to dinner at the house of his fiancée’s parents. Jacobo had suggested the shooting club, where he had been spending more time. Once he got used to the noise of the shots, he began to enjoy the marvelous view of the sea. It was also very close to Plaza de España, where Ascensión, Mercedes, and Julia could join them later.
“So what’s this? Have you now decided to learn to shoot a pistol, Jacobo?” Kilian asked. “Mountain goats are still hunted with a shotgun, yes?”
“What do you mean, goats?” exclaimed Marcial. “But weren’t you becoming an expert elephant hunter?”
Everyone laughed. They all had heard of Jacobo’s one and only excursion in Cameroon. He had repeated it so many times that it seemed he had hunted not one, but dozens of elephants.
“Actually, Dick taught Pao and me how to improve our shooting skills, just in case.”
“Is he afraid?” asked Kilian. He thought of the Englishman’s sun-blotched face and his grim blue eyes. “I thought your friend was not afraid of anything or anyone. The other, the Portuguese, seems more timid, but Dick, certainly not.”
“If you spent more time with them, you’d like them better,” Jacobo protested.
Kilian put his hands up in a sign of peace.
“You lot should also be practicing.” Gregorio pointed at them with his bottle. “In these times, it’s better to be prepared.”
Marcial shrugged. “The day things turn ugly here, I’ll collect my things and go.”
“Same here.” Mateo took a big swig of his drink. “But I don’t think I’ll have to run as fast as the new recruit …”
The comment brought on a chorus of laughs. Jacobo’s young companion had not lasted even one campaign on the plantation. One night, some men had decided to pick on him in Anita Guau for being white. Nothing happened in the end, thanks to the timely intervention of some employees from another plantation, but the following morning, he asked for his pay and left without giving any explanation. Garuz was not happy losing someone who had already been trained. It was more and more difficult to find Spaniards willing to travel to Fernando Po, so Jacobo had to take on double the work.
“You lot could leave without looking back,” Manuel butted in. “But not so for people like my in-laws, who have their business here. They’d have to abandon the shop.”
“But what are you saying?” Kilian did not want to hear a word about leaving the island. “There’s cocoa here for a good while. Everything is working the same as before.”
“What world are you living in?” Jacobo reproached. “Did you not listen to the minister saying that it’s the time for big changes?”
His brother rolled his eyes.
“Who would have thought, huh, Kilian?” Gregorio shook his head. “In the end, you are the one who has really taken to the island. Sade is probably right. You know what she’s saying, don’t you?”
Kilian became tense. He began to regret coming out. His nights in the casino with Mateo and Marcial were fine, but he still could not stand Gregorio.
“And what is she saying?” asked Jacobo. “Why am I the last to hear?”
“Probably because you spend more time with Pao and Dick than with us,” said Marcial. “Are the clubs in Bata better than the ones here?”
Jacobo turned to Gregorio. “So what is it?”
“She says that your brother abandoned her for someone else, just as …” Seeing Jacobo’s confused expression, he continued. “Sade had a child by your brother. Well, that’s what she says, of course,” he added hurriedly. “And it is certainly mulatto.”
Jacobo opened his mouth, dumbstruck. A long silence followed. “But … how?” He frowned. “Kilian?”
His brother had not flinched.
“One moment.” Jacobo looked at everybody. “And you all knew? Manuel?”
“I never believed it for an instant, Jacobo,” he said. “Gregorio, isn’t it true that Kilian stopped seeing Sade long before she got involved with you?”
Jacobo breathed easier. It was one thing to enjoy the girls, another entirely to leave them with child.
“Gregorio, maybe we should be congratulating you on becoming a father,” said Kilian in a calm voice. “Weren’t you the one who always criticized the owners of the plantations for being miningueros and having mulatto children around? Now you’ve become one of them.”
“I’m not the only one to have slept with her.”
“Yes, but I’d bet anything you’d like to be the one who hit the target.”
Gregorio gave him a threatening look.
“I don’t like it one bit that she’s going round slandering my brother,” Jacobo interrupted. “I hope she isn’t thinkin
g of going to the authorities.”
“And if she did?” Gregorio lit a cigarette. “No one would pay much attention to her.”
