The Sword and the Spear

by Mia Couto

  When everything was once again calm, I looked for the soldier in the darkness and the wreckage in order to congratulate him. But I couldn’t find him. The following day, now taken up with my usual tasks, my debt of gratitude slipped from my mind. And over the following days, I clean forgot about the matter.

  Then one day, during morning training exercises, I ran into him again. There he was, the hero of that fire-filled night. Now, in the light of day, my disillusion could not have been greater. One glance at him was enough to understand: He was not exactly a soldier, he had never fired a gun, and the rifle weighed so heavily on him that his shoulders were all askew. He didn’t know how to look through the sight. Indeed, it was as if the opposite were happening: that it was the enemy observing him, targeting his soul. His whole body fell backwards when he fired the first shot next to me. I thought about giving him a word of encouragement, a message that might combine comfort with gratitude. But once again, I put off speaking to this young soldier.

  Then, at the height of the Battle of Magul, I was dashing around madly, issuing orders to the soldiers to keep firing, when, blinded by the smoke and dazed by the explosions, I ended up stumbling over our doctor, Rodrigues Braga, who was on his knees tending to an injured soldier. His primary efforts were geared towards keeping the man, who had been shot in the neck, awake. The doctor was shaking the unfortunate man insistently, while begging him: Speak to me, don’t let yourself go to sleep.

  I looked at the dying man in surprise. It was the hero of the firefight. This was the man who had risked his life to save so many of his colleagues, and who was now bleeding to death in Dr. Braga’s arms. No amount of heroism could save him, no miracle would be able to bring him back.

  For some time, the doctor continued to shake the now-lifeless body. It was I who grabbed the young man from his arms by force, and then laid the unlucky fellow gently onto his last resting place. With a vacant expression, the doctor went on muttering: Don’t let him fall asleep, don’t let him fall asleep. And Braga’s arms went on shaking the emptiness, as mothers do when they weep for their children who have left.

  It then occurred to me that this was what we should do: Shake the past so that time should remain alive. Perhaps that is why I write so often to my poor mother. Every word is another push against nothingness, a jolt I choose to give myself so as not to fall asleep on the arid road ahead.

  And I thought of you, my dear sergeant, when this anonymous young boy fell from my arms. I am sure you have never taken part in a battle. Everyone will tell you that you need it as a lesson for life, but believe me, my friend, there is no lesson that can compensate for what we lose in terms of our humanity. It will not be long now before I am promoted to the position I so richly deserve. At that point, I shall fulfill my promise and you, my young sergeant, will be able to return safe and sound to your old home.

  This whole mission is a heavy burden for me, and it is not because of its military dimension. It is for the collateral effects of this, and which I cannot understand. The world could be so much more straightforward, more organized, as we were taught at the military college: Europeans on one side; Africans on the other.

  We are far from such a simple scenario. Beginning with who we are, we Portuguese. Among us, in our very midst, there are currents of opinion that are more hostile to each other than those that separate angels and demons. These disagreements are not exclusive to the Portuguese. For in this part of the world there are Europeans at war with each other. For political or religious reasons. Catholics and Protestants fight as if they didn’t share one God. There is more rivalry between the English and the Portuguese than between whites and blacks. If there is no unity among whites, there is equally no single entity that we might call “the blacks.” They are so scattered and contain such a diversity of tribes that we shall never know which names we should attribute to them. The Changanas and Mabuingelas who predominate here hate us Portuguese, but they hate Gungunhane’s folk even more. And there are the Chopes and the Ndaus, who ferociously resist the dominion of the black emperor. And yet a high proportion of the soldiers in the emperor’s pay come from the ethnic groups that make up his enemies.

  In a nutshell, those who are our allies today will be our enemies tomorrow. How can we begin to wage a war if we are unaware of the frontier that separates us from our enemies?

  33

  IMPERIAL FEVERS

  Once upon a time, there were five brothers who slept on a narrow bed. Not a night passed without their squabbling over the one meager blanket. It was cold and they kept pulling the cover from one side to the other. There was no solution that satisfied any of them: the cold was too great, the people were too many, and the blanket was too short. Until they heard the roar of a lion outside their door. In a flash, they huddled together and the blanket was more than enough to cover the five brothers. And this is what happens: Fear turns the little into much. And it reduces the desire for everything to nothing.

  —A STORY TOLD BY NGUNGUNYANE

  The doctor, Georges Liengme, passed us, and without any form of greeting, bade us follow him to the mud-and-wattle house where they had lodged the emperor. Sitting on their haunches, two VaNguni warriors guarded the door of the improvised infirmary. Between the two sentries, one could see a wide chair, with decorated arms and back and the seat lined with zebra skin. It was the throne the warriors transported to ensure that the king would never have to sit on the ground. The chair was out there in the open, exposed to the flies which covered most of the seat.

