Mia Couto - Confession of the Lioness

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Confession of the Lioness: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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A dark, poetic mystery about the women of the remote village of Kulumani and the lionesses that hunt them. Told through two haunting, interwoven diaries, Mia Couto’s
reveals the mysterious world of Kulumani, an isolated village in Mozambique whose traditions and beliefs are threatened when ghostlike lionesses begin hunting the women who live there.
Mariamar, a woman whose sister was killed in a lioness attack, finds her life thrown into chaos when the outsider Archangel Bullseye, the marksman hired to kill the lionesses, arrives at the request of the village elders. Mariamar’s father imprisons her in her home, where she relives painful memories of past abuse and hopes to be rescued by Archangel. Meanwhile, Archangel tracks the lionesses in the wilderness, but when he begins to suspect there is more to them than meets the eye, he starts to lose control of his hands. The hunt grows more dangerous, until it’s no safer inside Kulumani than outside it. As the men of Kulumani feel increasingly threatened by the outsider, the forces of modernity upon their traditional culture, and the danger of their animal predators closing in, it becomes clear the lionesses might not be real lionesses at all but spirits conjured by the ancient witchcraft of the women themselves.
Both a riveting mystery and a poignant examination of women’s oppression,
explores the confrontation between the modern world and ancient traditions to produce an atmospheric, gripping novel.

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Shoot, kill it!

Kill a hyena?

Can’t you see? It’s carrying something in its mouth; it looks like a piece of a leg.

I fear my fingers are going to disobey me yet again. But this time the rifle is true to its death-dealing nature. My shot is on target and the creature falls, its life erased. All this suddenly puzzles me. Why was I in control of my own fingers this time? The memory of my mother, soiled with my blood, as if she were giving birth to me a second time, surfaces once again. Once again, I hear her prophecy: It was not my fate to be a hunter. But then why should this premonition only manifest itself now?

Great shot, it was killed outright! the tracker rejoices.

But the truth is that for the first time, I fired without emotion, without soul: The shot tore through the silence without my being aware of having pulled the trigger.

When I bend over the prey, I see it has a bone in its mouth. It’s not easy to free it from its powerful jaws. There’s no doubt: It’s a human femur. The creature has unearthed it, scratching around in these sinister sands.

Do you know what this means? Genito asks. It means that the lions killed another person.

When we arrive back in Kulumani, a crowd is gathering in front of the administration building. They’ve heard the shot and are awaiting some good news. But they are immediately disappointed when they identify what we’re carrying in the back of the jeep.

This hyena belongs to someone , the blind man in the military tunic whispers in my ear.

There’s immediate agreement: That animal wasn’t reacting to its instinct. What it was doing was carrying out contract work. No one, much less an animal, goes snuffling around in the forbidden ground of Kuva Vila. It has been known since time immemorial that nothing was buried there except for the remains of old warriors. From the epic contests whose roll call grew longer over time: the wars against the ngunis , the German wars, the war against the Portuguese army, the civil war, and other domestic wars that never merited a name.

* * *

It’s decided that the fateful bone should be taken to an old sorceress called Apia Nwapa. A bone doesn’t appear out of nowhere. All the more serious when, as in this case, the bone really had appeared out of nowhere. I refuse to consult the spirits. I haven’t got time for such distractions. But the writer insists that the visit is crucial and I mustn’t try to sneak out of the need to accompany those participating in the ceremony. That way I would benefit from other blessings for the success of this mission.

* * *

I’m going to ask the river’s permission.

The sorceress pulls her hat down over her face and, at that moment, she turns into a shadow. Apia Nwapa is swollen with pride: Outsiders (including a representative of the administrator himself) are seated before her.

The woman leans heavily against the trunk of a baobab. Her feet stretched out in front of her, she settles herself as if this were her own private church. She looks lingeringly at the writer, at me, and at Maliqueto Próprio. Then she once again announces:

To give you authorization to hunt, I must first ask the river’s permission.

The river? I ask testily.

The river has its rules. The great ngwena lives in the Lideia. You, sir, know this crocodile only too well …

I know it?

It’s the same crocodile you, sir, killed a long time ago.

I can’t avoid smiling. Ngwena , the crocodile? I already had a license to carry a gun — I was authorized to kill lions. Did I now have to await the decision of an imaginary crocodile? That’s what I ask, half timidly, half incredulous. Apia’s voice is contained, but she doesn’t mince her words:

Imaginary? Do you doubt the crocodile? What sort of an African are you?

Let’s leave my problems out of it. We came here for you to identify a bone found in a hyena’s mouth.

The bone is laid at her feet. She doesn’t move, but limits herself to contemplating the remains of the skeleton from a distance. She closes her eyes and inhales deeply as if she were assessing its smell.

This bone is still very much alive. The killing was done to order.

Bones are our only piece of eternity. The body goes, memories fade. The bones stay behind forever. These are Apia Nwapa’s arguments: What we had in front of us wasn’t just a femur. On the contrary, it was living proof of someone’s existence.

Yes, but whose?

My mouth isn’t suggesting anyone. You know whose it is.

Did we come here just to hear this? I ask defiantly.

Well, then, I’m going to suggest something, and you, sir, who are a hunter, are going to discover what lies behind my words. She pauses and, her eyes closed, adds: A woman, lying on the ground, fell deeper than the dust. In the end, someone is going to get pregnant by a skeleton.

Her message seems incomprehensible, but Maliqueto appears to understand its meaning perfectly clearly. Away from the witch’s house, he calls us over to the edge of the road and explains:

That bone is Tandi’s, the administrator’s maid, the girl who was raped …

* * *

The cries in the village confirm the mourning: News of the latest victim of the killer lions has already spread. No one is surprised at it being Tandi. After she’d been raped, the girl had turned into a vashilo , one of those beings who sleepwalk through the night. Exposed and alone like this, she surrendered to the voraciousness of the lions. Tandi had committed suicide.

When I turn in, the sobbing of the women can still be heard in the streets. They weep for the person who has died. More than her death, they sorrow over her brief, drab, meager life. The witch’s last words echo in my mind:

Listen, hunter, it’s not you who pull the trigger: The shot is fired by another who, in that very instant, occupies your being.

As far as I am concerned, that was the only time Apia Nwapa told the truth.

* * *

The next morning, I visit Genito Mpepe. I clap my hands at the entrance to the garden. It’s his wife, Hanifa, who comes to the door. The tracker, she tells me, has a hangover.

My husband is a kwambalwa, she affirms. I could tell you he is a drunkard. But what that man is can only be said in my language: a kwambalwa.

All you can see, scattered around the garden over there, are flagons of drink …

Don’t be surprised, my good sir: I’m the one who prepares these flagons, I’m the one who gives him his drink.

For the women of Kulumani, a drunk is better than a husband. But in her case, the choice is between a serpent’s spittle and the devil’s breath. In the end, Genito’s violence when sober is more painful than his cruelty when he’s intoxicated.

Follow me , she says, leading me along pathways. Come and see how that man is still sleeping.

Genito is curled up on a mat next to the well.

He’s like an animal , Hanifa remarks. Sometimes I pray to God that he’ll never wake up again , she confesses.

I smile, embarrassed. I shake my head as if to relieve myself of the gravity of her declarations. But my hostess launches forth again, even more bitterly:

If he didn’t wake up, I wouldn’t have to kill him.

What’s this, Hanifa?

That man gave me four daughters, but he’s taken all of them away from me.

I was told the eldest was killed by lions.

It was Genito who killed her …

On that fateful morning, Silência was escaping from Kulumani, running away from Genito Mpepe’s despotic regime.

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