INTRODUCTORY NOTE
Summary of the Previous Volumes, Woman of the Ashes and The Sword and the Spear
At the end of the nineteenth century, Portugal is facing resistance from the State of Gaza, which dominates all of southern Mozambique. The Portuguese Crown, already having to deal with the British Ultimatum, can no longer afford to delay a military offensive against Ngungunyane, the emperor of Gaza, whom the Portuguese call Gungunhana. The challenge is clear: either Portugal can prove that it effectively rules its African territories, or it will lose them to other colonial powers.
In December 1895, a small group of Portuguese soldiers, under the command of Captain Mouzinho de Albuquerque, storm the royal kraal of Chaimite and capture Ngungunyane. Along with the king of Gaza, his son Godido is also detained, as well as the king’s uncle and counselor, Mulungo, and his cook, Ngó. The Portuguese authorize the emperor to choose seven of his more than three hundred wives to accompany him. Elsewhere, along the banks of the River Limpopo, they also capture the Mfumo chief, Nwamatibjane Zixaxa, who is sent into exile along with the prisoners from the court of Gaza. Zixaxa is deported, accompanied by three of his wives.
Included among the prisoners is a young black woman, Imani Nsambe, who studied at a Catholic mission and is a translator for the Portuguese authorities. She is pregnant by a Portuguese sergeant named Germano de Melo. It is Imani who narrates the tragic events surrounding the downfall of the kingdom of Gaza.
In this final volume of the trilogy, the African prisoners board a corvette at Zimakaze, which sets off in the direction of the military post at Languene. There, they will make a brief stop before leaving for the estuary of the Limpopo, from where they will begin the sea voyage that will take them to their distant, permanent place of exile.
1 THE WOMAN WHO SPOKE TO RIVERS
The blind man was the only one saved from the fire. Because he was the only one who couldn’t see the fear.
—ZIXAXA
Ask that white man if he wants me to speak to the river.
These are the words of Queen Dabondi. I don’t dare translate them for Captain Mouzinho de Albuquerque. Nor would he have heeded such a strange interference, busy as he has been issuing orders to his men, who are splashing around in a shallow stretch of the Limpopo. The corvette in which we are traveling ran aground on a sandbank and the Portuguese soldiers have been trying to refloat the vessel for hours. Some of the more resolute ones, their bodies half submerged, are pushing the sides of the boat. This is a rare sight: Whites slaving away under a burning sun while blacks sit and wait in the comfort of some shade. Mouzinho orders his soldiers to get back on deck, for the waters are infested with crocodiles.
It isn’t the delay that concerns Mouzinho. Ever since we left Zimakaze, the journey has proceeded swiftly and without any stops. What the captain fears are the dangers of the surrounding bush, where, even though we cannot see a living soul, we can hear voices and see shadows moving around furtively. Before long, there will be an ambush to free the prisoners traveling on his boat.
Queen Dabondi is one of these prisoners. She is even tenser than the captain over this stop. It is she who suddenly raises her arms ordering everyone to be quiet. A shiver runs through the whole of the vessel’s crew: As if born from the ground, a crowd of men, women, and children emerges on the riverbank. Mouzinho orders his men to prepare their weapons. An icy silence falls over everything and even the rumble of the river itself ceases.
Can I speak to the waters? Dabondi asks again. Then she addresses me: Have you told that white man I speak the language of rivers?
A word from her and the River Limpopo would come and lick her hand like a docile puppy. Mouzinho mutters under his breath: Shut that woman up! The tension is unbearable. All of a sudden, Queen Dabondi leaps off the boat and heads toward the growing silent multitude on the riverbank.
All eyes are focused on the queen as she crosses the flat waters of the river. Dabondi’s feet touch neither water nor earth. In truth, the queen isn’t walking. She is executing a dance. The swaying of her hips makes her copper anklets tinkle.
When she reaches the bank, the queen addresses in animated fashion the crowd surrounding her. We cannot hear anything, but we can see that she is pointing insistently toward us. Suddenly, the crowd rushes headlong in the direction of the boat. The terrified Portuguese raise their guns to their shoulders. But there’s no time. Hundreds of men and women have already waded through the shallows and are throwing themselves against the vessel’s hull, shoving it with their legs and arms. The boat begins to sway violently, the crew screams, and the horses whinny.
In a trice, the boat is once again afloat. And only when they are sure that everyone is united in peaceful intention, do they all, blacks and whites alike, cheer enthusiastically. They help Dabondi back on board. The queen is out of breath but pleased. I ask her why she helped her jailers.
Someone is waiting for me at the end of this journey, she answers.