  Georges Liengme paused for a few moments, contemplating my face as if he recognized me from some distant past. Then he told us to wait for him there. My father took advantage of the opportunity to explain himself:

  I don’t want to bother you, Dokotela. All I seek is a word with the Nkosi Ngungunyane. It’s about this daughter of mine …

  The doctor entered the infirmary before my father had finished speaking. Through a shaft of light, I peeped apprehensively into the hut. I guessed that the figure lying on a litter was Ngungunyane. The sound of heavy, irregular breathing echoed through that little chamber: The emperor was sleeping only a few meters from me. And I prayed that he was lying on his deathbed.

  The missionary approached him, wiping his hands on a white towel, and announced in stentorian tones:

  Nkosi, my king, I have just arrived from Lourenço Marques, and I bring bad news.

  The emperor remained silent and motionless, as if he were unaware of the arrival of the man he regarded as his private physician. The Swiss placed his hand on the patient’s forehead, which was adorned with the chilodjo, the royal crown. In order to better assess the fever, he pushed up the diadem, made of a piece of cloth wrapped in some sort of dark wax. The crown created a river of sweat flowing over the sovereign’s cheeks as far as the cracks in his earlobes, which gleamed like dark lakes. Persistent flies perched on the tiny ox bone that he wore stuck in his crown and which the emperor, ignoring his doctor’s advice, used for scratching his head and ears.

  Holding a box of snuff next to his chest, the king of Gaza raised himself with difficulty, while the Swiss persisted with his somber news:

  The Portuguese are in the process of encircling Mandhlakazi. And there are thousands of them, Nkosi.

  I need you to massage me, Ngungunyane mumbled, changing the subject. I rule an empire, but my knee joints don’t obey me.

  The doctor sighed. He knew his patient only too well. So, arming himself with patience, he sat down in the little space left on the litter.

  I told you before, Nkosi: You need to have your front doorway made taller.

  Certainly not. I would rather have no knees than lose my neck.

  The doctor smiled. The thatched roof of the VaNguni houses extended almost as far as the ground. There was no other way of entering them than on all fours. It was a security measure. Some ill-intentioned intruder could be surprised while in a helpless position.

  The emperor passed his hands over his legs and then c
arefully straightened the crown on his head. Only then did he proclaim:

  Forget what you saw out there. Concern yourself more with my complaints. No matter how much the Portuguese move around seeking out military posts and fortifications, they’ll never find anything. My garrison is my land, my army is my people.

  With one gesture, he swatted the flies and wiped away his sweat, which now flowed over his large stomach.

  Have I already told you the story about the five brothers?

  Several times. This time, there is no story that can ensure your peace of mind. Look what happened at Magul.

  They were not my troops at Magul. Do you know what my informers tell me?

  How many times have you told me that you don’t trust your informers? the missionary asked. And he added solemnly: This time, it’s different.

  What was happening was unprecedented. Three Portuguese columns, consisting of the best armed cavalry and infantry units, were converging on Mandhlakazi. Apart from the hundreds of white soldiers who had arrived from Portugal, the columns included six thousand black warriors, separated into contingents of various origins. Panga and Homoíne had provided two thousand sepoys; the headmen of Massinga and Zavala had also contributed men for the final assault on Ngungunyane’s court.

  Did you see them all on this journey you made, Dokotela? Well, you can be sure of one thing: Half those people have already turned back, the emperor declared dismissively. They’re already deserting because of hunger.

  And aren’t your men deserting? the Swiss asked.

  My men, the king of Gaza retorted, have been immunized by the most powerful witch doctors of the River Save.

  The missionary passed his fingers through his prematurely gray hair. He had no argument against such presumption.

  You are very ill, my king. And it isn’t to do with the knees.

  Forget the war, Dokotela. I have come here as a simple person. And today I am feeling it.

  The doctor knew that this was the way we black people complained. We say we are “feeling our body.”

  Mrs. Fels, that white lady from the Transvaal, had just left the hospital and had massaged the royal knees, according to the monarch. And maybe other parts of the body, Liengme must have felt like saying. But he refrained. With some reluctance, he rolled up his sleeves, and with considerable abashment rubbed some balsam into the patient’s opulent organs. His hurried, furtive manner did not go unnoticed.

  Do you feel humiliated, Dokotela? Are you ashamed that you are caring for me as if you were one of my wives? You should take pride in treating such a powerful man.

  I am proud to have you as a patient.

  I don’t trust anyone, not even my guards. One day they bring me my chair, next they’ll take the floor from under me.

  That confession of his own fragility moved the European. And there were other illnesses, the sovereign mentioned. Illnesses with no name that arrive like shadows.

  There are dreams that cause me to fly far away.

  There was nothing metaphorical about this statement. Liengme knew that in the emperor’s language, the same word was used for “to fly” and “to dream.”

  Bind my legs together, tie me down by my waist, but don’t let me fly away like this. You’ve got your powers. Find out who has called for me to suffer like this.

  No one has called for anything. Your condition is called insomnia.

  It’s Mafemane. It’s my brother. It was I who killed him. That’s what they say.

  They say?

