Confession of the Lioness

The Hunter’s Diary: FOUR. Rituals and Ambushes

Hanifa comes to call me in the middle of the night. She is so terrified that I rush off after her without changing clothes. With a long nightgown hiding my knees, I look like a clumsy ghost.

The lions have reached my house.

They’d been prowling around the village ever since nightfall. Hanifa had heard them in the distance.

I didn’t hear anything, I confess.

The woman has no doubts. There are three of them and they’re making for the village. We wouldn’t hear them again. The closer they get, the more careful they become. I pick up my gun and step out into the garden, gauging the darkness and the silence. Hanifa follows me. The writer, gripped by terror, brings up the rear. In no time at all, we are standing in the Mpepes’ yard.

Don’t switch on your flashlight, sir, the woman whispers to the writer.

So how am I going to see where I’m going? Gustavo asks.

Be quiet, the pair of you! And you, Hanifa, go and get Genito immediately! I order.

He’s sleeping.

Suddenly Hanifa points at some bushes which are stirring and urges me:

Fire, it’s the lions! Fire!

My forefinger on the trigger grows taut. In the arch of bone and nerve lies the decision of the gods: whether or not to extinguish a life in a bolt of lightning. But in this case, my quivering finger hesitates. It’s a lucky delay: A figure emerges from the shadows, hands raised like a drunken scarecrow.

Don’t shoot, it’s me, Genito!

The tracker had gone to buy some liquor in the nearby village. He raises the bottle as proof.

Now go inside, Hanifa. You know I don’t want you out here at night.

Your wife went to call us, the writer explains, because she seemed to think there were lions in the neighborhood.

The tracker looks at the bush from which he has just emerged. He shakes his head, raises the bottle to his lips, and takes a generous swig. He makes sure his wife has gone back into the house. He sits down on the ground and invites us to drink with him. Neither of us accepts. We stand there looking at the stars until Genito breaks the silence.

Hanifa knew it was me. She knew I was on my way home.

I don’t understand, says Gustavo.

Do you know what happened here? It was an ambush. Hanifa wants to kill me.

Don’t be so absurd …

She thinks I’m guilty of terrible things.

What things?

Our things. You know something? There’s no law here, no government, and even God only visits us occasionally.

* * *

When I get back to my room, I remove the cartridges from the chamber of my rifle and repeatedly press the trigger. I’m still trembling slightly, but in general my body obeys me immediately. As always, I take time to reconcile myself to sleep. Staring fixedly at the ceiling, I once again picture my last visit to the psychiatric hospital. I can’t get Roland’s farewell out of my mind — his long hands gain wings and flutter blindly around the room. I spend some time like this. As they say in Kulumani, night only ends when the owls fall silent. Without the presence of these birds, night loses its ceiling. And there are those who, without even being aware, scare these birds of omen away. We have these owl chasers to thank for every new break of day. There at the other end of this remoteness, Roland’s hands shape each of my sleepless nights.

* * *

First thing in the morning, the administrator bursts hurriedly and furtively into our living quarters as if he were being chased by lions. He glances at the street before shutting the door, wipes his forehead with a handkerchief, and then collapses on the black imitation leather sofa.

My wife mustn’t see me here. She’s becoming impossible, that woman!

The man is quick to explain himself. He feared we might have got a false impression of what had come out of the meeting in the shitala. What had been evident from the meeting was envy. The cancer of our society, as he put it. It was precisely this cancer that had led to the recent dismissal of one of his aides in the administration. The career of a veteran official of the party, one Simon Mutapa, had been summarily destroyed.

Don’t you want to put the ventilation on? I’ve got the generator connected up, and the company delivered more fuel …

He points over in our direction at a noisy fan. We stand there for some time glancing at each other, waiting for the administrator to catch his breath. Then, once again, he sets off talking, and explains that, prior to our arrival, the people had invented guilty parties for tragic occurrences.

They blamed Simon Mutapa for this curse of the lions.

Rumors were spread around the village that the Mutapa family had invisible powers. It was in Simon’s house that lions were made. Logical explanation had been of little use, just as a commission of inquiry sent by the provincial administration had been of little use. Mutapa opened up his house and his private life in order to prove his innocence. They had searched his home, his garden, his work place. They hadn’t found any mintela, any material that might have been used to create a lion. But they were adamant that he was the fabricator of lions.