* * *
Two days ago, the unthinkable happened: At Chaimite, Captain Mouzinho captured the emperor Ngungunyane and brought him down to the quay at Zimakaze in chains. He was accompanied by the seven wives he had chosen to travel with him. This choice was his last act of sovereignty. I, Imani Nsambe, was also included in the retinue because the Portuguese had chosen me as a translator. Finally, at Zimakaze, the Mfumo chief, Nwamatibjane Zixaxa, joined the prisoners. This rebel was accompanied by three of his wives.
From Chaimite to Zimakaze, the same scenes of amazement were repeated: The inhabitants of Gaza looked on in disbelief at the emperor Ngungunyane bewailing his fate as he was dragged along. The Portuguese soldiers were so few in number that the spectators’ bewilderment in the face of this unusual cortege was all the greater.
It was not just a vanquished emperor that the Portuguese were exhibiting. It was the whole of Africa in procession there, barefoot, crushed, and humiliated. Portugal needed such a display in order to discourage new uprisings on the part of the Africans. But it had an even greater need to impress the other European powers competing to carve up the continent.
* * *
Proud but apprehensive, Captain Mouzinho de Albuquerque contemplated the hordes packed together along the route. And time after time, the same thing happened: the mass of people broke out in festive cries.
Bayeté! they yelled as one.
The captain asked me to translate their vociferations. He grinned proudly as I whispered to him that the crowd was acclaiming him, the leader of the whites. Moreover, their praise was so fervent, according to Mouzinho himself, that not even his most loyal compatriots could equal it. The captain never imagined that more Africans than Portuguese would salute him as a liberator. This was what he proudly confessed to me. And he added:
Who knows, maybe the blacks will raise a statue to me with greater haste than my fellow countrymen will back in Lisbon.
* * *
Ever since we resumed our journey, Queen Dabondi has remained close to me. It was she who wiped away the blood of the snipe that had been decapitated by a soldier, splashing me in the process. You’re pregnant—she said as she cleaned me—no blood should touch you.
Now the queen is contemplating the heavens and sees the clouds in disarray. She nudges my arm and warns me of an impending storm. Together we approach the captain of the vessel, an officer in a dark blue uniform. His name is Álvaro Soares Andrea. This tall, well-proportioned man gazes at me distantly. He is a navigator. But his look is that of a shipwrecked sailor.
However, we do not manage to speak to the captain. Godido, Ngungunyane’s son, approaches us and orders the queen to return to her proper place next to her king. Dabondi pretends not to hear. Godido persists, now more firmly:
Go and take your place next to your husband, my queen!
Queen? Dabondi protests. What kind of queen am I if I have to cook with my mother-in-law’s pots? She stabs her finger accusingly at Godido’s chest: Don’t call me that again. I’m a widow. That’s what I am.
Prince Godido returns to the other prisoners. He cannot explain the failure of his mission.
What’s wrong with you? I ask Dabondi. Why do you disobey Nkosi?
I’m not queen. I’m a nyamosoro. I listen to the dead and I speak with rivers.
The boat slows down. We have reached Languene, the last Portuguese military redoubt on the estuary of the Limpopo. Mouzinho de Albuquerque greets the sailors who await us on the riverbank. As soon as we are moored, I convey Dabondi’s concern to Mouzinho: A storm is brewing beyond the estuary of the Limpopo. It does not consist of winds made in the sky, I explain. It is a storm made to order.
My God, how backward these people are, the soldier comments, raising his hands to his head. And black women are worse than the men.
He does not understand how much this offends me. The Portuguese in which I express myself, fluently and without hesitation, has made Mouzinho no longer able to see my race. I remain silent. I cease to speak in the language of the man who humiliates me.
* * *
At last, we disembark at the tiny military post of Languene. It will be a brief stop in order to bring weapons and the injured aboard. The African prisoners are led to some shade. They are given some hardtack and a glass of wine. And there they remain, weakened by fatigue. Dabondi once again leaves the group and comes and sits next to me. She has kept a drop of liquid in the bottom of her glass. She lets a few drops fall onto the burning sand. This is to slake the thirst of those who have died ever since the world was born.
Do you know how I learned to speak to rivers? she asks.
It was when she was a teenager, she says. It happened before she was taken as the king’s wife. Every morning, she would watch a spider crawling in and out of a hole in the yard of her house. On its legs, it carried drops of dew into the earth. It beavered away like a miner in reverse: taking water from the sky and storing it underground. It had been doing this for so long that a huge subterranean lake had taken shape at the bottom of its lair.
The queen tried to help the creature in its watery excavations. One morning, when there was no dew, she left a cup of water outside its lair. But the spider declined to accept her generous gift, and told her with a smile: What I’m doing here isn’t work, it’s merely a conversation. And it added: I can see how sad you are, you must be terribly lonely to notice such insignificant creatures as myself. Then, as a sign of its gratitude, the creature taught her the language of water.