“That’s a relief, isn’t it, Gregorio?” Kilian stood up. He had had enough socializing for the day. Fortunately, in a few hours, he would be with Bisila. “Well, I’m off.”
Mateo patted him on the arm.
“You’re getting more like your father every day! From work to home and from home to work.”
Kilian said nothing. His eyes happened to meet Manuel’s, and Manuel rapidly looked away. The doctor believed he knew the reason for Kilian’s frequent visits to the hospital. He was not blind. Kilian was always attended to by the same nurse.
“You know what Julia says?” Manuel said finally, minutes after Kilian had left. “That if we took a trip around the city orphanage, we’d hang our heads in shame.”
Sade picked up her pace along the dusty path that led to the native maternity hospital in Santa Isabel, where she had given birth to her son three months before. The building was made up of one two-story wing beside a four-gabled turret joined onto another building with an upper balcony. She approached the entrance steps and paused. She raised her eyes to the starry sky and took a deep breath. No sound could be heard as nature enjoyed its final minutes of calm before dawn.
The baby slept quietly in her arms. She covered his little body with a thin white cloth, stroked his cheeks, bent down, and left him at the door. She remained for a few seconds, watching him, then turned around and left.
When she got to her house, near the club, she prepared a crontiti infusion and sat down beside the window of the small sitting room. She told herself once again that she had done the right thing in freeing herself of the child. In some corner of her heart, she felt a pang of remorse and sighed deeply. None of her entreaties to the island’s government administrations nor those to the Sampaka plantation’s manager had had any effect. The most she got was a hurried investigation, after which it had been concluded, thanks to the firm declarations of Kilian’s friends, that there was not the slightest chance Kilian was the father. They had also warned her that if she persisted in her accusations, the law would come down on her for slander. At what moment had her pride convinced her that since she was now a Spanish citizen, some possibility existed that someone would force Kilian to assume responsibility? Was that not what they did in Spain? During her months of pregnancy, she had even fantasized about a life together to bring up the child she had just abandoned.
After the investigation, it did not make any sense to admit who the real father was. Everything had gone wrong. She had lost Kilian and had brought a baby into the world.
She brusquely dried a traitorous tear. Never again would she allow her feelings to interfere, although, thanks to her pregnancy, a promising future had opened up for her. She had a lot to think about now.
Over the past few months, Anita had agreed to allow her to help in the management of the club. As the days went by, the woman, now old, had noticed the girl’s ability to, among other things, attract clients, give advice to the new girls, and design the band’s playlist so that customers never felt like leaving the club. Sade had also redecorated. Anita wanted to live the last years of her life quietly. She had discovered in Sade the ideal person to inherit the business.
For Sade, the numbers added up, if and only if she could free herself of the one obstacle that would hinder her ambitions. All her energy needed to be focused on running the business, and, if possible, expanding it. The orphanage would surely look after the baby well, she thought, making sure he got an education. She only had to look at the difference between the children who grew up neglected by the other mothers in the club and those brought up in the Spanish center. If everything worked out, she would even be able to get the boy back in the future … After all, she was not a bad mother. She had only led a bad life.
Only she, and she alone, could change her circumstances.
“Why can’t you do me this small favor?”
Generosa did not yield at her daughter’s insistence. “I don’t understand why you’re interested after so long. What does it matter what that woman did?”
“Oba told me that whenever she can, her friend goes round to the orphanage to see him. The child should now be over a year old. I’d just like to know what name they gave him. You never know, maybe one day his real father would like to know …”
“The whole thing was so unpleasant, it’s best forgotten about.” Generosa raised her hands to hush her daughter. “Also, it’s none of your business.”
Ismael stretched from the small crib to the bookshelf; he wobbled, fell back, and started to bawl. His little shouts mixed with others that came from the street. Generosa took him in her arms and peeked out the window.
“They’re at it again.”
“What’s going on?” Julia asked.
“Your father and Gustavo.”
“I’ll go.”
When Julia got downstairs, she met up with Oba, who had also gone out to have a look from the door of the shop.
“How did this start, Oba?”
The girl pointed to the group, and Julia recognized Gustavo and his brother, Dimas.
“They came into the shop to buy alcohol to celebrate Christmas, and your father wouldn’t serve them without a police permit. They said that they could now buy the same products as whites, and your father agreed, but not alcohol, because Christmas was still days away, and if they drank, they wouldn’t go to work. Your father kicked them out, and they went to get Gustavo, as the representative of the Neighbors Council.”
A dozen men surrounded Emilio, who, out of control, shouted, “We are equal for what interests you, right? Well, if we are equal, why won’t I be able to vote? I have the same right as you! The same? I have more right than some of you! I’ve lived here longer than many of you coming from the continent, claiming that this is your land! And now only Guineans with Spanish nationality can vote. To give up that nationality! We’ve all gone crazy!”
Julia sighed. A referendum had been announced to vote on a self-governing Guinea. Things were moving quickly. If the forecasts were right, in less than six years, the old colony would go from a Spanish province to having a self-governing regime before independence was granted. The United Nations had lobbied for definitive independence to be granted to countries under colonial control. Spain would have no choice but to comply. Julia shook her head. She had lived on the island for years, but the situation was confusing. Up to a short time ago, the colonial forces had detained pro-independence figures like Gustavo and anyone else who fought against the Spanish regime, even sending them to Black Beach. Now independence was a certainty. Who could understand it?
And what was more, though the change should satisfy the natives, there were clashes about how to achieve it. It was becoming routine to encounter heated arguments everywhere. On the one side were the independence gradualists, in favor of accepting self-government organized and imposed by and from Spain prior to independence, as they appreciated the many ties that joined the two countries after so many years of colonial government. On the other side were the independence radicals, the majority Fang from the African continent, much greater in number, who wanted automatic and joint independence of both the continental part and the island. The second group criticized the first for accepting the Spanish regime, and the first group criticized the second for hastily pushing self-government.
To complicate things further, many Bubis like Gustavo wanted a separate independence for the island of Fernando Po. Their main complaint was that the budgetary distribution was not proportional to each province’s actual contribution. In fact, the greater part of the budget income came from the island, but an obvious trend was seen where all the improvements and investments were for Río Muni, the continental province. And finally, there were those who agreed with Emilio, vehemently defending that the natives would be better off continuing as a Spanish province. Julia was convinced that someone like Dimas, wh
o had worked so hard to have a privileged life, would be among that group, but he would never admit to it in order to avoid a head-on confrontation with his brother.
Emilio continued to explain his reasoning in a cantankerous tone. “I promise you one thing, Gustavo! From my post on the Neighbors Council, I intend to keep working until I achieve a vote for men like me. I’m not going quietly!”
“You’d blindly vote no so that you could keep your privileges,” Gustavo attacked.
“But you would also vote no to self-government!” Emilio threw his hands in the air.
“Your no would be a sign of loyalty to Spain. My no would attest to my wish for an independence separate from Río Muni. If the whites vote, there would be more confusion.”
In a flash, the group of people around them grew considerably. The initial murmurs became irate shouts both in favor and against Gustavo’s words.
“Well, I’ll be voting yes!” shouted a tall young man with a shaved head and a wiry body. “And that’s what we should all do, to make them leave us alone once and for all …”
“You must be Fang, right?” replied another, smaller man. “You talk like a Fang …”
“Well, I’m Bubi and I’ll also be voting yes,” intervened a third, his arm bandaged.
“Then you’re not a true Bubi!” Gustavo reproached him loudly. “No Bubi would ever allow those from the continent to take our wealth!”
“Better than remaining slaves to the whites,” the offended party retorted.
“You don’t know what you are saying!” Gustavo leaned over him threateningly. “They have brainwashed you!”
“We Fang are now to blame for everything!” the tall young man scoffed. “They have also exploited us. How much timber and coffee have they taken from the continent with our sweat?” He shouted, “You Bubis want to keep supporting those in power!”
“We Bubis have been fighting for decades, suffering reprisals for speaking out,” Gustavo interrupted. “Do you want to know how many letters the tribal chiefs and villages have sent to the colonial authorities, to Spain, and to the UN? And what have we got in return? Exile, persecution, and jail.” He opened his shirt to show him his scars. “Do you really think that I want to support the ones who did this to me?”