The Sword and the Spear

by Mia Couto

  Mulungu, I am the queen. Don’t kill my son or my grandson Godido.

  In despair, I looked around for Imani. But I could not see her among the women in the yard. A young man who had climbed up into a tree told me what was going on inside the redoubt: Gungunhane was handing over gold and diamonds and was promising cattle and ivory that he had hidden away. At that point, a group of soldiers widened the point of entry by tearing down part of the palisade. At long last, I overcame the remaining obstacle, and began to call for Imani. In my haste, I bumped into Lieutenant Costa, who was Mouzinho’s second in command for the operation. He greeted me and told me that one of the soldiers who was helping Miranda had mentioned the strange purpose behind my arrival.

  Don’t you believe me, Lieutenant? It was António Enes himself who wrote this order, and I waved the piece of paper that my few fingers were still holding.

  The lieutenant pushed me in the direction of a group of soldiers and prisoners who were just forming into a line. While he guided me through the hustle and bustle of the crowd, he explained himself. The problem, if there was indeed a problem, did not lie in who had written the message. The problem lay in who was going to read it. And that would never happen. For a bombastic Mouzinho de Albuquerque, his sword held aloft, only had eyes for demonstrating his triumph and rubbing it in the faces of those who had doubted him.

  Forget the message. You can’t cancel something that’s already finished. And now come with us, we can return together.

  So I set off following the procession, while still searching the mass of people gathered around us. Fortunately, the soldiers requested a rest to regain their strength before the return. Mouzinho reluctantly agreed. Their pause would have to be brief. He feared that after the initial shock, the Vátuas might reorganize themselves and seize back their emperor by force.

  Supported by two soldiers, Captain Sanches de Miranda then emerged. The unlikely success of the mission seemed to have given him a new lease on life. Mouzinho got down from his horse to embrace his debilitated comrade. But before responding to his greetings, Sanches de Miranda asked in an enfeebled voice:

  Why did we have to shoot them?

  If we hadn’t, we would have been seen as weak, Mouzinho replied.

  They were already calling us women and chickens. We needed to stamp our authority with blood. And Mouzinho remounted his horse. From high up on his steed, he saw his men looking for a dry patch among the grass saturated with water. Suddenly, a smile lit up his face. Through his personal interpreter, he ordered the Vátua warriors to lay their shields on the ground. These shields would serve as cushions for the whites to sit on. A murmur of protest rang through the ranks of Gungunhane’s soldiers. They were beaten but they had not lost their pride. If they dropped their shields, this would be the ultimate humiliation, according to their code of honor. In the face of this incipient display of disobedience, Mouzinho raised his rifle and rode his horse in a wide arc in full view of all. The vanquished soldiers immediately began to place their weapons on the ground. Then the captain returned to Sanches de Miranda wearing an almost imperceptible smile:

  Do you see how it’s done?

  45

  THE LAST RIVER

  It has never been possible to ascertain the true feelings of the Nguni in relation to Gungunhane. There is no doubt that they looked upon him as a military and political chief, but they feared him more than they loved him. It is said that when Gungunhane was finally taken away by the troops of Mouzinho de Albuquerque, the multitude shouted: “Hamba kolwanyana kadiuqueda inkuku zetu,” a Zulu expression that means: “Be off with you, you vulture, who destroys our chickens.”

  —RAÚL BERNARDO HONWANA, “MEMOIRS,” 2010

  I could have sworn I saw Germano among the crowd. A white among a multitude of blacks is always exposed. Not so much because of the color of his skin but in the awkwardness he shows for being part of such a crowd. I ran to meet him, my heart leaping in my breast. I wanted to hug him, I wanted to tell him I was pregnant, I wanted to feel an embrace that might extinguish my longing. But the silhouette disappeared. I too became invisible in the middle of that chaos. Once again, I caught sight of a white soldier and I called Germano’s name. But it was an astonished Santiago Mata who turned to face me. It took him a few seconds to recognize me. He looked red, his complexion ruddy, and he was doubled over as he walked. He hurriedly asked me:

  Keep an eye on my rifle while I take advantage of those clumps of grass over there. Careful, hold on hard to that little treasure, there are a lot of niggers on the loose around here.

