Confession of the Lioness

Mariamar’s Version: SEVEN. The Ambush

Ever since the hunter arrived, the days have gone by, dense but empty like the clouds in winter. During this whole time, I have remained shut away, a prisoner in my own home, peeping out at the failed preparations for the hunting expeditions. I heard my father’s footsteps echoing through the early hours of the morning and the noise of the jeep would have me throwing myself at the window to get a glimpse of Archie Bullseye.

Little by little, though, my interest in my beloved began to fade. Why didn’t he send me some sign that he might be interested in seeing me again? There was only one true answer: I had died as far as he was concerned. There was no point in prolonging the illusion. It was this profound deception that made me give up. I no longer wanted to escape from the house; I could forgo a meeting with the hunter. I could do without the river, travel, dreams.

* * *

I wasn’t the only one disappointed in Archie Bullseye. The village elders were impatient, and began to hold meetings in the shitala, while an atmosphere of conspiracy began to take a grip on Kulumani. Florindo Makwala, the administrator, began to be seen at these meetings of the elders. His presence there was something unheard-of in the village. Makwala had always drawn a line between himself and the world that he called “traditional,” had always distanced himself from engaging with invisible matters. That was why people were puzzled by his sudden interest.

* * *

This afternoon, something unexpected happens. The administrator, Florindo Makwala, comes to our house. It’s not the custom for chiefs to leave their residence in order to discuss matters of governance. But this time Makwala has come to ask for favors. Shut away in the living room, he and my father confer for some time. I begin to fear that I may be the subject of negotiation. This fear is confirmed when I am later summoned to receive a disturbing command:

Tonight, you’re to go with the administrator! Genito Mpepe declares.

But aren’t I in prison? I ask.

You’re going to sleep over there, in his house, my father affirms, embarrassed.

In the visitor’s presence I manage to contain myself, though deep down I feel annihilated. The moment Florindo leaves, however, my entreaty gushes out:

Father, don’t do this to me. For the love of God, I don’t want to—

What you want has nothing to do with it.

But, ntwangu, please, think carefully, my mother declares, unexpectedly taking up my defense. That Florindo, that miserable worm …

Mpepe won’t brook any dissent. We should keep quiet. Did we know that, at the dead of night, there were conspiracies against his person? Did we realize how weak and isolated he was? Doing the administrator favors was his golden opportunity to regain his protection and respect.

In silence, my mother prepares my bath, dresses me, and combs my hair. The sun is starting to go down when she escorts me to Florindo Makwala’s residence. She stands in the road without moving as she watches me enter the garden, and even calls me:

Your scarf, girl …

And she passes her hand over my face, pretending to tidy my hair. She lingers, gripped by her very gesture. She takes her time looking at me before saying:

Don’t worry, my girl, you’re very pretty.

And she sets off home. I stand there alone, undecided, at the entrance of what the administrator always insisted was not a “house” but a “residence.” My hesitation is brief: The administrator comes to greet me at the door and invites me into his office. There’s a large sofa that he promptly occupies while I look around at the walls, where there’s a huge calendar with a Chinese woman lying lecherously across the hood of a car.

The photo of His Excellency is missing because your mother, Hanifa, was cleaning it and ended up breaking the glass. I’m awaiting funds to order a new frame …

I stand there waiting while he withdraws into himself, his head bowed over his knees.

I’m so desperate, Mariamar!

Soon, I think, he’ll burst into tears. On a sudden maternal impulse, I sit down next to him, but then I remain motionless, as befits someone of my status.

Give me your hand, Florindo says.

Clumsy and confused, I stretch out my arm and half open my fingers. I stay like that for a while without him reacting to my gesture.

Do you know why you’re here?

I lie, shaking my head timidly. A sour smell pervades the air around me. Florindo Makwala takes my hand and leads me across the room just as a married couple of many years’ standing might do as they retire to their sleeping quarters. He leads me down a long dark corridor and, near the door at the end, places his head next to mine. I avoid him abruptly, but he persists and then whispers in my ear:

There’s a problem with my wife, Naftalinda.

At last, he explains himself. The reason for my presence there is, after all, far removed from what I had suspected. In fact, the root of Florindo’s despair lies elsewhere. His wife had offered herself as bait for the lions. Her husband had tried to dissuade her. In vain. The First Lady insisted that she would go and sleep naked, in the open air, night after night, until the lions were attracted and came and devoured her. This was her stated intention. Unless he, Florindo, behaved like a real man and assumed a firm position over the Tandi affair and so many other issues.

My wife, my one and only wife …

Naftalinda would neither look nor listen. The administrator was in a panic. It was crucial that Naftalinda should be distracted from her suicidal intention. The First Lady would only listen to someone like me, someone who lived in the same type of solitude, who spoke the same type of language.

Are you sure I’m the right person, sir? At home everyone says I’m not even a person …

The administrator is more than convinced. Naftalinda and I had much in common: We’d been born in the same year, we’d both studied at the mission, we were both condemned not to have children, destined never to be women.

Go into that room and speak to her. But there’s one thing: Never address her by her old name. She doesn’t like it now …

In Kulumani, we gain names depending on the time and how old we are. Oceanita was Naftalinda’s first name, when she was just an infant, because of the volume of her tears. When she cried it was like the tide coming in. Each tear was a watery egg that fell on the ground with a loud splash.

The girl became a teenager and her body expanded in volume. Concerned, the family delivered her into the care of Father Amoroso: For so big a body, she would need many souls. We both met at the mission. My reason for being there was to cure my paralysis. Hers was to get lighter. I walked again. But she never shed any weight. In spite of a change in name, the girl remained fat. When we said goodbye to each other at the entrance to the mission, I noticed for the first time a bitterness in her look and a harshness in her voice:

Never call me Oceanita again. I’m Naftalinda now.

She was sent to the city and I heard no more about her until a few days ago, when she returned to Kulumani accompanying her husband and my hunter of lions. Ever since then, I hadn’t seen her again unless it was from afar, when she made her triumphal incursion into the menfolk’s shitala. As far as I was concerned, she was still Oceanita. But for all the others, she didn’t need a name at all. She was merely a wife, a very special wife. She was the First Lady in a village without any ladies.

* * *

Now all the chief’s voluminous spouse wants to do is die. It strikes me that her desire for suicide actually stems from a purely generous sentiment. She is so fleshy that the animals would feel sated and leave the village in peace for many a moon. Or who knows, maybe the hunters would take advantage of the moment to mount an ambush against the execrable beasts…?

The administrator opens the door with painstaking care and signals me to go in alone. I advance through the half-light, guided by the noise of heavy breathing. It’s as if her exhaled breaths collapse, exhausted, from her ample chest, like injured birds plummeting from high cliffs.

Step by step, I identify shadows until at last I detect the First Lady’s presence. She’s seated like Buddha, in a big old chair, her fingers submerged in two glasses of vinegar.

It’s to soften my nails, she announces, without greeting me.

Her screeching voice is like a nail scraping glass. She doesn’t notice me quiver. Her gaze is concentrated on her own hands.

I adore my nails, she states, blowing on her fingers. And she adds: They’re the only thin part of my body.

The whiff of vinegar adds flavor to an irrational fear that has assailed me ever since I entered the house. It’s a trap, I think with a shudder. It’s not the lion she wants to capture, but me. The inquisitorial gaze of my hostess comes to rest on me at last.

I’ve already forgiven you, my friend.

She is now confessing, so many years later: She’d always been envious of me, of my slim figure, my almond eyes. Her envy tormented her all the more every time I climbed up on the boys’ backs and they ran off with me, falling to the ground with me as if we were one body, and laughing with me in one single whoop.

How I hated you, Mariamar! I prayed so often to God that he might take you away.

I was now more used to the light, and I contemplated her as thoroughly as a dockworker might inspect a cargo on the quay. My gaze probes her like a blind man. I stare at Oceanita without ever actually seeing her. Her invisible elbows, her moon-shaped dimples, her folds and tucks: The girl is a whole plantation of flesh. Then I realize: She finds my scrutiny irritating. When she tries to get up, she’s like a star uncoupling from the universe.

I’ll help you, I am quick to offer.

There’s no need. She brushes me away energetically.

But then she falls back, as if her legs were failing her. And she uses me to support herself, like a ship nudging against the quay. She seems to get pleasure from this lingering touch. I maneuver her away with great care, and take a couple of steps back to contemplate her again. When some days before I glimpsed her from afar, I wasn’t aware of her size. Now I realize: Naftalinda is so fat that even when she’s standing, she’s still lying down.

All of a sudden the woman lifts up her skirt, exhibiting her forbidden parts, and I quickly look away. But the First Lady stands there without moving, like a statue, exposing herself without any shame.

Take a good look at me! Don’t be afraid to look, we’re both women. How can a man desire me? How can I seduce Florindo, tell me?

Don’t do this to me, I beg her.

What did Florindo tell you? Did he tell you I’d offered myself to be fed to the lions? Well, he didn’t understand. I want to be devoured, but I want to be devoured in the sexual sense. I want a lion to make me pregnant.

A lion would burrow like a miner until it reached her core. That was her secret plan. I look at her. She has a pretty face; her eyes are deep-set, dream-laden.

