Confession of the Lioness

The Hunter’s Diary: EIGHT. Flowers for the Living

Florindo Makwala leads me to the dead lion, as if it were an excursion to my own failure. I didn’t hunt any of the lions. My brother Roland can relax: This wasn’t my last hunt. It wasn’t even a hunt. And my mother, wherever she may be, can take pride in her prophecy: Hunting and I have gone our different ways.

* * *

On the way, we pass by to pick up Gustavo Regalo. I find him immersed in his usual papers.

Leave your work, and let’s go and see the lion that’s been shot.

It’s not my work — I’m looking over your diary.

Is it worth the trouble?

Listen, I’m a writer, I know how to judge: Whoever writes like this doesn’t need to hunt.

I feel a lump in my throat. Gustavo can’t imagine the value of his reward. It was just a short note that began my story with Luzilia. It was the letters that caused my father to get down on his knees in front of his beloved wife. It was envy that I felt for Roland when he remained at home, seated like a king in the company of his books. I was always the one out on the street, or in the bush. What Gustavo now has given me is a home. Perhaps that’s why I now offer him my old rifle. Gustavo declines. And I ask:

So can’t we exchange? You hunt and I’ll write.

You’ve given me what comes before the gun in hunting.

* * *

And we set off to see the lion, the trophy from such a costly war. The vehicle proceeds slowly over a short distance until it pauses near a hillock. Without saying a word, we get out of the jeep and follow a path next to the river. It’s early morning, and the dew still glistens in tiny pearls on the grass and in the cobwebs. With his camera swaying on his chest, the writer follows me. The thorns brush my legs and arms. A trail of blood is my inheritance. I’m a hunter who bleeds more than his victim.

Who killed this lion? Gustavo wants to know.

It was Maliqueto, answers Florindo Makwala, who is walking in front. Genito Mpepe was the one who killed the lioness, the one that attacked Naftalinda.

The lioness had been killed beside the road. By this time she had been taken to the village, where she would be exhibited as proof of the hunt’s successful outcome. That left the male, which looked majestic. That’s why the administrator requested a photograph of the lion and not the lioness: The picture would have greater impact in the nation’s news outlets.

* * *

A little farther ahead, next to a clump of bushes, lies the animal. Stretched out as only a feline can extend itself. It had lost its regal dignity. The most striking thing are the ticks sucking its snout. As soon as they sense the bitter taste of death, they let themselves drop like gray falling peas. I’ve come to see the lion, the king of the forest, and I’m absorbed with insignificant parasites. I picture one of these ticks growing and bursting like a grenade full of blood, staining the whole scene red.

Take a photo of me next to the trophy, the administrator insists, cutting a vain pose, one foot on the animal. It’s an illusion I don’t bother to dismantle: What is there is no longer a lion. It is empty plunder. It isn’t anything more than a useless shell, a piece of skin stuffed with nothingness.

* * *

I am going to visit Hanifa Assulua. I won’t stay for Genito’s funeral. But at least I want to express my condolences. And apart from this, I have the task of taking her only surviving daughter with me.

Before entering the garden, I collect some wildflowers. I don’t want to turn up empty-handed. As I kneel, picking among the grass, I am startled by Hanifa’s voice:

Flowers again?

I want to explain that Genito is the beneficiary of my gesture. But his widow walks swiftly on ahead of me, unwilling to listen. When we get to the shade of her front yard, she offers me a chair and she sits down on a mat. In silence, she allows the mourning women in black to mill around her. I have no words to say about the deceased. That’s why I give her the flowers with only a word of explanation.

They’re for Genito. Flowers for when there are no words.

What can we do? People live without asking to do so, and die without being given permission.

I’m sorry it ended like this.

It’s not being a widow that hurts me. I’ve been a widow for a long time, she says in a matter-of-fact way the moment we have exchanged formal greetings.

What worries her is her daughter, Mariamar. She is ill and, in Kulumani, no one can provide her with any treatment.

I have the papers from the hospital confirming that she should be admitted. My daughter has gone mad.

I’ve spoken to the administrator. I’ll take her with me. But are you going to stay here on your own?

I have graves to look after.

Your daughter will come and visit you.

Mariamar can’t come back. Ever. She would be killed by the living and persecuted by the dead.

* * *

Hanifa goes into the house and returns a few minutes later leading a young girl by the hand.

This is my daughter.

The girl is wrapped in a capulana, which partially covers her face. She walks with lifeless steps, as if she were a scarecrow. In her hand she carries a notebook on whose cover one can read the words Mariamar’s Diary. As her eyes meet mine, I feel bemused and uneasy. Suddenly those honey eyes transport me back to a past that seemed to have faded. I turn my face away, I’m a hunter, I know how to escape from traps. Those eyes contain so much light that they seem to darken the world. But it’s a good darkness, the gentle languor of childhood. Mariamar’s eyes are so clear that, without my knowing, they restore something to me that I lost long ago. Now I address her as if I were resuming a conversation that had been interrupted, and my voice almost fails me as I ask:

You’ve only got that notebook, aren’t you taking a suitcase with some clothes?

She doesn’t speak, her mother intervenes. She’s hasn’t spoken since yesterday.

Mariamar gesticulates, pointing at her notebook. Her mumbling reminds me of Roland, my poor brother, who had such an intimate relationship with words throughout his life, and now doesn’t even have access to the most basic vocabulary. The girl with the honey eyes waves her arms, her capulana opens like a pair of wings, and her mother translates:

She says the only clothes she has are this notebook.

* * *

I give them some time, and withdraw so that the two of them, Hanifa and Mariamar, can say their goodbyes. But there is no leave-taking. A hand that lingers on a hand: That’s the only exchange of words between mother and daughter. But the delay has a purpose that I almost fail to notice: The mother discreetly passes a kind of necklace to her daughter.

I like to give necklaces too, I say.

It’s not a necklace, Hanifa corrects me. What I’m giving Mariamar is our ancient thread of time. All the women in the family counted the months of their pregnancy on this long string.

Mariamar is moved by this gift. A shadow passes over her eyes and she drops the notebook. As it lies half open on the ground, I read the first of its pages. These are the words: “God was once a woman…” I smile. At that moment, I’m surrounded by goddesses. From both sides of that farewell, in that rupturing of worlds, it’s women who stitch together my own ruptured story. I contemplate the clouds as they advance with the ponderous, contorted step of pregnancy. It won’t be long before it rains. In Palma, the woman I’ve been waiting for all my life awaits me.

* * *

Once in the jeep, with Mariamar sitting beside me, I utter a clumsy goodbye.

Goodbye, Hanifa.

Did you count the lions?

I’ve known how many there were ever since the day I arrived.

You know how many. But you don’t know who they are.

You’re right. That’s a skill I’ll never learn.

You know very well: There were three lions. There’s still one left.

I look around as if surveying the landscape. It’s the last time I shall see Kulumani. It’s the last time I shall hear this woman. With due respect for final goodbyes, Hanifa Assulua whispers:

I am the last lioness. That’s the secret only you know, Archangel Bullseye.

Why are you telling me this, Dona Hanifa?

This is my confession. This is the thread of time I place in your hands.