  He left me holding the weapon. One could see that he was in an urgent hurry by the shortness of his steps and the speed with which he took them. Then he started unbuttoning his trousers as he crouched down among the foliage. And there he remained amid contortions and groans.

  A whirlwind of thoughts swept through my head. I saw those wives of the emperor pass by, whose main task was to be invisible. And in the opposite direction marched women in shoes, with dignified steps, carrying books and notebooks in their hands. Others were dressed as nurses and walked with their shoulders high and a steady look. The one question that presented itself to me at that particular moment, succinct but terrible, was this: What was it that no black woman had ever dared do? And the answer came to me clearly: Shoot a white man dead with a rifle.

  Then, suddenly, as if I had been taken over by another soul, I picked Santiago’s rifle up by the breech and walked straight around the bushes where he was hidden. I found the captain crouching on his haunches, in that devoted surrender that provides relief from an intestinal infection. I pressed the barrel against his wrinkled forehead and fired. And I watched the man fall with the same expression Francelino had on his face as he died, his eyes full of the astonishment of a newly born baby. The soldier was bleeding and twitching so vigorously that I shot him again without hesitation. That other soul now occupying me used my mouth to affirm:

  Yes, you’re right, Santiago Mata, there are a lot of niggers on the loose around here.

  For a moment, a new sentiment gripped me: I was the mistress of the world, the avenger of injustices, queen of the black people and the whites. I was Bibliana’s partner in the divine work of putting the world right.

  Then, coming to my senses, I looked around, afraid that the shots might have attracted attention. But in the midst of so much celebration, no one had noticed what had happened. Holding the gun, I opened a way through the hysterical crowd. In front of me the line of VaNguni prisoners passed by, flanked by Portuguese soldiers. Seven of the king’s wives headed the line. Farther back came Godido and Mulungo, respectively Ngungunyane’s son and uncle.

  I concealed the gun under one of the capulanas that covered me. My left hand, hidden under the cloth, nervously brushed against the barrel of the rifle. I waited for the king of Gaza to appear so as to carry out my final act of revenge as promised. The group of Portuguese officers passed by in front of me. This was when Mouzinho de Albuquerque appeared on parade. He looked like a god on his white horse. As our eyes met, Mouzinho seemed to give me a slight nod. What seemed at first to me a transparent butterfly detached itself from his face. And a kind of wing of light, a fragment of sun, fell. I stepped forward and opened my right hand to catch it. The moment I did so, I saw that it was a tiny round piece of glass. I returned the transparent object and Mouzinho smiled and thanked me. I shouldn’t have come to the bush with my monocle on, he said. And there was a deep sadness in his smile.

  All of a sudden, someone shouted in a familiar voice: It’s her! And the cry was repeated. It was Impibekezane who was pointing to me and yelling, causing the captain on his horse to stop.

  It’s her, it’s the woman I told you about earlier, she said breathlessly. And she added, sighing deeply as if uttering her last words: This is my son’s last wife.

  Bring her along with the other women, Mouzinho ordered laconically, pointing at me.

  But we’ve already got seven, Captain, Lieutenant Couto
protested timidly.

  Well, we’ve got eight now.

  I realized I had no time to lose. For at that very moment the despised figure of the emperor emerged behind Impibekezane. With great care, I pulled the gun out and prepared to fire. But it was as I did this that I felt the gun being pulled away from me. Someone was snatching the gun silently but firmly. It was Germano, my Germano! Next to me, by my side, my sergeant was forcing me to give him the rifle. Then he whispered:

  Are you crazy? Do you want to get killed? And then, incredulously: And what about Santiago? Was that you?

  Our hands secretly touched, my fingers feeling the ones that still remained of his. And my whole life migrated in that single gesture. It was no more than a few seconds but they lasted an eternity until a soldier forced me away. Mouzinho was in a hurry to leave, there were a lot of armed men around there and peopled still wondered why the operation had gone off without any widespread violence.

  The group quickened their steps and the soldier leading me grabbed a rope with which to start binding my arms. Germano, who had been left behind, didn’t understand what was happening. When he saw me being bound, he thought I was being charged with Santiago’s murder. That was when he waved the rifle and started shouting:

  That woman is innocent. It was I who killed Santiago! It was I who killed him.

  And the last thing I saw was two soldiers seizing Germano de Melo. And I heard his unmistakable voice begging:

  Careful with my hands, don’t bind my wrists.

  I was on the point of rushing back to come to my beloved’s aid, when the queen wrapped her arms around me in what seemed like a farewell embrace. As she hugged me to her, she whispered:

  Leave him, now you’re my son’s wife.

  The sergeant was now out of sight, out of earshot. He was swallowed up in the pandemonium of the cortege. And I, with my wrists tied, and still more firmly bound by Impibekezane’s embrace, sighed in resignation. Only then did the queen mother loosen her grip.

  For a king’s wife, you are not wearing enough, she said.

  And she placed a string of beads around my neck with a pendant in the shape of an ornate copper spear. She told me this amulet would protect me from everything in the same way that she hoped I would protect her son.

  And the queen mother turned around and began her journey back to her village. Or rather the ashes of what had once been her village. Bibliana had predicted that Impibekezane would be murdered by her own troops. But the old lady seemed already to be deprived of life as she silently bade her son and grandson farewell.

  Then I advanced as if I were alone in that long train of people. We headed south, across the Languene plain. We walked for two days under intense rain until we arrived at Zimakaze, on the banks of the great river which the Portuguese call the Limpopo and that the locals know as “the pregnant river.” There, Mouzinho ordered me to be untied. I would have preferred to feel the ropes digging into my flesh rather than the treacherous looks the seven queens directed at me. Then I plunged into the river, a body within a body. Only then did I realize both banks were crowded with people.

  A column of Portuguese soldiers was approaching the port from the direction of Chicomo. They were bringing with them Zixaxa and two women who were imprisoned there. These women had been joined along the way by his eight other wives. I must confess that I was struck by Zixaxa’s dignified serenity. Sitting by the landing stage, his hands tied behind his back, he contemplated the opposite bank of the river as if he were the world’s only inhabitant. Over there on the other side lay his domains, to which he doubted he would ever return. His aristocratic bearing disturbed the king of Gaza, who pretended to ignore the man he had protected for months. And it must also have disturbed Mouzinho de Albuquerque, for he interrupted the ceremony distributing rewards to the local chiefs who had helped him in the assault on Txaimiti. The Portuguese addressed the prisoner:

  Choose three.

  The two men knew what was being talked about. With a simple flick of his head, Zixaxa indicated the women who would accompany him. The remaining wives were given by Mouzinho to his allied chiefs.

  At this point, they began the process of boarding the Capelo, a three-masted ship that the Portuguese called a corvette. Panic immediately spread among the king of Gaza and his court. They knew the river was only a route for us to reach the sea. That journey was therefore the most deadly of transgressions. For those people, the ocean was a forbidden place, without name or destination. They embarked weeping, as if they had been condemned to death.

  On deck, now at ease as if the ship were their homeland, the Portuguese drew their swords and burst out with cheers to their king. On the riverbank, the vast ranks of warriors raised their spears and responded as one: Bayete! And it was impossible to make out which king they were saluting.

  Mouzinho contemplated the disconsolate Ngungunyane in a corner. And he asked them not to start the engines immediately. He marched up to the ship’s prow and exhibited himself as if he were posing on his horse. Impressed by this sight, the thousands of warriors launched into a vibrant military anthem. At the end of this song of praise, a storm of insults was directed against Ngungunyane, the same king they had idolized for years. Mouzinho de Albuquerque was enjoying the luster of his victory. And he was making it clear to all those warriors that the kingdom of Gaza had come to an end.

  The ship set off downstream, the crew intent on the shoals that might halt a journey they wanted to complete smoothly and as speedily as possible. Mouzinho came and stood next to me, and after a moment asked if I spoke Portuguese.

  I’m learning, I replied.

  He smiled, as if my confession were another sign of my race’s submission. The ship’s captain came up to us, saluted, and handed the Portuguese a sheet of paper. Then he announced:

  This telegram from the governor general in Lourenço Marques arrived three days ago.

  Mouzinho de Albuquerque smiled at me while he took his monocle from his pocket.

  Let’s see whether you saved my eyesight for a piece of good or bad news.

  He read it in an undertone, shook his head, and sighed: It wasn’t even a piece of news. And he gave the telegram to the commander, ordering his officers to assemble before him. When they were all present, the captain announced that he was going to read a message that had come from Lourenço Marques. They all thought it would be a message of congratulations for the success at Txaimiti. Has there already been a reaction? one asked impatiently. Mouzinho’s leisurely reading of the message came as a surprise:

  Captain Mouzinho de Albuquerque,

  We do not wish to expose our forces to the risk of a catastrophic defeat that would annul the moral and political effects of our victories achieved so far, and for this reason, you should immediately abstain from any intervention against the Kraal of the king of Gaza. Signed by the Acting Governor General of Mozambique, Counselor Correia Lança.

  After a few moments of silence, the officers burst out into a collective fit of laughter, and the uproar was such that Ngungunyane himself, unaware of what it was all about, smiled timidly in a spirit of good humor.

  I walked away from those people and their joy that I felt no part of, and went and sat by the ship’s rail. It would be natural for my soul to be torn asunder by my great doubts over the future that awaited me. But at that moment all I was made of was the past. I allowed the river’s current to flood my gaze. And my relatives passed me by, both the living and the dead; the places where I had lived and the people I had loved also passed by. And more than all, I recalled Germano de Melo. And I thought: Even if I never meet him again, that man is now alive within me. And I stroked my belly as if I were touching the being that lived within. In touching my soon-to-be child, I was comforting the mother I had lost. My hands were stitching together the threads of Time.

  There were not just different people traveling on that ship, but worlds in collision. Ngungunyane’s women divided their somber looks between me and Zixaxa’s wives.
<
br />   The two monarchs didn’t look at each other. Zixaxa and Ngungunyane cut two very different figures. The first sat on a coil of rope, his trunk stiffly erect as if that improvised seat were a throne. Wrapped in a blanket and doubled up, the king of Gaza was a picture of decline. At a certain point, Zixaxa pointed to the clouds and said to Ngungunyane:

  Don’t look at the waters that cause you nausea. Look at the skies instead, Umundungazi.

  The king pretended not to hear. But Zixaxa insisted that the other should gaze up at the firmament, and his hand swept in an arc over his head. I was the only one to note a vengeful shadow in his smile as he declared:

  And look at all the swallows still crisscrossing the skies!

  * * *

  The swallows helped Zixaxa humiliate the one who had betrayed him. But I had no scores to settle with the world. That was why I sat vacantly, feeling the spray from the waves that broke as they encountered the prow. The river was now wider and the waters more turbulent. Here and there islands formed by weeds floated past, upon which dwelt elegant, acrobatic snipes. Maybe I was one of those white birds, maybe our vessel was an island of weeds taking me to an unknown destination. The ship passed close by these long-legged creatures that remained unperturbed as they busily sought to keep their balance on their unstable perches.

  Suddenly, one of the Portuguese soldiers leaned overboard and, with a swipe of his sword, decapitated the nearest snipe. The bird’s head and neck spun in the air and fell onto the deck, writhing before our very eyes like some dying serpent. A spatter of blood splashed my breast. I wiped it with a corner of my capulana. And it was Zixaxa who brought my attention to something:

  A drop of blood fell from your spear.

  It took me a few moments to realize that he was referring to the amulet that hung from my necklace. But it was as if I myself were bleeding. Then a wave swept over the deck and left me soaked from head to foot. It was the river cleansing me. A sailor tossed me a piece of cloth to dry myself. I wiped myself slowly as if my body were as wide as the land I was leaving behind. But I left my belly soaked with water. A river was being born within me. Outside me, the last of the rivers was draining away. The two streams of water didn’t touch, and didn’t bid each other farewell.