by Ondjaki
the Mailman scratched his head while he thought of something to say, he hoisted his mailbag, wiped his hands on the sides of his trousers
“well, anything you need, just let me know”
“thanks, the soft drink can wait till next time, i’m flat broke”
“sure, boss” the Mailman said by way of goodbye
on the stairs, Granma Kunjikise looked the Mailman in the eyes, he looked away
he felt good, he didn’t have much to hide and he had never caused distrust in old people, especially those whose heads were already white
Granma Kunjikise smiled, let out an almost inaudible murmur and resumed her walk towards the sixth floor
where she met Odonato, who was staring into the distance
Granma Kunjikise saw him from the back in the thinning sunlight and shuddered as she hadn’t shuddered in a long time, she closed her eyes, made an effort, wanted to shed two or three tears, to purge herself of that vision
but the truth is clear and acquainted with the secret pathways that lead to its destination
“Nato...,” Granma Kunjikise called, very softly
Odonato turned around slowly, leaving the old woman neither space nor shadow for doubts
the sun, divided into slices of intensity, hot and perpendicular at that hour, the sun, its sheafs of light crossing sidereal distance and immensity, travelled along the man’s body without obeying the logical limits of his anatomy
there was light that enveloped him and light that no longer touched him
“Nato... your body...” the old woman laid her hands on her chest, as she’d done since she was a girl, whenever she wished to calm down
dwindling rays of sunlight, of the most extreme slenderness, sad fine yellow-coloured threads crossed the peripheral zones of Odonato’s meagre body, on the flanges of his waist, on his knees, also on the backs of his hands and shoulders, the remote light passed through him as though a human body, real and full of blood, might resemble an itinerant sieve
“take it easy, Mother,” Odonato came nearer
“it’s not that,” Granma Kunjikise said, “i’m thinking about your family, about the people from your house... my poor daughter!”
Odonato went to fetch the water passion-fruit smoothie that the old woman adored
“we don’t have any more sugar, but drink it”
the stereo from the fifth floor was audible there, the old woman stamped her foot and smiled at Odonato, arranged the garments that covered her shoulders and part of her neck
her hands dry, her skin drooping, her gestures decisive
“did you see it, too, Mother?”
Granma Kunjikise looked him in the eyes, which was how she spoke to those who didn’t understand her Umbundu, she told him many things, things she had divined or learned long ago, but understood only now, in that heated instant
“i saw the future,” the old woman murmured.
the sound of the siren reached the sixth floor
inside the vehicle, the Minister told his driver to stop, to go take a long walk, he would call when he wanted to be picked up
but the Minister didn’t want to be picked up
“are you sure this is the building?” he asked before getting out
“this is the one, don’t you see that pothole there, Comrade Minister?”
“yes”
“then this is the building in Maianga with the pothole on the ground floor, that pothole is really old, boss, i could spin you a yarn...”
“not now,” the Minister interrupted, getting out of the vehicle
his bodyguard was getting out but the Minister ordered him back inside
“but, boss...”
“that’s an order, get out of my sight”
the bodyguard hurried back into vehicle without looking back, the hawkers observed the Minister’s clothes with suspicion
the driver disconnected the siren, the traffic was impossible, the vehicles almost weren’t moving at all, once or twice around the block could take more than forty-five minutes, a police officer recognized it as a government vehicle from the licence plate and gestured to the driver to ask if he wanted to get through
the driver gave him a negative look, the policeman appeared confused
the Minister reached the building, wiping the sweat off his forehead, keeping his yellow handkerchief in his left pocket, he stepped into the darkness, went up the first steps and listened to the dripping water, he let his eyes become comfortable with the darkness and his hands absorb the coolness
“are you there?”
a kind of silence replied to the Minister’s serious voice, he proceeded, soaking his shoes
“they say Jesus walked on the water! like fuck he did!” he said, rankled
on hearing noises on the staircase, he tried to hide alongside a gigantic column, a whistle, surprisingly in tune, preceded the person coming down the stairs
he was frightened by his own breathing, he knew he was hidden in an awkward place, he was a Minister wearing an expensive suit, a delicate silk tie and shoes bought in Paris
he resolved to act, emerging from his hiding place, he observed, in the ashy half-light, the approaching figure and decided to speak in an authoritative tone
“who goes there, identify yourself immediately”
he heard the sound of another body ceasing to move, and waited
that other body deposited something on the floor
“i’m on my way out, i’m the Mailman without a bicycle or a motorcycle, i only have letters”
“what letters?” inquired the Minister
“the letters i wrote”
“you write letters or you deliver them?”
the Mailman came closer, descending the remaining stairs, he felt the nauseating aroma of the Minister’s expensive cologne, he imagined what his clothes must be like but didn’t work out who he was
“please excuse a simple comrade, but may i ask the gentleman’s name?”
“you don’t know who i am?” he started to move in the direction of the exit
“i can’t say that i do”
“then it’s better not to know”
the Minister returned to the daylight, hurrying, he slipped on a pan that Strong Maria had left in a spot that wasn’t usually taken by those leaving the building, the children who were playing on the sidewalk made fun of him, imitating his straitened effort to straighten his clothes and dark glasses
the Minister searched for his absent vehicle
the traffic remained dense and he had forgotten his phone in the ministerial vehicle, he began to feel the sweat coming to life on his neck and in his armpits
“could you lend me your cellphone?” he asked Strong Maria
“good morning, comrade”
“yes, good morning, but will you lend it to me or not?”
Strong Maria, in a smile-drenched movement, withdrew her cellphone, which was also sweaty, from inside her bra
the Minister hesitated, leaving the lady’s hand dangling in the air, the Mailman appeared with his eyes closed, getting used to the city’s intense brightness, the Minister pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, wiped the cellphone and made his call
“i’m just imagining him,” the Mailman said, deep in thought
“just a minute, one thing at a time”
the line of seated women ceased all activity to watch the man in a suit and tie grasp the snack-seller’s phone with his yellow handkerchief
“the phone doesn’t have any credit, madam!”
“you asked for the phone, sir, you want credit too? i can ask the kids to go buy it”
“that’s it,” the Mailman interrupted, “the gentleman is a comrade minister! i don’t know if you got my letter...”
“what letter?”
“hey, man,” the Minister was sweating and starting to look worried, “don’t you have a cellphone?”
“i have one, but it’s identical to this lady’s”
“how’s that?”
“just like it—without credit”
“oh, fuck!”
the children had encircled the Mailman and the Minister
“can you give me back my phone, Comrade Minister?” Strong Maria spoke deliberately
“of course, it’s useless”
“but to get back to the subject, Senhor Minister, please take note of my petition for a two-wheeled vehicle”
“i’ve got better things to do, man, talk to your superiors”
“but, sir, being superior in the Ministry, and also superior to my boss, aren’t you my superior, too?”
“have you ever seen an Angolan mailman going around on a motorized vehicle during the working day?”
“there’s a first time for everything, Senhor Minister, i’m sure that you, sir, remember my letter, written on paper of twenty-five lines, with a seal, white glue and old-fashioned handwriting”
the Minister looked around in search of his vehicle, he was sweating a lot, the Mailman examined his bag, convinced that he would find a copy of one of the letters he’d sent
“boys, did you see a blue car, from the Ministry? it’s probably parked right around here, do you want to take a look around the corner?”
the boys smiled, eyeing each other
“we can’t leave here, comrade, our mothers don’t like it”
“these ladies are your mothers?”
the women wagged their fingers
“that’s why we can’t leave, Comrade Minister,” one with arms crossed said in a mocking tone, “these ladies tell on us to our mothers every night”
the car arrived, honking to clear the way between the civilian cars that did not belong to ministries
“Comrade Minister,” the Mailman touched the arm of the Minister, who shook him off and resumed walking, “i just wanted to give you the letter, it might be here”
the Mailman followed the Minister towards the car, talking and rummaging in his bag, the bodyguard hurried up and, even though he had already opened the door for the Minister, took down the Mailman with a movement so fast that the children were unable to repeat it later in their re-enactments
“lay still until the car’s out of sight, understand?” said the bodyguard while he dealt the now subdued Mailman a vicious slug in the face
the vehicle moved forward and stopped a few metres up ahead
the Mailman, already back on his feet, cleaning off his trousers, sat down again quickly, the driver called over one of the children, he approached the car window and the Minister himself handed the boy an envelope
“give this to the lady who keeps her phone between her boobs”
the little boy returned and helped the Mailman pick up the letters and other waterlogged papers spread over a muddy pool, and grabbed a blue sheet of twenty-five lines
“pretty handwriting you’ve got,” Strong Maria said
“i studied in the time before,” the Mailman smiled with his swollen lips “i got beaten up a lot at school for forming the letters so well”
Strong Maria opened the envelope delivered by the little boy, inside was a telephone card worth ten dollars
she scratched the card, then grabbed the letter with the blurry blue ink and the drenched seals
“you want a soft drink, Comrade Mailman?”
the Mailman glanced up the street in the direction the Minister’s car had disappeared
“no, thanks, i’ve got a lot to do”
“can i keep this letter?”
“sure you can, i’ve got lots of them, see you tomorrow, everybody”
hoisting the mail bag onto his shoulder, the Mailman set off in the opposite direction from the ministerial vehicle.