So what do these mintela consist of? the writer wants to know.

In the old days, mintela were merely roots, the bark of trees, bones. Nowadays magic artifacts include the waste products of modern urban life: acid from car batteries, old cell phone casings, computer keyboards.

There must have been a reason for so much suspicion, Gustavo insists.

There was only one basis for their suspicion: The Mutapas had accumulated wealth. For any one of us, the assets of that particular official were sparse, almost invisible. A few acres of sugarcane, one or two banana trees, and a still, where his daughters produced lipa. But for the villagers, his affluence was vast and without explanation. In a place where no one can be anything, Simon Mutapa ended up getting noticed. His neighbors were outraged. And neighbors are like medicine: They’re very good, but only turn up when there’s an illness. Accused of “making” lions, Simon was beaten and threatened with death. The following day, he and his family hit the road and disappeared.

* * *

Naftalinda Makwala visits us at the end of the day to warn us that something is being prepared in the village. We should be watchful, and we shouldn’t leave the house or expose ourselves. We should keep an eye open without being seen.

If you go out, you risk death!

What’s happening? the writer asks anxiously, lifting the corner of the curtain in the window.

Senhor Gustavo? Come away from there! You mustn’t look!

The First Lady calls me over to a corner and places herself in front of me, pressing her generous buttocks against my body. From that window, we could look out over the square in front of us.

The men are arriving. Stand here, right by me, she says.

The ritual that precedes a collective hunt, the kuyola liu, is about to begin. The square is getting ready to receive the two dozen men who will set out on the hunt for lions in the early hours of the morning. How I wished I could be there to take part in the ritual! Naftalinda understands my disappointment:

You are like me, a woman: We’re excluded. Let’s keep each other company. Isn’t it nice here, in this little patch of shadow?

Shadow? The inside of the house is shrouded in darkness. Outside, the last vestiges of the day are being extinguished. The ritual has been summoned as an emergency. The heads of families, the sons of the soil, want to be the ones to chase away the threat that hangs over the village. They don’t want to concede to me, a stranger, the honor of conducting this battle against such powerful, invisible forces.

The menfolk of Kulumani have come together, along with a few others from neighboring villages. Each one is carrying a bow, a shotgun, a cutlass, or a net. They’ve brought with them food and water, carried in bottles and haversacks. They gather in the open space around the shitala and there doesn’t seem to be any set agenda for the event, no hierarchy among them. They shoo away the dogs that are beginning to get excited with all the activity. A young boy tries to join the group, but is quickly turned away. He hasn’t undergone the rituals of initiation. Gradually, as if in response to some hidden master of ceremonies, chants begin to be heard, and the first timid dance steps are tried. Naftalinda can’t resist joining in and her buttocks begin to sway, pressing ever more tightly against me. My head spins and I’m almost thrown off balance. What if the administrator were to catch me in this sultry dance with his wife? Suddenly one of the dancers exclaims:

Tuke kulumba!

It’s the call for action. Then, as if carried forward by some invisible wave, the men stamp their feet rhythmically on the ground, and a cloud of dust envelops their bodies.

Now they’ve kicked up the dust! the First Lady whispers, her face next to mine.

Now, she says, all I feel is anger, I can’t watch any more of this. And she retreats to the back of the house, joining Hanifa, who is preparing a meal.

* * *

Suddenly Makwala the administrator crosses the square. He is accompanied by the policeman. He shouts as he stirs up the dust:

What’s going on here? Is this a demonstration? Did you get the necessary authorization?

I take advantage of the First Lady’s absence and furtively escape from the house, disobeying the strict instructions to keep myself hidden and shut away. The writer follows me, his camera slung over his shoulder. We join Florindo Makwala in the middle of the square. The villagers stop their ceremony and observe us silently, full of hostility. It’s clear by the way they look at us: We are intruders, we are desecrating the occasion. The writer immediately realizes that taking photographs is out of the question. And one word in Shimakonde is enough to bring the administrator to heel, rendering him unable to ask any further questions.

One of the hunters leaves the group and comes over to me to take a bullet from the cartridge belt that I wear across my chest. He examines the projectile, turning it over in his fingers. Then he asks:

Do you know who made it?

