by Ondjaki
“In the flesh!” I replied.
“How many of them were there?”
“I don’t know, I don’t have any idea, but everybody was running. We just had time to grab our backpacks and run, too . . .”
“So that’s why I saw a crippled woman running full tilt up the street there,” Eunice said.
“She’s our English teacher,” Romina said.
“Hey, and she runs like a gazelle?” Eunice was horrified, too.
“Do you doubt it?” Ró laughed.
I don’t know what time it was, but at that hour, from the terrace of my house, you could see the sunset. There wasn’t any juice, so we took a bottle of water out on the terrace. We sat there talking for a bit. Romina and I had been friends for a long time, but we never used to talk very much because in school if a guy spends all his time talking to a girl they’re going to say that he wants to hitch up with her, that he’s sweet-talking her or, what’s worse, that he’s the kind of guy who just wants to hang around with girls.
“You saw how she was running?” she said.
“I saw, Romina. . . . And I don’t think I’d ever seen. . . . If we tell people tomorrow they’re going to say we’re lying.”
“It’s possible somebody else saw her.”
“No, Romina, not with all that dust. . . . We were the ones who were right behind her. . . . Have you ever seen anyone run that fast?”
“No, I’ve never seen anything like it . . .”
We sat there, each remembering that moment.
For me it was really good, now that everything was over, to have run together. It was just a thought, of course, but I think that in some way these things remain in people’s hearts, and if Romina and I were already good friends, the fact of having fled together from Empty Crate was one more thing that belonged to us alone. We didn’t talk about it, but on that day, on that afternoon, with the sun making the moment even more beautiful, I think that we became much better friends than we were before.
“Are you listening to me? Do you think the comrade teacher stayed there?” She gave me a shake.
“Hmm? I don’t know. Maybe he stayed there to fight with desks and chalk against Empty Crate’s AK-47s. . . . The things those Cuban comrades get up to – ”
“You know that they’re all soldiers?” she said.
“I know, I know, but a soldier won’t last against a truck full of men with AK-47s.”
“Yes, but since they’re soldiers they’re always thinking about fighting. Even so, I think they’re brave . . .”
“Sure . . .” I looked at the sun, now almost hidden.
“Just think what it’s like to come to a country that’s not theirs, to come and give classes that may or may not work out, and then there are the ones who go and fight in the front lines. . . . How many Angolans do you know who went to fight in a Cuban war?”
“I don’t know any. . . .”
“I think they’re very brave. . . . I never heard a single story about a Cuban fleeing from combat.” Romina seemed to be well informed and I didn’t want to lag behind her.
“Don’t even think about it. On the contrary – everybody knows that they’re very brave.”
We were told that Romina’s mother was downstairs.
I picked up the glasses, the bottle, and we went into the kitchen to wash the glasses, while Romina filled the bottle with boiled water to put in the refrigerator. “This is Comrade António’s kitchen, right?” Romina said in order for me to add something. But I didn’t feel like adding anything.
“That’s right, yeah. . . . Comrade António’s kitchen.” But her face went still, waiting for something more. “I’m the one in charge here, little girl.” I imitated Comrade António’s voice, and his almost Charlie Chaplin mannerisms, and she smiled, smiled.
“So, what was that battle like?” asked Romina’s mother, who already knew what had happened.
“It was normal,” I replied.
“But was there a battle or wasn’t there?”
“I dunno. . . . As soon as we heard the shouting, we took off . . .” Romina’s mother laughed. “We only stopped when we got to the National Radio station.”
“That was some running! I bet you didn’t even stop to look before crossing the street,” she said.
Only Ró and I laughed.
It was agreed that we would have a snack at Romina’s house, where we could all talk about what had happened. In this way we could put all the versions on the table, that of the students and even that of the teachers, because Romina always made a point of inviting the comrade teachers.
That night all we could talk about was Empty Crate. It was amazing, my older sister wasn’t the least bit afraid that they would come to her school because they had already come to mine. “You think my school is like yours, right? If they come to our school, my classmates will beat them senseless!” I wasn’t sure, she could be right, there were some big guys on Kiluanji Street, people said that some of them packed guns and everything, but even so, Empty Crate was Empty Crate! You only had to look at what they’d done at my school, even a crippled teacher had been forced to run, that just doesn’t happen. . . .
It was difficult explaining the whole Empty Crate story to Aunt Dada because since I hadn’t actually seen a lot – as a matter of fact I hadn’t actually seen anything at all – I couldn’t tell her who they were, or what they looked like, or what had happened because, and there it was, all these details would become known only the next day.
Since I was tired and had to wake up early, I went to bed.
“Till tomorrow, everybody!” I said as I left.
at times all the big things in life can be seen in one small thing. You don’t have to explain much: it’s enough to look.
I woke up feeling great again because I loved rallies and parades.
“Good morning, Comrade Father!” I said jokingly, since Comrade António hadn’t yet arrived.
“Good morning, Comrade Son!” he replied, feeling great in the morning as he always did. The milk was already warm, the table had been set the night before. I opened the window wide, and the brightness came in as if it were a stranger entering an unknown spot and looking around out of curiosity.
From my place at the table I saw the cup in front of me, the steam that rose from the cup, and I smelled the toast and the butter melting on it, I saw the right side of my father’s beard, his glasses, and I heard the sound in his mouth as he chewed his toast, crunch, crunch, but prettiest of all was seeing the avocado tree opposite. Did you know that avocado trees also stretch?
“Dad, have you noticed that in the morning, when we open this window and sit here talking, the avocado tree starts trembling?”
“Yes, son, it trembles in the wind. . . .”
“Yeah, but why doesn’t it tremble before we open the window? Now I’ve got you . . .”
“It’s shaking before you open the window, son. It’s you who can’t see it.”
“So it only shakes when I open the window . . . And it doesn’t shake, Dad, it’s not real shaking . . .”
“What is it, then?” He motioned with his finger for me to start eating my toast.
“It’s stretching. . . . The avocado tree is stretching itself.” By saying “stretching itself,” I was being refined, like the Portuguese, because usually we would just say “stretching.”
The light came in through the enormous window, the birds’ chirping came in, the sound of the water dripping into the tank came in, the smell of the morning came in, the noise of the boots of the security guards at the house next door came in, the shriek of a tomcat preparing to fight with another tomcat came in, the noise of the larder being opened by my mother came in, the sound of a car horn came in, a fat fly came in, a dragonfly that we called a draggin’-fly came in, the noise of the tomcat which after fighting jumped on the zinc roof came in, the sound of the security guard setting down his AK-47 to take a rest came in, whistling came in, much more light came in, and, above all, the sme
ll of the avocado tree came in, the smell of the avocado tree that was waking up.
“Dad, it’s a holiday today. If you’re not going to the rally, why didn’t you get up later?” I finally bit into the toast.
“Because I like to get up early!” He lit a cigarette.
I put on my backpack and my father got up to open the door for me.
“Good morning, son.” I heard the voice coming from the creepers. I was frightened: it was Comrade António!
“Good morning, Comrade António!”
“Did I frighten you, son?” He was laughing.
“António, it’s a holiday today. What are you doing here?”
“I came for a walk, son. . . . I wake up early every morning.”
“Hey, António . . .” I said, horrified. “Instead of taking advantage of your day off to sleep . . . And today you came on foot, there aren’t any buses this early. . . .”
“It’s twenty minutes, son, twenty minutes on foot . . .”
“Okay, see you at lunch time,” I said as I left.
“Are you going to see the comrade president, son?”
“Yeah, I’m going to the rally on May 1st Square, but we’re meeting at school.”
“See you later then, son.”
“See you later, António.”
I stopped by at Bruno Viola’s house, but he wasn’t ready yet. I left.
Because of all this, I was already late. I wanted to see if I’d be able to chat for a bit with Cláudio or Murtala about the previous day’s events. It was possible that they’d seen more than I had. Murtala wasn’t to be trusted because he always exaggerated stories. I mean, everybody I know here in Luanda exaggerates, but Murtala, as Petra used to say, was too much. Once they’d caught an alligator on Luanda Island and Murtala said that a whale had run aground in Luanda Bay. If Murtala had seen a soccer match and nobody knew the result, you could be sure that Murtala would add seven goals here, twenty-two penalties there, two expulsions and an injury to the referee. Bruno gave him good advice: “When you want to fib, fib little by little – that way we might believe you!”
I was so late that the classes were already lined up when I arrived. Comrade Teacher Sara saw me arrive and put on her I-am-not-pleased face. We stood in straight lines, in order. They were inspecting the neck-scarves. Anyone who didn’t have a neck scarf could go home, this was the May 1st parade, the international day of the worker, and no child without the full dress uniform was allowed to take part. We started to sing: “Oh homeland, we will never forget/ The heroes of the fourth of February . . .” But Cláudio and I were looking for signs. How was it possible for the school to remain so intact (I’d learned this word from Petra) after the attack by Empty Crate? There weren’t even tire marks on the ground, there were no bullet holes in the walls, and all the female and male teachers were present, including the chemistry teacher, who was concentrating hard even though he didn’t know all the words of the anthem, and the speedy (I think that’s the best way to put it) comrade English teacher.
When the anthem ended, the comrade principal explained rapidly that we were going to march to May 1st Square, that she wanted the lines to remain in order and that she didn’t want any running (to avoid the smell of sweat), that afterwards we were going to join the general gathering of the schools on the square and that then we would find out our position in the parade. Oh – and if anyone needed to pee they could do so, but that it was too late to take a pooh because we didn’t have time now. In any event, nobody ever took a pooh at school because the school did-n’t have bathrooms. I don’t know why she gave us this lecture, using that word, which she shouldn’t have spoken in front of a rally.
Romina looked in my direction and gave me a sign with her eyes for me to look at the steps. There she was, the comrade English teacher, limping slowly from side to side. “Who saw you and who sees you now?” Romina said under her breath, and I grasped right away that this saying was directed at me.
Later, when we had already begun to march towards May 1st Square, I noticed that Murtala had a bandage on his ankle. That was a good sign: something had actually happened. He didn’t look in my direction, nor in Cláudio’s direction. I realized he didn’t want to talk, much less to answer questions. When Cláudio tried to talk to him he took a fit and called Comrade Teacher Sara, who bawled out Cláudio. Cláudio responded with a disparaging whistle that could even be heard at the back of the line. Good, I thought; that Murtala was making a fuss about nothing, the idiot.
In the square, a comrade from the Ministry of Education came to hand out little red and yellow flags, some national flags and others of the MPLA. I looked at the podium and thought I made out the comrade president, but we were still far away, you could see only that the podium was full and there were soldiers all around the top, and in the streets, as well. The comrade president probably hadn’t arrived yet. Everyone had little flags, the mammies from OMA5, the young people from “the J,”6 the pioneers from OPA, the comrade workers, the people who had come to take part: the square was full of colour and movement. The comrade at the microphone was warming people up.
“A single people a single. . . . ?” he said.
“. . . NATION!!!” we shouted with all our might. We always took advantage of the opportunity to shout.
“A single people a single . . . ?”
“. . . NATION!!!”
“The struggle. . . . ?”
“CONTINUES!!!”
“The struggle. . . . ?”
“CONTINUES!!!”
“But the struggle, comrades?” He was shouting, too. The guy was delighted.
“CONTINUES!!!!!!!!!!!”
“And victory . . . ?”
“IS CERTAIN!!!”
“Victory . . . ?”
“IS CERTAIN!!!”
“The MPLA is the people. . . .”
“AND THE PEOPLE ARE THE MPLA!!!”
“The MPLA is the people. . . .”
“AND THE PEOPLE ARE THE MPLA!!!”
“Down with imperialism . . .”
“DOWN!!!”
“Down with imperialism . . .”
“DOWN!!!”
“Thank you, comrades.”
Some kids were already going hoarse, but we loved to shout the slogans. We heard the sirens. The convoy of Mercedes approached in the distance, this time, yes, it was the comrade president. The people were yelling and clapping their hands. “DOS SANTOS. . . . FRIEND. . . . THE PEOPLE FOLLOW YOU TO THE END! DOS SANTOS. . . . FRIEND. . . . THE PEOPLE FOLLOW YOU TO THE END!”
Only Murtala seemed not to feel like making noise. I approached him and offered him water from my canteen. “You want a little bit?” I pulled off the cap.
“No, I’m not going to drink from your canteen. . . .”
“Why not?” I took a swallow.
“Because you’ve got asthma.”
Once, a long time ago, it had been the other way around: Petra hadn’t allowed me to drink from her canteen because of asthma. But Murtala didn’t worry about this sort of thing. He must be really pissed off. “Don’t expect me to offer it to you again,” I snapped.
The schools were starting to line up again, the shortest classes in front, the big kids at the back. “DOS SANTOS. . . . FRIEND. . . . THE OPA FOLLOWS YOU TO THE END! DOS SANTOS. . . . FRIEND. . . . THE OPA FOLLOWS YOU TO THE END!” That was what we shouted as we walked in front of the comrade president. He was on his feet, clapping his hands and laughing. There were so many people shouting that he couldn’t have heard our child-like shouts.
There were so many people that I was afraid. If something happened here, for example, if a bomb went off, or even Empty Crate. . . . a lot of people would be trampled to death by other people, which is the worst way to be trampled. It’s true, it’s sad, but a person can crush another person.
The journalists were lined up on the right-hand side. They only took photographs now and then – to save film, I think. Some of them were already breaking formation to bring their camera
s or television equipment closer. We’d been told that comrades from Soviet television would also be coming to film the parade. But they must have been very well hidden because I didn’t see any Soviets.
Paula was there with a microphone in her hand, a recorder on her shoulder. She was laughing as she ran alongside a comrade teacher. I think she was trying to interview him. “Paula! Paula!” I shouted, but we were too far ahead of her and she didn’t hear me. After passing in front of the podium, we walked a little farther and then our school stopped because the comrade principal said that they were going to give us biscuits and juice, but no one came. I guess it must have been because of the lack of cash, because that was why they didn’t have floats in this year’s parade. Maybe that was why they invited so many schools: to see whether the parade could still look good without floats. But for me, to tell the truth, the May Day parade just wasn’t the same without floats. For next year, if they call me to talk on National Radio again, that’s exactly what I’m going to say. I don’t want to know anything about any sheet of paper with an official stamp and everything already written on it.
Since neither the juice nor the biscuits had appeared, the comrade principal ordered us to demobilize. We were all free to go home. But we had arranged to go to the school and bring our discussion about Empty Crate up to date, and we’d said that even if we didn’t see each other along the way, we would meet at the school after the rally.
The girls, as always, arrived together: Petra, Romina and even Luaia. Bruno and I arrived, then Cláudio with tons of biscuits and two bottles of juice. But he refused to give anything to anyone else; he was always such a selfish guy. He said: “Sorry about that, but, as my cousin said, my hunger is in a category by itself!” It must have been a pretty special category because he managed to eat everything without anyone else getting a crumb.
“But Murtala’s missing,” somebody said.
“He’s not comin’,” Cláudio warned us, his mouth full.
“What do you mean he’s not coming? We arranged to be here. . . .”
