A General Theory of Oblivion

CHE GUEVARA’S MULEMBA TREE

Down in the yard, where the lagoon once rose up, there is an enormous tree. I have discovered, by consulting a book from the library about Angolan flora, that it is a ‘mulemba’ (Ficus thonninglii). In Angola, it is considered the Royal Tree, or Word Tree, because the tribal chiefs and elder women often meet in its shade to discuss the problems of the tribe. The highest branches almost reach the windows of my bedroom.

I sometimes see a monkey wandering the branches, way out there, amidst the birds and the shadows. He must have belonged to someone once. Maybe he ran away, or his owner abandoned him. I feel for him. Like me, he is a foreign body in this city.

A foreign body.

The children throw stones at him, the women drive him off with sticks. They shout at him. Insult him.

I’ve given him a name: Che Guevara, because he has a rather rebellious look about him, a bit of a joker, and he is haughty like a king who has lost his kingdom and his crown.

One time I found him out on the terrace eating bananas. I don’t know how he gets up there. Maybe by jumping from the branches of the mulemba to one of the windows and from there onto the ledge. It doesn’t bother me. There are plenty of bananas and pomegranates for us both — for now, at least.

I like opening up the pomegranates, turning their brightness around in my fingers. I even like the Portuguese word for them — romã — the morning glimmer it has to it.