Nga Nelucha got out of the candongueiro on Maianga Square and didn’t look at the Mailman who, for his part, was waiting to cross in the midst of the crowd, which was hoping for a break in the traffic so they could get on with their lives
life is made in the city, on the asphalt, in the midday heat
with dusty feet, a sweaty forehead, her hands weighed down with plastic bags of fruit and vegetables, Nga Nelucha stopped at the entrance to the building and asked Strong Maria for a really cold soft drink
“this is what you call hot weather,” she said as Strong Maria passed her a locally manufactured Coca-Cola which, according to general belief, was better than the international variety
“back in the time before, people even carried parasols in the street to give themselves a little shade, now you only see umbrellas when it rains”
“it’s true, i remember that too”
“you don’t remember a thing, don’t make stuff up, you’re a kid, don’t shoot your mouth off ”
Nga Nelucha laughed, she had an appealing smile with pretty teeth and plump lips that set her life in motion with every chuckle, her eyes, which in the morning were limned with a bright mascara, were now surrounded by slippery pink stains over her dark skin
“godmother, weren’t you there when the trouble happened?” asked the boy they called Little Daddy, his body ebullient and dripping with fresh water
“what trouble you talkin’ about?”
“a Minister came and punched out the Mailman”
“you kids are making stuff up...” Strong Maria arranged the ice inside her enormous plastic coolers, “did you see the Minister punch somebody out?”
“Minister? Mailman?” Nga Nelucha looked confused
“yes, godmother,” Little Daddy agreed, “it was the Minister’s guard, but the Minister didn’t complain or stop him”
“that really nice Mailman? poor him”
“yeah, him,” Strong Maria confirmed, “and all because of the moped he wants to deliver his letters”
“did they really beat him up?”
“it was just a shove that kicked up a bit of dust”
“that’s because it wasn’t you who experienced it, godmother,” Little Daddy laughed, he washed out his big pails, “a security guard’s punch hurts like hell, you can’t even imagine it from far away, but those hands have all the weight it takes to give a good slug, godmother, it hurts like a sonofabitch”
“you come a long way, Nelucha?” Strong Maria tried to change the subject since other people were approaching to listen to the conversation
“not far, from the Prenda Market, i went to buy a few vegetables and fruit, too, Xilisbaba’s going to need it”
“we gonna have a party, godmother?” Little Daddy asked, getting ready to go upstairs again
“who’s ‘we’? did somebody invite you?”
“i figure i’m already part of the family, godmother,” Little Daddy laughed, grabbing Nga Nelucha’s bags to take them upstairs
cunning Little Daddy had appeared in the building years ago, with his biddable manners and clever courtesies, but had soon revealed himself to be a child with attentive eyes and agile hands, an oblong body like a tilting palm tree smiling at any squall that came his way
“if he didn’t spend so much time washing cars, he could’ve been one hell of a basketball player”
when they reached the fourth floor, Nga Nelucha was sweating with fatigue, Little Daddy, on the other hand, was still cool, damp from his recent run through the burst pipes on the first floor
“nothing like a bath... everything okay, Senhor Eduardo?” he greeted
Edú was returning slowly from the fifth floor, in his hand he held the thermometer he’d borrowed from Comrade Mute, he dragged his feet, moving as though in slow motion li
ke a cartoon that’s too slow to entertain the children
“another fever, Edú?”
“not yet”
“so why’d you go get the thermometer?”
“So that Mute has to come here to get it back, otherwise he’ll be up there all alone, and me, too, this way we’ve got an excuse to talk to each other”
at home, Nga Nelucha, heading for the kitchen, asked Little Daddy to leave everything on the floor, parsley leaves, Gimboa, slightly withered mucua pulp, old avocados and lettuce decorated the bench next to the stove
“godmother, can i drink a little ice water?”
“take yourself a soft drink, i’m grateful for the help”
“thanks, godmother”
Little Daddy served himself the soft drink and left, greeting Edú again and asking him if he needed help to walk
“you think i’m old or something?”
Little Daddy let a sad expression trickle into his crooked smile
having arrived in Luanda from the south, he’d spent years in a fruitless search for his mother’s whereabouts, respected in the building for his gifts of honesty and punctuality, both uncommon in people from Luanda, Little Daddy was an assiduous watcher of the television program Meeting Point, created precisely so that displaced Angolans could learn the location of people from whom they had been separated by the war
Little Daddy left in sadness, consoling himself with the taste of cold Coca-Cola, and joked
“Boss Edú, that Coca-Cola ‘made in Angola’ has a lot more punch!”
Edú hawed at length, closed the door and made his way to the kitchen
“kids these days, when they tell you they wanna help, they’re just taking the piss out of the elders, just because my privates are swelled up does that mean i can’t walk?”
“leave it, honey,” Nga Nelucha was in a good mood as she stirred the food, “he just wanted to help, Little Daddy always serves others”
against the sound of National Radio, which was playing a medley of Carlos Burity’s music
and in spite of his problems with his leg, Edú showed that he was still a potent stepper in the Luanda style, the couple smiled and danced, Edú led the passes of a hip-swaying kizomba in slow undulations without treading on the recently arrived fruit or brushing the plastic bags, beneath the attentive, concerned gaze of Nga Nelucha, whose mouth was soon saturated with a smile of disbelief at the elder’s moves
