The Sword and the Spear

by Mia Couto

  The news was not so bad. That was what I thought. Any delay in Mouzinho’s march was a comfort as far as I was concerned. Maybe I am by nature a pessimist, but every minute that passed, I could imagine Imani’s bullet-ridden body. Sometimes they were stray bullets. Other times, the slaughter was deliberate and targeted at the whole royal family. My beloved fell, assumed to be one of the emperor’s wives.

  43

  ALL THAT FITS INSIDE A BELLY

  Here are my instructions. Go to the young, at the point when they are just leaving childhood. Steal their names, take them away from their homelands and their families, and desiccate their souls: Your soldiers will conquer empires.

  —NGUNGUNYANE, QUOTED BY BERTHA RYFF

  Portuguese called it Chaimite. The preciseness of its name is not important: Txaimiti was not the type of place one would expect to find a king. Perhaps that was Ngungunyane’s intention—no one would guess his whereabouts. He who flees does not just want to leave a place. He wants there to be no such thing as places. And the king of the VaNguni wanted to be together with those who had already died. This was where Manicusse was buried. It was sacred land. He could not have chosen better protection.

  It was to Txaimiti that the queen and I were heading after having crossed the plain of Mandhlakazi in flames. Far away, behind the curtain of smoke, lay the hospital of the Swiss Mission. In order to reach the dwellings where the emperor was, it was necessary to get through a circular fence made of wooden planks and thorny branches. The only way of doing so was through an entrance that was less than a meter high and another meter in width. It was by crawling like animals that the queen mother and I entered a spacious yard surrounded by some ten hovels built of slate and thatch. These VaNguni villages are known as xigodjo. We had just arrived from our troubled journey and presented ourselves immediately without taking a bath or having time to rest. In the middle of the enclosure were seated the queens the king had chosen to accompany him on his pilgrimage. All seven queens, endlessly seated, the queens without a throne. Suddenly, from the shadows on one side, there emerged another woman whom I immediately recognized, although I was so astonished that I distorted her name as I cried:

  Bibliana!

  I hurried forward to fall into her embrace, but with a simple gesture the soothsayer of Sana Benene indicated that I should control myself and keep my distance.

  It was I who called her, Impibekezane asserted. And she explained: Bibliana was of the Ndau nation. The queen herself belonged to those folk. The two kings who had preceded Ngungunyane had established their capital in that other nation’s domains. They needed someone who could speak to the powerful spirits from the other side of the river. This was why Bibliana was there. Txaimiti was a sacred place. And a place like that could only be enlivened with the blessing of powerful priests.

  * * *

  Darkness fell quickly. We slept in the open, for there was not enough room in the houses. And even if there had been, I felt better protected far from their walls. I sought out a spot far from everyone. It was out in the open air that most people from Gaza had been sleeping for months. The houses came alive only during the day. At night, they were as faint as a new moon.

  In the middle of the night, Bibliana emerged, wrapped in a black overcoat. She resembled a creature emanating from the night itself. She lay down next to me and told me to keep my voice down.

  My father? I asked anxiously.

  He stayed there, I came on my own. But he’s well.

  Does he talk about me?

  He sent you a message. He just asked you not to forget your promise.

  I should have gone with the Swiss.

  You’ll go with the Portuguese.

  I don’t believe in your predictions.

  It’s not a prediction. It’s a negotiation. And it wasn’t I who did it. It was the queen. She negotiated with the Portuguese. So you will go with them.

  I don’t believe it.

  Well, you had better believe it. Impibekezane sent a messenger to meet Mafambatcheca tonight.

  That man died long ago.

  That man you say died will enter this enclosure tomorrow in uniform.

  A finger on her lips was her way of telling me to keep quiet. I should listen to her important advice in silence. The following morning, I should sit near her, but not too close. There would be a war of spirits in the place. There was no point in invoking those who might be envious. That was why I should keep away from the queens. At the appointed time, Impibekezane would summon me. I would present myself barefoot, so barefoot that it would seem as though I had lost my feet.

  This is how things have been arranged, Bibliana concluded. And we remained silent, engulfed in the darkness. When I assumed she was already asleep, the sorceress spoke again.

  It will be a boy, and she paused. The baby you are bearing is a boy.

  Then Bibliana placed her hands over my stomach. I was petrified, all of me turned to stone except for the water moistening my face. I was pregnant. I already loved this creature nestled within my body. I loved it more than Germano, who was unaware that he was soon to become a father. I loved the baby more than I loved myself.

  I was riven by conflicting emotions. Part of me wanted to conceal my pregnancy. Another part prayed that my growing belly would be noticed. And more than noticed, celebrated. On the eve of becoming a mother, I needed more than ever to be a daughter. And I sensed a maternal presence comforting me. A mother that was mine on loan, who lulled me by simply putting her arm around my shoulder.

  * * *

  That night, I was once again visited by the dream about giving birth to weapons. This time, Sergeant Germano was standing next to the midwife. He was waiting in military posture for the arrival of his child. After my final spasm, a spear emerged from my belly. It was a beautiful spear, its handle adorned with black and red beads. Disappointed, the sergeant took a step back and complained:

  I asked for a sword. A sword, Imani. Now what am I going to tell my superiors? What am I going to say to my mother?

  The distress at not having fulfilled Germano’s expectations reinforced my birth pains.

  I’m sorry, Germano, I lamented, but this is your daughter, the spear, hold it in your arms.

  The Portuguese looked uneasily at the newborn, his hesitation dancing in his eyes, and eventually he admitted:

  I can’t. Forgive me, Imani. But that is not my daughter.

  * * *

  I awoke at first light, soaked in water in the middle of the dew. Bibliana was already up. In her place sat the queen mother, who greeted me in a low voice. Then, in a level tone, she eased my concerns over what was going to happen that morning. I should remain calm, for she knew the commander of the Portuguese forces. That man had two names and two lives. The Portuguese called him Diocleciano das Neves. The blacks called him Mafambatcheca. Diocleciano had died twelve years before. But Mafambatcheca still roamed happily through the savanna. And he was still a good white, an old friend of the family. The moment he entered the xigodjo and saw her, the Portuguese would greet her in a friendly manner, embrace her son, and play with her grandson, Godido.

  We’ve been away these last few days, how do you know it’s this man who is commanding the soldiers? I asked fearfully.

  Someone told me they had seen him marching along the shore of the lake.

  But, Your Majesty, twelve years have passed. Might it not be his son?

  Impibekezane was in no doubt.

  It’s him, the old lady assured me. In every race, there are those who die and come back. The whites have them as well. It began with Christ.

  * * *

  Come with me, I’m going to tend to Ngungunyane, Bibliana told me. It was dark, and without waiting for me to react, she walked off, while, even with her back turned, she pointed to a little fire that was flickering in a corner of the porch. I sat down sleepily, thinking about the soothsayer’s words. She said she was going to tend to Ngungunyane. She didn’t say she was going to be tender to Ngungunyan
e.

  Before long, Bibliana reappeared, bringing with her the emperor, maddened by his anticipated yearnings for his own empire. Wrapped in a blanket, the king trod the open space of the yard with the steps of a prisoner, as if he feared falling into some hidden abyss in the darkness. Ngungunyane came to a halt in front of the flames, his bare feet perilously near the fire. The woman pushed him a little farther back, whispering in his ear:

  Look out for the flames.

  Where others see flames, all I see are shadows.

  I know what makes you afraid, the woman said. Whoever looks at the fire sees the ocean.

  Tonight I dreamed of the sea. Do you know what that means? That my end is near.

  At that point, Bibliana poured water from a bowl over the emperor’s feet.

  The sea may be a prison, the soothsayer affirmed. But it can be your fortress, a fortress that may protect you far better than any xigodjo. Those who want to kill you are no longer the others. They are your people, Nkosi. Protect yourself from your own.