Who made the bullet?

Yes.

It’s impossible to know …

The man smiles arrogantly. Then he raises his spear to the level of his face and, looking straight into my eyes, proclaims:

I know who made my weapon.

Then he dances away from us in a series of acrobatic pirouettes, at each turn touching the ground with the tips of his fingers. He picks up a stone the size of a fist and raises it above his head, this time laying down a challenge to the administrator Makwala. He addresses him in Shimakonde, while the policeman translates for me:

You can sell all of this, the sky, the earth, the waters. You can sell us. But the spirits don’t talk to money.

After a few more leaps, the hunter continues his speech:

Of all the stones in the world, there is one that is not of this earth. That is the flying stone.

With all his strength, he hurls the stone into the air with such impetus that it disappears from sight over the canopy of the trees. Everyone knows that the stone will never fall to earth. Turned into a bird, the stone will guide the villagers in their search for their prey. After a pause, the dancing starts again. The policeman warns us:

I don’t know whether it’s worth our staying here …

The men start taking off their clothes. Then they douse their naked bodies with an infusion made from the barks of trees. This mixture will make them immune to any disaster.

I take a look at the rear of the house. Hanifa, her back turned, is busy putting out the kitchen fire. No fire can be lit while this ritual bathing is occurring. Only after the men have finished their washing can Hanifa and all the other women light their fires once again.

The men dance for a little longer, and while they are gyrating and jumping they begin to lose their inhibitions, and soon they are screaming, growling, and soiling their chins with froth and spittle. It’s then that I understand: Those hunters are no longer humans. They are lions. Those men are the very animals they seek to hunt. What’s happening in the square merely confirms this: Hunting is witchcraft, the last piece of witchcraft to be permitted by law.

Finally, the men leave in silence, and like this, marching in military formation without saying a word, they will search the bush for days on end, without food, drink, or shelter. A strange peace descends upon Kulumani. One by one, the cooking fires are lit again in the huts.

* * *

The writer comments ecstatically:

What an unforgettable sight! A performance rooted in Nature. What a pity I couldn’t take photographs of it!

Did you like it? Naftalinda asks. She wears an enigmatic, almost defeated smile. But then she asks: How many men were there in the ceremony?

About twenty, maybe.

There were twelve in the other group.

The other group? What group?

The ones that killed Tandi, my maid. There were twelve of them. Some of them were dancing here right in front of you.

They killed her?

They killed her spirit, only her body was left. A wounded body, the ruins of a person.

She recounts what had happened: Her maid had inadvertently crossed the mvera, the camp accommodating the boys undergoing their initiation. The place is sacred and women are expressly forbidden to enter the area. Tandi disobeyed and was punished: She was raped by all the men. All of them took their turn with her. The girl was taken to the local health center, but the nurse refused to treat her. He was afraid of retaliation. The district authorities received a complaint, but didn’t do anything. Who has the courage in Kulumani to rise up against tradition?

My husband remained silent. Even when I threatened him, he didn’t do anything …

I don’t know what to answer. Dona Naftalinda gets up and gazes at the path down which the hunters have disappeared. While still stoking the fire, she murmurs:

I don’t know what they’re looking for in the bush. The lion is right here in the village.

* * *

After night has fallen, the administrator drops by our house. He is agitated, something in the ceremony of the hunters has left him scared. He wants us to organize ourselves for an expedition immediately. He urges us to seize the initiative and kill the lions ourselves.

We can’t have these traditionalists getting the better of us.

Florindo Makwala expects some sort of declaration from me, a commitment to act quickly. But I only make a decision after he has left. Under the flickering light of an oil lamp, I inspect my equipment while, at my request, the writer takes responsibility for the vehicle, the fuel, and the flashlights. My instructions to Gustavo are delivered tersely, in an almost military tone. When we go to bed, I explain myself as if to compensate for the authoritarian way my orders were given:

We’ve got to resolve this quickly. I don’t like the atmosphere that’s being produced.

* * *

Early the next morning, at first light, I drive the vehicle along faintly marked tracks.

Why didn’t we bring the tracker? the writer asks fearfully.

Genito has been drinking. Apart from that, I want you to get an idea of the terrain. This is a journey of exploration.

