Once again, women. These are other ones, but as far as I am concerned, they are indistinguishable from the previous ones. They cross the road, half-naked. The nakedness of Africans was once a topic of debate between myself and Marcelo. All of a sudden, black bodies emerged onto the market of desire as socially acceptable. Dark-skinned women and men took magazines, newspapers, television, fashion parades, by storm. Their bodies are beautiful, sculpted with grace, equilibrium, eroticism. And I wonder to myself: why did we never notice them before?
How is it that the African woman has changed from being a focus of ethnographic interest to feature on the covers of fashion magazines, in advertisements for cosmetics, or on the catwalks of the world of haute couture? I could see only too well that Marcelo took delight in contemplating these images. A deep anger bubbled inside me. It was clear that the invasion of black sensuality was a sign that values attributed to beauty were becoming less prejudiced. But black female nudity led me to consider my own body. Thinking about how I saw my body, I came to the following conclusion: I didn’t know how to be naked. And I realized that what covered me was not so much clothing as shame. It had been like that ever since the time of Eve, ever since the birth of sin. For me, Africa wasn’t a continent. It was the fear I had of my own sensuality. One thing seemed obvious to me: if I wanted to win back Marcelo, I would have to allow Africa to emerge within me. I needed to give birth to my own African nudity.
I take in my surroundings as I crouch down. The ground is criss-crossed by thousands of ants, parading along infinite little tracks. I’ve heard it said that women from here eat this red sand. When they die, they’re eaten by the earth. When they’re alive, they devour the very earth that will swallow them up tomorrow.
I pull up my underpants as I get to my feet. I’ve decided to hold it. My bladder will have to wait for another piece of ground. A ground that isn’t being scribbled across by famished insects.
We return to the truck. The road is a serpent undulating on the curve of the horizon. The road is alive, and its huge mouth is devouring me.
The vehicle advances slowly across the savannah, and the track’s substance dissolves as the dust cloud rises into the air like a vulture’s wings. The dust covers my face, my eyes, my clothes. I’m being turned into earth, buried outside the earth. Could it be that, without realizing it, I’m turning into the African woman who bewitched Marcelo?
MADNESS
When our country is no longer ours to have
Lost to silence and submission
Even the sea’s voice becomes exile
and the light around us prison bars
— What are you doing here?
The papers plummeted to the floor. I thought their fall would be a gradual, fluttering descent. On the contrary, they collapsed in one solid sheaf and the noise they made caused the crickets around the house to fall silent.
— Were you reading my letters?
— I don’t know how to read, Miss Marta.
— So what were you doing with those papers in your hand?
— It’s just that I’d never seen. .
— Never seen what?
— Papers.
Marta bent down to pick up the sheets. She checked them one by one, as if each contained some incalculable fortune.
— My father’s yelling over at the camp. I think I’d better go.
The slashed tires of the Portuguese woman’s car had driven my father completely mad. On the veranda, the dishevelled Silvestre wailed:
— I’m surrounded by traitors and cowards.
His list of deserters was a long one: his eldest son didn’t respect him, his brother-in-law had joined the ones from Over There; someone had been delving around in his money box; and even Zachary Kalash was falling into disobedient ways.
— You’re the only one left, my son, you’re the only one who hasn’t abandoned me yet.
He took a step forward to touch me, but I avoided him, pretending to tie my shoes, and that’s how I stayed, my head bowed, until he moved off to his usual place of rest. My eyes didn’t leave the ground, for I knew only too well that he would read my seditious thoughts.
— Come here, Mwanito. I feel a need for a bit of silence.
Seated in his armchair, he closed his eyes and let his arms drop as if they were no longer his. I almost felt sorry for Silvestre. On the other hand, I could never forget that those same arms had repeatedly beaten my poor brother. And, who knows, those arms might have strangled Dordalma, my beloved mother.
— I’m not feeling anything, Mwanito, what’s happening?
Silence is a crossing. You need baggage to brave that journey. At that moment, Silvestre was drained. And I was brimming with bitterness and suspicion. How could I conjure up a silence with so much buzzing around in my head? I got up hurriedly, bowed my head respectfully as I passed the armchair, and moved away.
— Don’t leave me, my son, I’ve never felt so much despair before. . Mwanito, come back.
I didn’t go back. I stayed in the corner, hidden by the adjoining wall. I listened to the rattling of his chest. The old man seemed at the point of sobbing. But suddenly, what followed left me thunderstruck: my father was humming a tune! For the first time in my eleven years of life, I heard my old man sing. It was a sad piece and his voice was like a tiny trickle of water made from morning mist. I drew my knees up close to me and hugged them with my arms: my father was singing and his voice was accomplishing the divine mission of chasing away the dark clouds.
I concentrated, listening with my whole body, as if I knew that this was the first and last time I would hear Vitalício in song.
— I like what I’m hearing, brother.
I almost leapt with fright at Aproximado’s arrival. My father got an even greater fright, ashamed at having been caught red-handed singing his old favourites.
— It just came out, without my being aware.
— I often remember the choir of our church, and you, Silvestre, were the maestro, you were so good at it. .
— I’m going to confess something to you, brother. There’s nothing I miss more.
More than people, more than love and friends. It was the absence of music he found hardest. In the middle of the night, he said, under his sheets and blankets, he sang almost imperceptibly. Then the other voices would come to him, pinpointed with such clarity that only God could hear them.
— That’s why I don’t allow the kids to come near my room at night.
— So, my dear old Silvestre, you were flouting the rules after all. .
There were so many times, he admitted at that moment, so many times when he felt like asking Aproximado to bring him his old accordion from the city. All this, Silvestre Vitalício confessed, while his hands shook so much, that the other became concerned:
— Are you all right, brother?
Silvestre got to his feet to calm his nerves. He pushed his shoulders back, tightened his belt, coughed and declared: