by Ondjaki
“I’m tellin’ yuh, he’s not comin’. . . . I saw him taking off the other way, up the hill . . .”
“He was weird today. . . . Didn’t you think so, Cláudio?” I asked.
“Yeah, a little. . . .”
“He didn’t even want a drink of water when I offered him one. . . .”
“Yeah.” Cláudio started laughing. “Asthma-water. . . .”
“Hey, you jerk. Have you ever heard water cough?”
“No.”
“All right, then don’t talk bullshit.”
We went to our classroom. Everything was the same. The desks were there, there were no bloodstains, no tits hung from the blackboard. We sat down outside on the low wall that closed off the yard. The air had no smell. Everything was calm even though we could hear, off in the distance, the noise of the rest of the crowd on May 1st Square.
So, what Cláudio said: “I was one of the first to leave the classroom. When Isabel threw the comrade teacher out of the way, I was the only one right behind her. I didn’t look to either side or anything. I was terrified of seeing some man with an AK-47 in his hands and becoming petrified with fear. I took off running behind her. I’m telling you, it was the best thing to do because Isabel cut through the crowd like a knife. I saw two little girls fall over after Isabel pushed them out of the way. I kept on going right behind her, I jumped the wall behind her and headed in the direction of May 1st Square. I only stopped when I got to the Atlantic Cinema. I never looked back. I remember hearing the noise of that truck, but I’d already jumped the wall. I figured I was in the clear, and those bastards would never get me. When I stopped to look in the direction of the school, I saw everybody running and shouting, and I decided it was better to go straight home.”
What Petra said: “I don’t remember how I got out of the room because there was such an uproar I couldn’t even think. Everybody was pushing me towards the door and I saw the comrade teacher pushed back against the wire, even though he kept shouting that we had to fight back, that it was useless to run from the enemy, that we must confront him with all the weapons at our disposal. I started to get annoyed when Célio came up from behind. He was pushing everyone, trying to climb over people’s shoulders, as if he was in more of a hurry than the rest of us, but I gave him a smack and he got back into the line to run away. I mean, even if you’re running away, there’s got to be some kind of organization, it can’t just be a free-for-all. But I’m telling you, that smack was my salvation because he gave me a push that made me jump over the wall. I don’t know if he did it because he was upset or if he was feeling me up, but the truth is that without his help I wouldn’t have managed to jump over that wall. I ran towards the Square as well, and that was where I met a comrade policeman. I stood at his feet and I only realized my backpack was ripped open when he asked me if I was crying because of my ripped backpack.”
What Bruno said: “I was one of the first to see the truck’s dust in the distance, but to tell the truth it wasn’t possible to see if it was a Ural or not. I remember that it approached at high speed and that I only had time to shout once because when I tried to shout a second time the whole school was shouting. I grabbed my backpack, I jumped over Filomeno, who I think fell down, and the last thing I saw before leaving the classroom was Luaia’s face. She looked like she was drowning, and she was leaning up in the corner, or, possibly it was worse than that because that was where the board brush was shaken out. When I got to the ramp in the schoolyard I wanted to run with all the speed in my legs, but I couldn’t help starting to laugh, and it wasn’t from fear or nerves: it was because I saw the comrade English teacher lift her skirt as if she was going to have a pee but without ever breaking stride, which doesn’t explain how she was able to run, because I didn’t see, I wasn’t able to see. When she took off she disappeared into the clouds of dust and when I succeeded in getting over the wall she was gone. I crossed Heroines’ Square without looking out for cars, and the guy who was behind me, a neighbour of mine, said that I just missed getting run over by a Volkswagen, but I swear I didn’t see a thing. I only stopped running when I reached the door of my building and even then my mother boxed my ears because she’d already told me not to go running around all over the place like that because it made me dirty and sweaty. And when I said that it was because of Empty Crate, I got my ears boxed again for lying; I didn’t know what to do.”
What Luaia said: “I remember very clearly seeing you pass me, Bruno, but it wasn’t because I’d fallen in the corner. You were the one who pushed me and I ended up with my nose in the chalk box, where the board brush was as well. But it doesn’t matter, I think that right from the first shouts my asthma started, and I decided it was better to stay there, so that while all of you were running, I was lying on the floor. So I can’t say that I saw something because I didn’t see anything. I heard the shouting outside and I was scared to death because after the shouting the shooting would start, or they would come and get me. I was afraid that they wouldn’t find any women teachers and that they’d want to rape me instead. Worst of all, afterwards they would tear my tit off and pin it to the blackboard. But I was so scared and so short of breath that I think I fainted, and when I came to I was already in the comrade principal’s office, and Comrade Teacher Sara and the comrade chemistry teacher were there.”
What I, Ndalu, said: “I was sitting with Romina and since there was an opening we ran out, also in the middle of the crowd. I was afraid of falling, or afraid that after running and getting over the wall, we’d find that they’d encircled the school outside the wall. I didn’t see any truck, or any dust. I think I started running right in the classroom when Bruno shouted for the second time, which may have been the same time that everybody in the school shouted at once. I just want to say one thing, you guys don’t have to believe me, but the comrade English teacher, for those of you who didn’t see I’m telling you: she could be an Angolan international Olympic champion . . . She passed me and Romina so fast that when I looked she was already jumping the wall, and you’d better believe, I swear on Christ’s wounds, and on the soul of my grandfather, may he rest in peace, she jumped the wall without touching it. She just put a leg out to the side and grabbed her crippled leg with her hand and gathered herself up as if she was scratching her thigh, and if you don’t believe me ask Romina because she saw it, too. . . .”
What Romina said: “I left the classroom with Ndalu, more or less behind Isabel, except I don’t know how we didn’t see Bruno, but I remember that laugh really well. Excuse me, Bruno, but since we’re all telling the truth here, I think you laughed because you were afraid, or at least you were nervous. Come on, admit it. There’s nothing wrong with that; it was Empty Crate itself coming to our school. . . . The truth is that in the middle of the dust we were running towards that hole in the corner of the school wall when Comrade Teacher-Rocket passed us. It’s not easy to explain. We talked about it yesterday. You had to be there. Her running combined the speed of a leopard with the jumping of a gazelle. It all happened so quickly that when we jumped the wall, the comrade teacher wasn’t there any more. . . . We crossed the avenue there, went to the Party office, still running, and we only stopped at the National Radio station, but since we had our backpacks we decided it was better not to come back here.”
After that the conversation became more jumbled. Nobody respected anyone else’s turn to talk, everybody was speaking at the same time and we each wanted to improve some detail in our own version.
I was a little disillusioned because in the final analysis none of us had seen the truck, or even a man dressed in black, or at the very least heard a single shot, or, at the absolute very least, found some trace (I learned that word on TV) today such as a bloodstain or the shell of a bullet. Nothing. Nothing.
How annoying! I thought. I couldn’t find out anything. I was going to return to my street with nothing to talk about. Some people would say that the whole thing had been made up, that Empty Crate hadn’t even been at m
y school. But I was still suspicious: why was Murtala pissed off, and why did he have a bandage on his ankle? Why was the comrade English teacher walking so slowly today? Why hadn’t the comrade chemistry teacher told us anything today, and why did he have such a funny smile? And why – this was the really annoying part – had only people who hadn’t seen anything come to the meeting? Even stupid Luaia had the courtesy to faint, which meant that the foolish girl didn’t even know if she’d been raped.
The group broke up, of course. There was nothing more to do. Cláudio was picked up in a military jeep and Petra took the opportunity to get a lift. Luaia went to the classroom to see if she could find the hairpins she’d been offered as a birthday present on the very day of Empty Crate, Bruno rushed home because he was already late for lunch, and Romina told him not to run or his mother would get angry.
“Are you sad?” Romina asked, as we were crossing the avenue.
“No . . .”
“But that look on your face. . . .” Her voice was sweet.
“You know I don’t like goodbyes. . . . Today we were in May 1st Square and after the rally I started thinking. . . .”
“Thinking about what?”
“That things always end, Ró.”
“But what are you talking about?”
“About everything. . . . For example, that happiness, with the shouting and the anthem and the slogans – it all ends, eh, people go home, they drift apart . . .”
“Don’t be like that.”
“No. . . . It’s not that. . . . Look, we still have some classes left, then the final exams, then everybody goes on holiday, then there are people who don’t come back or they change classes. It’s always like that, Ró. People end up drifting apart. . . .”
“Are you talking like that because of Bruno?” It turned out that she knew.
“You already knew that he’s going to Portugal?”
“Yes . . . But is that why you’re sad?”
“It’s not just that, Ró. That’s just the beginning. . . . Every year people leave our classes. It’s normal, but I can’t get used to it. . . .”
“I know what you mean. When we go away on vacation I get this weird feeling. . . .”
“It’s just. . . . You spend the whole year fighting off the teachers, waiting for holidays, but the holidays are what change people. Some of them don’t come back, the jokes are never the same, but that’s not the worst of it, Ró. . . .”
“What’s the worst of it?” she said in her sweet voice.
“When we change schools, later on, or when we finish high school, then we’ll never see each other again, we’ll never have the same classmates. . . .”
“But there are always other classmates.”
“No, Romina, ‘other’ classmates don’t exist. . . . You know very well what I’m talking about. Our class, even with people moving in and out, is ‘our’ class. You know who I’m talking about. . . . And this class is about to end, don’t you feel that?” I didn’t want to look her in the eyes. I was afraid.
“Are you sad?” She seemed to be unsure whether to give me a hug.
“I don’t know. . . . You know, when the goodbyes start they never stop again, they never stop. . . .”
“But what are you talking about?”
“Nothing, nothing. . . . You know what my grandmother says, Ró?”
“No, what does she say?”
“That we never realize when we’re living the best days of our lives. . . .” This time I looked at her. “But I figure that’s how it is. . . .”
“So?”
“I know these are the best days of our lives, Romina. . . . This running around, all the talk in the schoolyard, even if everybody exaggerates like crazy.” I smiled.
“But more things are always going to happen to us, eh?” She looked at her watch.
“Yes, of course, more things are going to happen. . . .” I looked at her.
“But you’re sad? Right?”
“A little, Ró, a little. . . .”
We said “bye,” each heading towards our own house. It was here that I was going to say that 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.
The end of the school year was always painful for me because I missed my classmates, our jokes, even the comrade teachers, even the slogans, even singing the anthem, even going to write on the board, even the general cleaning of the school, even playing statues in the corridor with your hands above your head until your back was burning, or inventing insults to yell at each other until the comrade deputy principal caught us and gave us all two strokes of the ruler on each hand – all that stuff, it was all just one life, which one of these days was going to end.
These days, when I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about these things, I became sad because, even though there were still many years left before the end of my school days, one day they were going to end, and elders don’t act up in the classroom, they don’t get detention points, they don’t talk nonsense to Cuban teachers who don’t understand nonsense. Elders don’t naturally exaggerate the stories that they tell, elders don’t take forever to talk about what somebody did or would like to do. Elders don’t know how to invent a good put-down!
This business of being old must be a ton of work.
II
“Oh nostalgic sadness, oh beloved companion
Reinvigorating my senses
You sweeten my whole existence.”
—Óscar Ribas, Cultuando as Musas
here in Angola there’s no doubt that something’s going to happen. . . .
It was night, and Aunt Dada and I were talking on the balcony. She was telling me how her holiday in Luanda had been: what she’d done, the places she’d visited while I was at school. She was leaving the next morning, and we hadn’t spoken for a few days, so we were bringing each other up to date, although, of course, we weren’t getting up to dayt but up to night.
Yes, night has a smell.
At least here in Luanda, at my house, with this garden, night has a smell. I saw on television that there are some plants that open only at night. I call them bat-plants, and I don’t know if there are bat-plants right here in this garden, but night brings other smells onto this balcony, that’s for sure.
If what I’m going to say is true, then that night had a hot smell, which could be a thing where, if you think about it, you put very scarlet roses, bows of creepers with a pinch of dust, lots of grass, the sound of crickets, the sound of slugs ambling over spittle, the sound of grasshoppers, a single peep of cicadas, a small cactus, green buds, two large banana leaves and an enormous clump of verbena and squeeze them all together and out would come the smell of that night.
“It smells so good here,” my aunt said.
“That’s the bat-plants. . . .”
“Which plants are those?”
“They’re plants that prefer to come out at night, like the bats . . .”
“Ah. . . .” She smelled the air. “And here there are also bat-mosquitoes. Those are the ones that like to bite you at night. . . .”
We laughed at her joke.
“Aunt . . .”
“Yes, dear?”
“Do you know why the mosquitoes bite so much?”
“No, dear. Why do they bite so much?”
“Because they’re thirsty!” I glanced at her. “And do you know why they’re thirsty?”
“Why?”
“Because, as you know, mosquitoes are born in puddles of water. . . .”
“Yes. . . . So?”
“Well, since they’re born in the water, when they start flying they remember their home, that’s to say, their first home, the water . . . So they bite us looking for water.”
“And they don’t find it.”
“Yes, but if there’s nothing better around, they drink blood,” I explained in a serious voice.
“Who told you that, dear?”
“Nobody told me, Aunt
, it’s just what I know. . . .”
But in fact those mosquitoes were very thirsty and we decided to go inside. I had to go and tidy up my room. She went with me.
“Aunt, when are you coming back here?”
“I don’t know, dear. I really don’t know.”
“Next time you come here can you bring your children with you so that we can get to know them?” I was rummaging in a box full of old workbooks.
“Yes, I could.” She picked up one of the workbooks.
“That’s an old workbook from my Portuguese Language class.”
“Can I look at it?”
“Sure.”
“Who’s this Ngangula you’re talking about here?”
“Ngangula, Aunt – it’s Ngangula!”
“But who is Ngangula?”
It was incredible that she didn’t know. “Oh, Aunt, don’t tell me you don’t even know who Ngangula is?!”
“I don’t think I do know because you’re not telling me. . . .”
“Look, I never thought that in Portugal they hadn’t heard of Ngangula. . . . But you lived here in the old days. Don’t you remember Ngangula? Weren’t you ever told about him?”
“I don’t think so, dear. Not that I remember.”
“All right, then, first read this composition. It’s about him. . . . Then you’ll understand. . . .”
She started to read. I continued rummaging. It was a lot of work rummaging around in those old workbooks. I found hilarious compositions from grade two or three, with ridiculous kindergarten drawings, division tables – all things that now looked out of date.
“So this Ngangula is a hero . . .”
“Of course he is. He was tortured. They beat him a million times, kicked him a million times, but he didn’t tell them where the guerrillas’ encampment was. . . .”
“Hmmm. . . .”
“I find it weird that you don’t know about Ngangula, Aunt. Everybody knows who he was. I bet that even in Cuba they know who he was. . . .”
“Well, I don’t know, I never heard about him. . . . And he was very young, wasn’t he?”
