Mia Couto - Confession of the Lioness

Can I make a mask? I asked.

A mask, he said, isn’t just something that covers the face of the person dancing. The dancer, the choreography, the music swirling through the body: All this is the mask.

Well then, when you finish your work, can I wear it?

This isn’t a mask. It’s an ntela , or, if you like, a charm.

For God’s sake, Granddad! Do you really believe that stuff?

It doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is what the dead think. Without this —and he turned the piece of wood over in his hands— without this our ancestors will remain far removed from Kulumani. And you will remain far from the world.

Forgive me, Granddad: but you, an educated man, should have abandoned these beliefs long ago …

He gave me a vague, benign smile: That was his answer. Then he chided me. I shouldn’t throw leftovers of food into the garden.

It attracts animals …

Maybe that’s what I wanted: I wanted to lure the animals to the house, to reinstate the disorder of the jungle, to turn the hen coops into vultures’ nests.

* * *

In time, these nightly fits got worse: I awoke to torn sheets. Objects lay scattered across the floor of my bedroom.

This is no longer hunger, I’m ill. What’s happening to me, Grandfather? I asked, tearful.

The reason for this malady was a secret, Adjiru replied, on one occasion. A secret kept so deep that it had even forgotten about itself.

I don’t understand, Grandfather. You’re making me scared.

It was true I was ill. But this illness was the only thing protecting me from my past.

The problem isn’t yours, dear granddaughter. The problem lies in this house, in this village. Kulumani is no longer a place, it’s an illness.

Kulumani and I were sick. And when, sixteen years ago, I had fallen for the hunter, my passion was no more than an entreaty. I was merely asking for help, silently beseeching him to save me from this illness. Just as writing had previously saved me from madness. Books brought me voices like shade in the open desert.

* * *

Following Archie’s departure all those years ago, I had even thought of writing to him. I would have written endless letters in response to the deep desire I felt. But I never did. No one loved words more than I. But at the same time, I was scared of writing, I was scared of becoming someone else and then, later, no longer being able to return to myself. Just like my grandfather, who surreptitiously carved little pieces of wood, I had a secret occupation. A word drawn on a piece of paper was my mask, my charm, my home cure.

* * *

Today, I know how right I was to keep these letters for myself. Archie Bullseye would, indeed, have been suspicious if he had received letters written by me. In Kulumani, many people are surprised by my ability to write. In a place where the majority of folk are illiterate, people find it strange that a woman knows how to write. And they think I learned it at the mission, with the Portuguese priests. But in fact, my schooling dates from before: If I learned to read, it was thanks to the animals. The first stories I heard were about wild animals. Throughout my life, fables taught me to distinguish right from wrong, to unravel the good from the bad. In a word, it was the animals who began to make me human.

This training occurred without a plan, but with a purpose. My grandfather and father would bring home the meat we ate and the furs we sold from their hunting expeditions. But my grandfather brought something extra. From the bush, he would bring little trophies that he gave me: claws, hooves, feathers. He would leave these remnants on a table by the front door. Underneath each of these adornments, Adjiru Kapitamoro would write a letter on an old piece of paper. An e for an eagle’s feather, a g for a goat’s hoof, an m for munda , the word for an arrow in our local language. That was how the alphabet paraded before my eyes. Each letter was a new color through which I looked at the world.

On one occasion, there was a lion’s claw reposing on the piece of paper. Crouching next to me, my grandfather rolled his tongue around the roof of his mouth, and, like the sound of a small whip, he emitted a resounding l. His hand led mine while I drew the letter on the paper. Afterward, I smiled, triumphant. For the first time in my life, I was coming face-to-face with a lion. And there the beast was, written on the paper, kneeling at my feet.

Careful, my dear granddaughter. Writing is a dangerous form of vanity. It fills the others with fear …

In a world of men and hunters, the word was my very first weapon.

* * *

I peer at the village square from the top of the guava tree in the garden. I’ve never seen the shitala so full. They’ve had lunch, they’ve been drinking, and the sound of their voices has increased. I can’t see the guests who are hidden by the porch. I settle myself on the smooth trunk, and breathe in the scent of the guavas to pass the time while I wait. All of a sudden I see Archie emerge into the square to get some fresh air. He hasn’t changed much: He’s heavier, but still has the same princely air. My heart thumps in my chest. High up in the tree, I have the sensation of being above the world and time.

Suddenly I see Naftalinda crossing the square, sure-footed. What is she doing in a place that’s forbidden to women? I’ve known her ever since she was a young girl, I shared my solitude at the church mission with her. Some people say that her weight has made her mad. I have faith in her insanity. Only small fits of madness can save us from the big one.

* * *

The sight of the square full of people draws me back in time. I recall the occasions my grandfather, Adjiru, would come and fetch me to go for a walk in the village. Holding my hand, he would lead me to the shitala , the hall of the elders. My very presence there was a heresy that only he could authorize. The elders would ask Adjiru about his hunting adventures. At first he would hesitate. Sometimes he would pull me into the center of the gathering and proclaim:

You’re the one who’s going to tell stories, Mariamar.

But I’m a young girl, I’ve never hunted, I’ll never go out hunting …

We’ve all hunted, we’ve all been hunted , he would argue.

He was playing for time in order to become the center of the world. For later, he would draw himself up like a colossus, devoid of age, and his words would roll proudly around the room. At a certain point, Adjiru would pause, sigh, his eyes seeking out a target, suggesting that this was going to be a long story. He would sit down, sweating profusely. But it wasn’t support that he was seeking. It was a throne. Because from then on, Adjiru Kapitamoro would reign. Indeed, he wasn’t recalling the hunt: He was hunting again. In the middle of that gathering, at that very moment, before the gaze of his listeners, my grandfather lay in wait for his prey. And in its tense silence, the assembly feared putting to flight not the hunter’s memories, but the animals he was chasing.

Tell us another story, Adjiru. Tell us about that time when …

My grandfather would raise his arm in reprimand. He refused the invitation: In a hunter’s tale, there’s no such thing as “once upon a time.” Everything is born right there, as his voice speaks. To tell a story is to cast shadows over the flame. All that the word reveals is, in that very instant, consumed by silence. Only those who pray, surrendering their soul completely, are familiar with the way a word ascends and then plummets into the abyss.

* * *

One night, the story had been going on for a long time, and everyone was well oiled with drink, when Genito Mpepe, his voice slurred, interrupted: