Confession of the Lioness

The Hunter’s Diary: FIVE. The Living Bone of a Dead Hyena

The administrator is impatient. “Operation Lion,” as he now calls the hunt, is taking time to produce results. In the meantime, he has received an ultimatum from his superiors in the party. Outside investment in the region could be at risk if this area of tension is not resolved.

I even thought of drafting a report, saying everything was all right.

A false report?

It’s what we subalterns do. We never say there’s a problem. If we admit there’s a problem, then that only brings more problems from our superiors. But Naftalinda read the report and threatened to expose its falseness publicly. So that’s why there’s only one solution, my dear huntsman: Hurry up and kill these lions for me.

Not long after Florindo has left, there’s a knock on the door from his well-endowed wife, Naftalinda. She asks whether the administrator has been here. Then she calls me over and whispers in my ear:

Florindo’s in a hurry. He wants the matter brought to a conclusion. He’s ordered arms to be distributed among the others. Be careful, my friend. There are people here who want to kill you.

That same afternoon, I set off alone. I make for the forests that line the road leading to Palma. I have a hunch that my walk may prove productive.

* * *

My hunch is proved right. After half an hour, the outline of a lioness emerges on the other side of a dried-up stream. The animal doesn’t seem surprised, as if she were expecting this encounter. Without any warning, she lunges forward on the attack and in a split second covers the distance that separates us. More unexpected than the lioness’s charge is my own shriek:

God help me!

That frenzied invocation is all I have left as the trigger awaits the pressure of my finger. What curse is it that weighs upon me as I commend my soul instead of firing a shot? Within me, my mother’s prophecy and my father’s inheritance vie with each other.

But lo and behold, suddenly the lioness stops her onward rush. Who knows, maybe she is surprised not to see me run away, terrified. She stops in front of me, her eyes fixed on mine. She is puzzled by me. I’m not what she expected. At that same moment, she ceases to be a lioness. When she withdraws, she has already left her existence. She is no longer even a living creature.

* * *

I arrive at our encampment in such a state of defeat and emptiness that I lie down on the veranda, prepared to sleep out in the open. I had the lioness in my sights and I failed like a novice, seized by fear. I don’t deserve a roof over my head. Maybe the gods will find it easier to forgive me if I am modest and unprotected like this.

I’m not one of those people who seek help from the heavens when they are afflicted. As for praying, I only pray when I’m asleep. My dreams are my only prayers. I hope God doesn’t take this badly. But it’s just that all I have left is a tiny, temporary soul. Only at night does my spirit come alive, whispering softly so that no one may hear me. I ask for forgiveness for my descent into animality. But having a soul is a burden that I would only be able to bear when dead. That’s why I loved so much, in so many deluded love affairs. That’s why I hunt. To empty myself. To free myself from being a man.

* * *

The perfect opportunity, missed through my own fault, remains an obsession in my memory. The lioness continues before me, appraising my soul. There is a divine light in her eyes. I am beset by the strangest of thoughts: that somewhere, I have already contemplated those eyes that seem capable of hypnotizing a blind man.

A gentle weariness enfeebles my body; I’m assailed by the same anguish that causes moths to flutter helplessly around the oil lamp. I fall asleep. And I dream. I’m the opposite of the traditional hunter who, the night before, dreams of the animal he’s going to kill. In my case, I dream of myself, gaining life only after having been killed by the creatures of the wild. These beasts are now my private monsters, my favorite works of creation. They will never cease to be mine, never stop moving through my dreams. Because I am, after all, their docile prisoner.

* * *

Kulumani’s old church emerges in my dream. When I open its rust-hinged doors, I come face-to-face with a white priest. He is Portuguese, his face is familiar. It’s hard to imagine his being a priest. His disheveled hair, his torn, dirty cassock, lend him the appearance of a beggar.

Come in, my son, he invites me. My flock has been fervently awaiting you for so long. Archangel is your name and it was God who sent you.

My eyes get used to the shadows: Those whom the priest calls his flock of believers are, in fact, lions and lionesses. These felines are sitting respectfully, listening with human devotion to the message that the priest is propagating from the pulpit. And together, priest and believers pray that I may be successful in my mission: that I may put an end to the brutalities of men who are pursuing innocent lions. The priest raises the chalice: This is your blood, he proclaims. Struggling to control themselves, the lions cover the church pews with their saliva. His arms outstretched, his voice battling in order not to be drowned by the roars of the wild animals, the missionary announces:

You haven’t come to kill a lion. You’ve come to kill a person!

* * *

What a hell of a dream, I think as I awaken. I tell the writer about the ghosts that torment me at night. Gustavo smiles and remarks: It’s curious how we always dream of the same animals: lions, tigers, eagles, serpents. Deep down, we want to be those that can devour us.

* * *

First thing in the morning, accompanied by the writer and by the tracker Mpepe, I set off for the arid wastelands that lie to the north of the village. The lions were prowling around there last night. I was confident that it would be easy to follow them: Over the wide area of sand, lions leave perfectly distinguishable tracks. This whole territory is called Kuva Vila. And it’s true: In Shimakonde, the term means “empty.” The place is deserted, godforsaken. It is said that not a drop of rain has ever fallen there, even in distraction.

We haven’t been going for long before we catch sight of a solitary hyena in the distance. It walks along like a mirage against the indistinct background of the sand. The writer has difficulty in picking out the animal. Then, when he glimpses the prey, his face is lit with the incandescence of a moment, the flash of his senses. Afterward I explain to him: This is the real nature of my vice. It’s not killing that fascinates me. It’s this encounter with an elusive miracle, the fleeting and unrepeatable moment. All of a sudden I’m jolted by Genito Mpepe’s explicit order:

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.

Come and see her grave. It’s right here, not far.

We cross some waste ground until we get to some nearby thickets. The grave is marked with a wooden cross and a large granite stone. Some wildflowers have been placed on this improvised gravestone. Some of them are still fresh.

Pretty flowers. Do you people bring them?

Us? You’re the one who brings flowers.

Me?

Early each morning, you get down on your knees here and speak to the dead girl.

* * *

Hanifa leads me back to the house, while I am tormented by doubt: How was she able to invent a story about me bringing flowers for Silência? The woman’s mad, I think.

In the yard, I hear someone cough behind a screen made of reeds. When I go to take a look, Hanifa pulls me by the arm and makes me sit down on the only chair.

It isn’t anyone, only dogs. Those that haven’t yet been eaten by the lions.

My hostess takes a pan of boiled sweet potato from the kitchen and serves it on an earthenware plate. I’m not hungry, but I can’t refuse. We share the food in silence.

I talk about killing Genito, but it’s the whole of Kulumani that I’d like to get rid of.

Why are you so angry, Hanifa?

Here we are, the two of us, eating together. In Kulumani, that’s forbidden. A man and a woman eating together? Only if the man is bewitched.

Who knows, maybe I am bewitched.

Suddenly I hear the noise of crockery falling from the thatch of a lean-to where it has been left to dry. And I see the shape of a woman rush by to hide behind the house.

Who is that?

It’s no one.

But I saw her, I saw a woman hiding.

That’s what I told you: Here, a woman is no one …

She gets up and without more ado leads me around to the front yard. It’s a way of telling me that my visit is coming to an end. She wants to give me a few roots of manioc. I decline the gift gently. Before I leave, she takes my hands and asks:

You have such a deep sadness within you. What’s the matter?

Nothing. Nothing’s the matter. Why do you ask?

Why do you waste your time talking to a solitary old black woman like me?