Now I talk to rivers, both big and small, Dabondi concludes. And I call each one by a name that I alone know.
We are interrupted by Muzamussi, the eldest of the wives. She unceremoniously pulls Dabondi by her wrists and drags her off, over to where the rest of the captives are. Then she shouts to me that Ngungunyane requires my presence. I present myself to him without delay.
I kneel before the king and clap my hands, in accordance with convention. The king wants to know what I and Dabondi were talking about. I have no time to explain. I can’t hear you, the king says. I raise my voice. He shakes his head: My voice is not the problem. He cannot hear me because I am wearing shoes. Those shoes of yours have too loud a voice, says Ngungunyane. From now on, make sure you are barefoot before you come near me.
I was to be in no doubt: The ground the emperor treads becomes sacrosanct. My shoes are an offense against this divine state. The queens listen to him and laugh out loud. Their laughter sweeps my shoes away.
* * *
Squabbling is not just limited to us Africans. Not a day goes by without the Portuguese military chiefs pointing a finger at one another. And everyone, whether European or African, seeks me out to express their grievances to. I do not know why they confide in me. More than just a translator, I am a bridge. Perhaps I am the spider that dwelled in Dabondi’s yard. My legs carry words, and with these I spin a web that joins the different races.
During the course of our march, Mouzinho de Albuquerque had already spoken casually to me. Now he sits down beside me, unmoving, his eyes fixed on Álvaro Andrea.
That fellow hates me, Mouzinho declares. I can tell you that not a single black despises me as much as he does.
The lackadaisical way the captain places his hat on his knees reveals his desire to talk.
I know who you are, he starts by saying. And you know what we want from you. Translating will only be the visible part of your work.
He pauses, and strokes his mustache. The kingdom of Gaza lasted for too long, he says. And do you know why? he asks. And he answers his own question: This man Gungunhana knew everything about us, while we knew nothing about him.
Those blacks seated over there, with their wrists bound, aren’t just mere prisoners, according to Mouzinho. They are the masters of valuable secrets, and it is their confidentialities which I shall deliver to the Portuguese army. That is the real motive for my presence on this journey. I clear my throat, fearful:
I understand, sir.
Mouzinho rolls a cigarette. He doesn’t light it, but puts it between his lips and lets it hang there. I look at him out of the corner of my eye. He is a handsome man. Bianca had good reason to dream.
If you’ll excuse me now, I mumble, I’ll go and join my people …
I’d rather you stuck to the whites, Mouzinho replies. It is they who harbor the most serious betrayals.
2 A HASTILY SCRIBBLED NOTE
The activity of the Portuguese in the Crown Lands of Southern Mozambique … may be summed up as follows: In October and November of each year they range through the villages, and at every hut, they collect the tax, distribute hippo-whip lashes here and there to any Negro who does not show enough respect, take the product of their levy to the military post at Anguane, receive their percentage and then go back to sleep for another eleven months.
—EXCERPT FROM EDUARDO NORONHA, IN “A REBELIÃO DOS INDÍGENAS EM LOURENÇO MARQUES” (“THE REBELLION OF THE NATIVES IN LOURENÇO MARQUES”), 1894
Chaimite, December 28, 1895
My dearest Imani,
* * *
Don’t see this as a letter. It is no more than a hastily scribbled note. Before long, they will take me to Inhambane. More than anything else, I want to give you some good news: I am free! I no longer have the burden of suspicion hanging over me with regard to Santiago Mata’s death. In order to exculpate you, I declared myself responsible. It was more credible that I should have been the one to fire the shot.
My sacrifice did not cause me greater hardship, for another version of events emerged, which claimed it was suicide. I even thought that it was my republican friends who were trying to save me. But no. It was Mouzinho de Albuquerque himself who defended the theory that it had been suicide. And who was going to doubt the word of the great hero? So I owe that favor to my faithful enemy.
Mouzinho, Mouzinho, Mouzinho! When will this Mouzinho stop occupying my thoughts? I sometimes regret this feeling of dislike I have: It’s so easy to hate the success of others! More often than not, though, I am suspicious of Mouzinho’s recent euphoria. How can someone so fascinated by death be so concerned about his immortality?
What really matters, dearest Imani, is that in a few hours’ time I shall be at the Military Hospital in Inhambane. I shall use my disabled hands to exempt myself from military duties. I am hopeful, or rather I am sure, that they will send me back to Portugal. It’s not that I yearn to return. My real desire is to find you again. If all goes well, we shall still see each other in Lourenço Marques.
Copyright © 2017 by Editorial Caminho
Translation copyright © 2023 by David Brookshaw