Will we know how to get back? Gustavo asks.

From the backseat, the administrator is in no doubt: We’ll get back without any difficulty at all. Even though he’s not from Kulumani, he already knows the area. His wife, Naftalinda, accused him of governing while shutting himself away in his office. But it’s not true.

I scarcely listen to him, as I’m too busy looking out for animal tracks.

Hanifa was right — the lions have been here.

After a few kilometers we enter one of those clearings that have been opened up to protect the fields where the crops are planted. In the middle of this space there is a leafy tree, and by its bulky trunk we find two half-dressed young boys tied up and with clear signs of having been beaten. We stop and get out of the jeep to find out what happened there.

What’s wrong? Florindo Makwala asks in Portuguese.

The boys look at us as if they’ve been forbidden to speak. The administrator tries to get them to talk, this time in Shimakonde. In vain. They remain silent. Patiently, Florindo insists. They reply by shaking their heads, without ever uttering a word. Makwala tells us what he thinks has happened:

These poor wretches have been accused of being makers of lions. The hunters tied them up when they passed by this way last night. When they return later, they’ll carry out their justice.

When we free their wrists, the boys stand there motionless, as if stuck to the trunk of the tree.

You can go, we encourage them.

Where? one of them finally asks.

Wherever you want. You’re free now.

They don’t move. To me, they seem to have been incorporated into the vegetable matter of the tree. We leave them, while the condemned boys remain rooted to the shadow of their fear. They’ll stay there until their executioners return.

* * *

I start driving again along paths that are covered in elephant grass. I seem to be traveling in a boat, among green waves rippling away as far as the horizon. The jeep is advancing so slowly that walking would be faster.

At the top of a hill, I stop the vehicle, take off my hat, and pretend to search the sky.

Are we lost? Gustavo asks anxiously.

It’s good to be lost. It means there are possible routes. Things get serious when you run out of routes.

I’m asking whether you are still able to find any routes.

Out here in the bush, it’s the routes that come and find us.

I hear Florindo Makwala’s laugh behind me. The writer’s face bears a semblance of humiliation. All my words, all my silence have the effect of an accusation: He is from the city; he can’t even come to terms with the ground he treads. The truth of the matter is this: Here in this world, Gustavo needs me as his teacher even to walk along on his own two feet.

* * *

When we get back to the jeep, the sun is at its height and the heat causes mirages in the long grass.

I could do with a whiskey on the rocks, Florindo jokes.

The two of them swap rude jokes. All of a sudden I order them to keep quiet. I pretend to be listening carefully to something that has escaped their notice. My solemn tone gives them a fright:

Be quiet, don’t leave the car. Under any circumstances, do you hear?

Crouching low, my gun at the ready, I pretend to choose the quietest path and gradually disappear among the bushes. After that, silence reigns, a terrifying solitude surrounds those who wait in the car, frozen with fear. I hear them muttering to each other.

How long is he going to take? Florindo asks.

Their mumbled conversation, which only serves to keep their apprehension at bay, is suddenly interrupted as I decide to fire into the air. To produce even greater fear, I burst headlong out of the undergrowth, leaping over shrubs and yelling for us to get out of there. The writer jumps behind the wheel and the jeep lurches forward at startling speed.

What’s happened, Archie? the writer asks, tremulous.

I can’t tell you.

The administrator remains silent. If I can’t recount the cause of my terror, then what has happened escapes human reason. When we arrive back in the village, I retire without saying a word. From my room, I hear Florindo and Gustavo talking:

What in heaven’s name happened?

How would I know?

I’m beginning to suffer the same beliefs as these wretched folk. Who knows, maybe he saw one of those things …

One of those things…?

Yes, the lame serpent, for example.

The administrator explains himself: In the village there’s a serpent that moves around over the silence of ceilings and over distant paths. This venomous creature seeks out happy people in order to bite and poison them, without their ever being aware. This is why, in Kulumani, everyone suffers from the same unhappiness. Everyone is scared, scared of life, scared of love, even scared of their friends. Some folk call this monster a “devil.” Others call it a shetani. But most call it the “lame serpent.” The writer interrupts this long narrative:

Forgive me, my dear administrator, but as far as I am concerned, this serpent is ourselves.