  Then she threw the last few drops over Umundungazi’s legs, while she said:

  This water comes from the sea. Now I’m going back home, Bibliana declared at last. She spoke more loudly so that I could hear her. I tried to get near her, but she held out her arm. There are no farewells, I shall always dwell within you.

  * * *

  The sun had just risen and I had taken my place, as instructed, in a discreet position in the sandy yard in front of the house where Ngungunyane was hiding. I sat with my back to Bibliana. And I copied what the other women were doing: silent, gazing at the ground, I waited for time to pass. Around the edges of this open space were seated the dignitaries of the court. They sat in ornate chairs and used the traditional oxtails to lazily swat the flies buzzing dolefully around them. All this was happening under the protection of huge sunshades held aloft by young men for hours on end.

  They were awaiting the arrival of the indunas Zaba and Sukanaka, who had been dispatched by Ngungunyane to try to halt the Portuguese advance. They took with them six hundred pounds and ivory tusks. With these gifts they would try to buy the cessation of hostilities.

  It wouldn’t be long before these emissaries returned to Txaimiti. They entered the redoubt and shook their heads. Manhune, the chief counselor of the court, then sent out another delegation. This consisted of the same indunas, led by Godido, the king’s favorite son. There was further waiting, the same heat, the same sideways glances from the queens. One of them got to her feet to distribute water to those present. I was the only one excluded from such favor. It was Impibekezane who, with a simple wave of the hand, corrected this omission.

  An hour later, Godido returned. He had taken the Portuguese a new offer: the same amount of money and ivory, supplemented by sixty-three oxen and ten of Zixaxa’s wives. Once again, the offer was declined. It was the last throw of the dice. Now all they could do was to await the invasion.

  Impibekezane’s powerful voice resounded against an ominous silence. She spoke as if the next day would see the end of the world:

  No one is to fire, no one is to protest. There will be no bloodshed. It was Muzila who spoke to me last night.

  Then they heard the first signs of the arrival of the Portuguese. They had reached the entrance to the xigodjo. I turned my face, reluctant to face reality. And what I saw was the astonishment on the queen mother’s face. The man who had broken through the palisade was not the expected Mafambatcheca. Neither he nor Diocleciano, his twin who had been stubborn enough to die. The man who now broke into the sacred redoubt was another Portuguese soldier, who was shouting furiously. Other whites came in, and there was no sign of Mafambatcheca. We found out later that the captain had been spared from the final assault because he was so ill. He was resting some hundred meters from the village.

  The queen mother felt at an utter loss. All her certainties had crumbled away. And the expression on the white man’s face as he yelled, “Gungunhane! Gungunhane!” suggested he had no wish for a friendly chat. It was the end.

  At this point, the great lady threw herself at the feet of the Portuguese in tears. She begged him to spare her son’s life and that of her grandson, Godido. I, on the contrary, secretly beseeched him to bring his sword down on the emperor and for those white hands to avenge my black brothers. A mother’s tears, however, were more powerful than my appeal to God.

  44

  SERGEANT GERMANO DE MELO’S FIFTEENTH LETTER

  … I called Gungunhane at the top of my voice in the midst of absolute silence, preparing to set fire to the hut if he delayed, when I saw the Vátua chief emerge, the lieutenants Miranda and Couto recognizing him straightaway, given that they had seen him more than once at Manjacaze. You cannot imagine the arrogance with which he answered the first questions I put to him. I ordered one of the black soldiers to tie his hands behind his back and told him to sit down. He asked me where, and as I pointed to the ground, he replied proudly that it was dirty. I then forced him to sit on the ground (something he never did), telling him he was no longer chief of the Mangunis but a matonga like any other black. I asked the chief to point out Queto, Manhune, Molungo, and Maguiguana. He pointed to Queto and Manhune who were next to him, and said the others were not there. I upbraided Manhune (who was Gungunhane’s demonic soul) for being an enemy to the Portuguese, to which he replied that he knew he should die. I then ordered for him to be tied to one of the posts of the palisade and he was shot by three whites. He couldn’t have died with greater sang- froid, with haughtiness and true courage; he merely pointed out with a smile that it would be better to untie him so that he would fall when shot. After him, it was Queto’s turn … He was the only one of Muzila’s brothers who had wanted to wage war against us and the only one present at the battle of “Coolela.” … I ordered him to be tied up and shot.