Do you know something, Mariamar? I miss our time at the mission. The mission wasn’t just a religious house: It was a country. Do you understand? We two lived in a foreign country. We’re whiter than that Archangel fellow.

I help her back into the chair, and tell her I shall be spending the night with her, sharing her room just as we used to do at the mission.

Naftalinda?

Call me Oceanita …

Can I sleep in this corner?

Wherever you like, but first of all help me to go out, I want to fulfill my dream.

I can’t. I promised I wouldn’t let you go out.

I just want to go out and come back in again.

Let’s go, then, but only for a bit. And only here, next to the house.

She takes me by the hand and leads me to the open ground in front of the administration building. Everyone in the village is asleep, and from the bushes all we can hear is the sad hoot of the nightjars. Naftalinda contemplates the darkened houses and laments:

I feel sorry for Florindo. He’s a clown. He thinks that people venerate him. No one respects him, no one loves him.

She takes a few steps toward the bushes that surround the garden, chooses an old tree trunk, sits down on it, and remains in that position as if she were in prayer. Naftalinda falls asleep while I keep watch on her from a distance. Gradually I surrender to sleep until, in a split second, there is chaos and confusion: A rustling in the long grass, a low growl, and a shadow hurtles toward Naftalinda like a fireball. In a flash I see a lioness clutching her vast body and both of them, almost indistinct from one another, embracing in a deadly dance.

Help, a lioness! Help!

Yelling aloud, I rush forward to help the girl. The lioness is startled by my attack. With an impetus that I never guessed I was capable of, I grow in strength and size and force the lioness to back off. Here is an opportunity for Naftalinda to get away. But she rejects my help and runs to embrace her aggressor once again. In an instant, the three of us are rolling around together, there is a confusion of nails and claws, slobbering and panting, roars and screams. My frenzy causes my body to double in strength: I bite, scratch, kick. Surprised, the lioness eventually gives up. Defeated, she retreats with all the dignity of a queen dethroned. And she disappears into the darkness on the other side of the road.

For a few seconds, I remain on top of Naftalinda, but then suddenly the sky itself collapses on top of me. The pain is huge, I scream in despair, I turn on myself and catch a glimpse of Florindo with a stick raised above his head, ready to deliver the final blow.

It’s me! It’s me, Mariamar!

A chorus of voices breaks out: Kill her, Florindo! That woman is the lioness herself! The whole village throngs together around us, demanding justice. Next to me, Naftalinda is covered in blood. She gets up on her knees, opens her arms to protect my body, and proclaims in a kind of screech:

No one touch this woman. No one!

Still clutching the stick, Florindo Makwala, confused, orders the crowd back. He kneels down next to me to ask how I am. His voice is also on its knees as he murmurs:

I’m sorry, Mariamar, but in the darkness I didn’t see it was you.

At first the people retreat. But then, of one voice, they begin to yell once more, demanding my immediate execution. And once again they advance in a frenzy. I’m assailed by the old dream, that I’m going to die as I always dreamed I would, flat-out on a stretch of beach, shapes hovering above me like vultures, ready to devour my soul. And the kicking and punching no longer hurt me, I don’t hear the insults anymore, and I’m not even aware that the crowd is dispersing like an ocean wave. The person responsible for causing the crazed horde to melt away is Florindo Makwala, who has grown in both body and voice. Seen from down on the ground, he is like a mountain and his command is that of an irate demigod:

Back! Get back or I’ll kill you with my own hands.

Astounded, Naftalinda looks at her husband as if she doesn’t recognize him. Then she sighs:

My man, my man’s come back!

The administrator stands there, statuesque and threatening, until suddenly we hear shots. At first far away. For a long moment the people are paralyzed between expectation and fear. Then there are more shots, this time nearer. The onlookers dash off in the direction of the road. It’s not long before the sound of voices reaches us, excited but indistinguishable. It’s Archie who’s coming, I think. The hunter has come to rescue me — he’s finally appeared before my weary heart. The cries are now clear:

They’ve killed the lions! They’ve killed the lions!

I get to my feet with difficulty and stagger toward the road. And there he is, my savior! His weapon over his shoulder, he stands out in the darkness and is walking toward me. But gradually the figure becomes clearer and I realize it’s not Archie Bullseye. It’s Maniqueto, the policeman. Surrounded by the crowd that welcomes him in all his glory, he brandishes the bloodied ear of the slaughtered lion in his right hand.

I killed this lion out there in the bush.

But we heard shots nearby …

The other one, the lioness, was killed right here, on the road.

He is greeted with euphoric applause. No one notices Florindo helping his injured wife back home. Only I haven’t a home to go back to. Only I weep on the dark ground of Kulumani.