  The memory of the murder came back to him through endless versions. That was why he found himself there, confessing his fears to a foreigner. He didn’t want to use his witch doctors. He had lost faith in them.

  The doctor smiled upon hearing this request. It was a long time since he had been asked something that he found so satisfying in professional terms. His specialty was hypnosis, his reason for studying medicine. And there was an opportunity to put a skill into practice, and that many of his countrymen suspected was closer to witchcraft than to science.

  Close your eyes, Nkosi.

  For a moment, however, the doctor hesitated. How could one hypnotize someone who not only speaks another language but also uses the same verb for “to fly” and “to dream”?

  What do you think is happening to you?

  That is the problem, Dokotela. It’s that I only think when I am dreaming. And I don’t know who I am when I dream.

  And what do you dream of, my king?

  Of all the dreams, there is one that oppresses me in particular. I am the master of those who sleep and I end up as the slave of that dream.

  Tell me this dream that persecutes you so much.

  The doctor now spoke in a tone that was so indistinct, so hushed, that I was obliged to lean past the doorpost. The guards were fast asleep. After a long silence, I heard Ngungunyane’s muffled speech:

  I didn’t kill him, the ones who killed him were the elders and the officials. I merely gave the order, and that was my greatest mistake: a brother doesn’t die. Mafemane left his life to enter mine.

  So what is this dream that disturbs you so much? the doctor pressed him, his eyes closed. Tell me, Umundungazi, tell me this dream.

  That is where the problem begins. The dream isn’t mine. I sleep and my brother dreams inside me.

  Umundungazi closed his eyes and spoke, his hands, palms down, resting on the sides of the litter. The doctor listened, his eyelids still lowered. The emperor’s voice, by this time dislodged from previous certainties, was a mere whisper in the darkened room.

  In Ngungunyane’s dream, the brother is alive. Or rather, he is struggling in the liquid frontier between life and death. During his very last moments, Ngungunyane’s arms are talons that force him under the waters of the wide lake. Mafemane seems resigned to his end. Gradually, his convulsed jerking turns into a gentle rippling of arms and legs. The death of the inheritor of the throne must be near, and it is not long before he is still, like a tree trunk floating in the waters where the two brothers confronted each other for hours on end.

  However, death does not actually occur. Ngungunyane gradually feels his brother’s curly hair dissolve between his fingers while the head of the ill-fated man starts to grow, wrapped in a kind of slippery moss. Mafemane’s arms and legs shrink visibly and a deformed creature slowly evolves under the warm waters. At first it looks like a mermaid, and soon he has no doubt at all: His brother has turned into a fish. He is alive and remains next to him, alive, now a fish, while yet still his brother. So now, in every lake and river, this ghostly creature lurks, guarding the secret of his guilt.

  When he had finished his account, the king of Gaza, breathless and sweating abundantly, began to ramble aimlessly. And he was already in full fever when he murmured:

  Throughout my empire, the dead have become so flighty that they are vanishing among the grains of sand in order to later rise into the heavens like will-o’-the-wisps.

  In a whisper that was almost inaudible, Ngungunyane begged:

  You who are a white king—

  I am not a king of any kind, Nkosi.

  Whoever is next to me becomes a king. That is why I ask you, Dokotela. Order the dead to be shackled inside their graves.

  Before he withdrew, the doctor must have felt a need to comfort his patient. For he leaned over the bed and, with paternal indulgence, spoke in a gentle tone:

  I speak to you now in my role as a missionary. You have betrayed, but this was never as a result of a decision taken by yourself alone. Others prevailed upon you to do so. But now you have bravely agreed to protect Zixaxa and remain defiant in your decision against everyone and everything. God is watching you. This proof of your loyalty will remedy all your feelings of guilt.

  That is where you are mistaken, Dokotela, Ngungunyane answered. I am not protecting Zixaxa. Having him here with us is so that I can be his jailer. The Portuguese think I am sheltering him. But I am keeping him shackled.

  The Swiss shook his head,
unable to understand. Then the emperor continued:

  I cannot allow a possible rival to run free in these southern domains.

  The Portuguese saw the fugitive as a symbol of their own humiliation. For Ngungunyane, the man represented something else: the threat of a future adversary.

  Under my protection, Zixaxa is condemned. When we deliver him up to the Portuguese, he will no longer be anybody.

  * * *

  As he was leaving the infirmary, the Swiss doctor bumped into me. His eyes narrowed like those of a cat while he examined me from head to foot. Then we crossed a yard together surrounded by ramshackle dwellings. We paused at the entrance to the hut where my father and I had been provisionally accommodated, and the doctor issued precise instructions:

  Tomorrow I’m going to Chicomo. I want you to wait for me to return. Bertha will look after you.

  He seemed in a hurry to be off, but as he walked away, he changed his mind and came back to look closely at me. One thing was clear: His curiosity was not motivated by any medical interest. He spoke to my father and gave him some brief instructions. He was going to fetch his camera, and by the time he returned I should have removed my shoes and blouse. I want a portrait of a typical African woman, wearing just a capulana around her waist, he declared.