  —JOAQUIM MOUZINHO DE ALBUQUERQUE, EXTRACT FROM THE REPORT PRESENTED TO THE COUNSELOR CORREIA E LANÇA, ACTING GOVERNOR OF THE PROVINCE OF MOZAMBIQUE, BY THE MILITARY GOVERNOR OF GAZA, 1896

  Chaimite, December 31, 1895

  Dear Lieutenant Ayres de Ornelas,

  A brief foreword:

  This time, it is not you to whom I write. Merely to myself, in order to keep up the practice of writing. These papers will never be letters. Nevertheless, I shall carry on writing as if you, sir, were going to read these scrawled lines tomorrow. I see them as if they were a diary of my most troubled days in Africa. I see them as forming part of me.

  I reached Chaimite but was stopped from going where I wanted: a crowd of over two thousand people surrounded Gungunhane’s new xigodjo. You are doubtless aware, sir, that xigodjo is the name given by the natives to royal citadels. Although there were so many, the crowds maintained an almost religious silence. Upon seeing so many people, Langa, the cook, declared hurriedly: You go, I’ll stay here. And he sought the shade of an African fig tree some fifty meters from the crowd. I went with him, attempting to dissuade him. I still needed his help, no longer as a guide but as a translator. All of a sudden, I noticed Captain Sanches de Miranda in the same patch of shade. He was lying, deathly pale, on a mat. Two soldiers were keeping him company and they explained that the captain was so weak and dehydrated that he frequently passed out. At that precise moment he seemed to be awake, and I, without even greeting him, took the paper from my haversack with the governor general’s instructions. Read, Captain, read, and I waved the paper in front of him. But Sanches could see neither letters, nor paper, nor people.

  I heard the crowd explode into feverish uproar, the warriors beating their shields on the ground. A group of women passed by us shouting:

  Gungunhane has sat on the ground! The Portuguese have tied him up.

  And groups of people passed, all singing in chorus:

  Vulture, vulture, be off with you, vulture. Never again will you swoop on our chickens.

  I looked for the cook, but he had disappeared. I reached a decision and got to my feet. I would open a path through the crowd of blac
ks, no matter how many of them there were and no matter how long it took. Between oaths and the use of my elbows, I managed to create some space, but after a few desperate minutes the palisade around the xigodjo was still not visible. Then I suddenly heard shots. An old man sitting on the shoulders of a herculean young man told me that they had just shot one of Gungunhane’s most important men. He offered to vacate his position for me so that I could climb up onto the shoulders of his gigantic friend. It took me a few moments to mount the shoulders of this brute, whose back was sweating copiously. From high up, I could see a man being tied up. Next to me, someone muttered: That’s Manhune, the greatest of the indunas. Then, strangely, the counselor was untied. Was he going to be freed? That was what it looked like, judging by the confident smile lighting up his face. But then there was a salvo of gunfire and Manhune slumped to the ground. A deathly hush followed. Fearing that the shooting might become more widespread, the crowd began to retreat. A small clearing opened up in front of me, and I jumped off the Negro’s back, shouting urgently:

  Abort the operation! Abort the operation!

  I was in such a state of excitement that I did not at first realize the absurdity of my intentions and, above all, the clumsy use of the verb abort.

  I stopped yelling but continued to break through among the multitude of blacks. Leaning on the palisade, I managed to peer through the wooden branches and caught sight of Mouzinho, his back to me, and an elderly woman kneeling at his feet, begging: