1. The Unspoken Secret

Beginnings – Love and Loneliness – A Christmas Tale

Let me make it clear: I don’t fancy food. Not even Christmas treats. Everyone seems to care about it but me. I care about the love I do not get. My sister Nini has her dolls and my father holds on to his down-to-earth deeds. Mother, on the other hand, tries to keep it all together. Melancholic and wretched. I have Domingos, though. My beloved head steward tries to give me all I need. He seems to know my secret. He is our cook and tempts me with his fine cuisine all the time. But he cannot give me the love I crave and long for. Nini, mother and father may, but they sadly won’t.

So, Domingos is all I have for company, and I refuse to eat without him. As long as Domingos plays the drum for me. A copper saucepan drum: trrum, trrum, trrum… Like our City Brass Band but in a single throbbing blast. One for all, yet all for none? Domingos plays with a touch of joy. I hear myself laughing. I take a small bite after each thump. To make time. Light-hearted we march ahead, in one line. “Left, right, left” ... We are attuned, Domingos and I. Harmony and tempo. No need for bloodline in between. Black and white, yet colourful and vital. Unlike all the humdrum that comes with food. When I’m sad like mother, the food I eat corrodes my guts. I feel it inside, as if its slowly burning through.

I have another secret: I invented the name Nini. No one calls her by that name but me. Her ‘real’ name is Maria Helena. Since my early days Nini became my extra me; sometimes my extra mother. Mother and father are immemorial, and yet often missing; I silently beg for the attention I do not get. With time I have understood that beggars can’t be choosers. Domingos knows this secret and I know his. He too longs for love. He finds it in the wrong places. He often arrives late at night, loud and merry. Sometimes he returns from the Bazaar, looking unsteady and upbeat. The worst days are when Domingos is gone for holidays, away on his countryside home, where large and functional families live. When he gets back, I see him all red-eyed and spastic. And I dread for the day when he will not return at all.

Like a stranded raft, up in my room, I make up time. Monsoon rain drumming on windowsills. Mating toads in triumphant carols. Oddly, it’ll be Christmas soon. Casuarina pine trees are now bearing their peculiar single-seed and the festive season demands that we have one adorned with frosted garlands and cotton clumps depicting imaginary snow. Truly bizarre: scarlet sunsets shinning in artificially snow-flaked branches! Love clues abound, yet is destitute and displaced if not rescued in a few of my books: Enid Blyton, Dafoe, Stevenson, where romance and reality come together. Why do we need hidden words for every secret, the Latin allusions in my parents’ book on ‘Sex and family life’ hiding in their dresser? Maybe its illustrations are the ‘Rosetta Stone’ of love?

Mother is now quietly weeping, seated in her velvet chair by the lampshade with crystal hanging droplets. ‘Moon River’, the daytime drama serial, is playing on the radio. I realise that even she has a secret: Love can easily be overrated.

Creativity, curiosity, courage: these are a few of my favourite things. Oh, and faith: for I have nowhere to go even though my hometown at times feels unreal. Thereby Beira is my harbour: a city seaport of recent invention, ephemeral in its setting, an urban spread that slowly expands as it steadily decays: a water world made of coastal dunes and mangrove swamps, sea spray and burning breeze. A thin slice of below-sea-level land confined between ocean tides and mosquito waves, swollen by rain and soaring summer temperatures.

Today is Christmas Eve. Nini and I, hardly awake in the early morning hours, stand by the mosquito-netted balcony looking at the decorated pine tree with fake mistletoe and snow, struggling from drying out in the morning heat. Christmas presents are hidden away under her green shadow, spread out across the red, wax-polished cement floor of our stilt house; built off the ground like many other colonial constructions to allow for better ventilation and avoid flooding and vermin. The flooring feels cool under our small, bare feet. The unusual morning breeze brings in the two fragrances that shapes my olfactory world: seaweed and petrichor, the blended scents of low tide and flushing rain soaking up dry, tropical soil. For now, time stands still until the evening when we will be allowed to open our presents, following the traditional Christmas supper made of poached cod and vegetables.

My breakfast is prepared as ever by Domingos, whom I meet at adjoining lodgings. I love to come by when our domestic workers are seated around their open fire, cooking Xima porridge served with a variety of stews. I always feel warmly welcomed, hearing of their plans for the day, their immemorial storytelling, their happy laughter; I often accept their offer for finger-food which is forbidden table-manners upstairs. Domingos loves children (he has five of his own) and Christmas Eve wakens in him the need to narrate how Baby Jesus reminds us of the universal joy that children bring to the world. He not only tells a story: he embodies the myth through modulation and mime. I sit still in anticipation as I watch the morning light seeping through the leafy Mango tree, projecting life forms as dancing shadows; and the fireplace radiates a black, orange and white spectra. Only he, with his intense voice and presence could bring forth such a hypnotic moment of fantasy, resurrecting the tale of the Bewitching Song of the Magical Bird as an African tribute to children’s innocence. Ultimately the tale testifies to the fact that only their power wins over the evil bird-monster wrecking the livelihoods of a small village, after all age groups – including the bravest of the adults – are defeated by the bird’s enchanting song. It is proof that only the pure-hearted can battle malice and impart harmony to humankind.

I ask Domingos how old is this story and he tells me that it has no time: African folktales are gifts that the African Wise Man could not deliver in person in Bethlehem. He missed his appointment with his friends, the Arabian Balthasar, the Persian Melchior and Gaspar, the Indian. He had too much in his mind and was shamefully deceived in his intent, which explains why Africans are still paying for this blunder. Just the same, African folktales are timeless: they nurture memory, awareness and expectation, in place of past, present and future: we are at one time what our ancestors were, and our offspring will ever be. Before leaving I ask Domingos what penalty would the African Wise Man endure: he responded he will let me know at another occasion, perhaps soon enough.

I put on my Sunday clothes: khaki shorts, a white linen shirt, leather sandals. In many ways this is my everyday outfit, except on festive occasions, such as today for supper. Today I am wearing a blazer, bowtie and shorts, which makes me feel ridiculous. Mother usually takes me to Casa Bulha where my clothing is made-to-measure, after the painful time-consuming ritual of body measurements, when no one asks me for my preferences. I always insist that I would want to wear long trousers, but I’m invariably told that only short trousers are allowed for people of my age. I am for instance eager to start using blue jeans, that is so much in fashion among boys. This would make me feel older and respectable.

Today is also catechism, held at Our Lady of the Rosary Cathedral close to home. I walk past the abandoned field of bush and Tamarind trees and, which I invariably do, climb to harvest its sweet-sour dates hidden in their long hard shells. My tiny reward before benediction. The morning sermon is held at ‘Escola de Artes e Ofícios’ (the School for Arts and Crafts) run by the Catholic Church for the underprivileged. As we reverently take a seat on spartan ironwood benches, our Dominican Padre – a floating shadow wearing a long black robe – quietly enters the bleak room where, for a couple of hours, the candlewax and whitewash fragrances will blend with humdrum fiction. As we often do, we eagerly wait for the opportunity to rescue the boring syllabus by trying to persuade our Padre to take us back to the cherished Old Testament. Those are the unique and exciting events we truly understand: the magical Book of Genesis describing The Great Flood, reminding us of the tropical downpour that we know only too well; the Exodus illustrating the fate of our roving families; and the gripping Tower of Babel story, clearly outlining the reason for twenty-five Mozambican languages being spoken, not counting our own mother tongue…

When the subject matter is boring – now that our Padre is speaking of sin and attribution – I resort to let my mind wander elsewhere (I’m pretty good at it): what a bad omen must have been, my baptism at this cathedral, held the same day my paternal grandmother died; and then, why must I attend catechism when I never saw my parents come to Sunday mass? The main theme of the day is the Nativity, and how God has a plan for each of us. I understand the Nativity, although its lull and legend does not look like the perfect fit to the turmoil of our Tropical Monsoon season. As for a divine plan, I know for a fact that God seems to usually ask me to do things I feel annoyed with. He asks me to wake up when I feel like staying in bed; and to go to bed when I feel like staying up. He asks me to read all those wonderful adventure books only to be later cautioned by grownups that I am a vulnerable child that cannot venture without parental consent.

Today I hear that God delights in using ordinary people to accomplish great things: from Domingos’ folktale to Padre’s description of Joseph, Mary and Baby Jesus my mind digresses, the picture of the African Wise Man and of the Fishermen serving Jesus enlightens my spirit and inspires me to embark into new adventures.

Homework assignment concludes today’s catechesis: we are asked to reflect on the words Lord of the universe, lord of my childhood and of my remaining days, bless me with life, light and love; and before departing we sing ‘Silent night, holy night! All is calm, all is bright’… which again begs the question what may possibly connect the icy Austrian Alps to sub-Tropical Africa at this time of the year: perhaps ‘bright’ as in blazing, instead of ‘bright’ as in snow-white?

For a while I have been wondering how the city horizon look like from above. Without being noticed and with the echoes of ‘Heaven afar and in Heavenly Peace’ inspiring my steps, I walk past the darkness and silence of the cathedral’s nave and its lonesome Nativity scene before reaching the top of the spire, as if on my way to the Garden of Eden.

Here the sight is overwhelming and (unexpectedly) the sound of courting doves deafening: for the first time I discover further down my carpeted city, green and sepia spreading out along roadways confined by Jacaranda, Magnolia and Sumac trees, one of the paths leading to the colossal Grande Hotel. Its silhouette standing out before blending in glittering waves further away. Time stands still in this enchanting, brand new world, except my eyes sweeping back and forth, from the greenish pallet of mangroves to the human fabric of white-painted concrete, before being swallowed by the Ocean sapphire afar.

As I rotate, I notice however that the view facing the hinterland is blocked and I must picture in my mind how the Shanty Town, the suburbia from Esturro to Manga, is concealed by the expanse of the Golf course, over and above the still waters of the Chiveve stream: green pastures, like heaven on earth, are only for the elected.

It’s a glorious day and I feel so glad: touching the Christmas tree and the expectation of great many presents, the scent of burning wood listening to African fairytales, savoring the bittersweet tamarind fruit dreaming up the Bethlehem legend in Church, seeing the promised land from the tower… The sky is now midday blue sprinkled with white beads and I need to celebrate all countless emotions thus far, while I’m heading toward my jungle maze, the mangrove labyrinth where I often go to spread my thoughts. I first went there with Domingos to visit one of his friends, a fisherman living at the muddy edge facing the sea. Since then, this magical world became my secret hideaway for adventure, the wonderland only I can see. The ever-changing tidal country with its endless web of paths and dry swamps, vast forests of salt-loving trees with bare roots and tiny fingers pointing in all directions, scattered ponds where mollusk, fish, shrimp and crab dwell, the blaring tweeter of kingfisher, raven and magpies.

I walk along the unpaved road running along the edge of the mangrove heading to Ponta Gea. The pavement stands a few meters above the flooding shoreline, now dry at low tide. The sun is now in its zenith and the morning breeze tamed. My hand feels my pocket where Domingos stuffed roasted cashew-nuts. I can live on these throughout the day and he knows it. I enter one of the many mangrove paths from where, increasingly thrilled, I note the silhouette of the Grand Hotelfading into the cemented city. After a while I do not see road or buildings, I know I am on safe grounds and I have seven hours of terra firma between the second low and high tides of the day. I will use my time to visit Blondwe, the fisherman. Today with a purpose.

I know that the spiderweb of paths can lead into dead ends. I have been there, felt the fear, and learned to avoid it by looking at the other path: that of the sun travelling in the sky. As well as to where the birds usually head to, particularly the raven. Out there I know lies the ocean, which I hear well particularly in rough weather and windy days, which is not the case. I know the larger trails before me is the one leading to Blondwe’s shack. On route I stop here and there across this magical footway: I am particularly mesmerized with the life of mudskippers, jumping, climbing, skipping about in and out of the water, raising their little heads with large goggled eyes, gulping for air. I even hear them talking to each other in low frequency tonal phrases, and I imagine that they reassure themselves and their friends that they will breathe again as soon as the tide is back, while saying ‘don’t forget to stay moist’!

I find Blondwe rearranging his fishing nets, speaking to himself. After so many years he has developed protruding eyes, but unlike mudskippers orbs moving as if disconnected, they now point in different directions. They perhaps mirror how the unpredictable ocean switches from deep grey, soft and misty, to stormy and sharp. Like the timbre of his voice: I am most welcome he says. I mention that he is leaner since the last I saw him. He answers that summer tides only bring shoddy fish. He asks after Domingos and I say I’m on my own. Today is Christmas Eve and there’s much to do at home.

Blondwe is not aware of Christmas. To him there are only good and bad tides, empty or less-empty nets. I am cordially invited for lunch. All he owns is on site: the empty cooking ware, the open fire, the rags dressing his skinny body. I know he is inviting me to the very last dry fish he can spare. I don’t dare to talk about the birth of Christ the Savior or the African Wise Man that never made to Bethlehem. I reach to my pocket and hand him my final handful of cashew nuts to be added to the poor remains of his fish stew, before sitting by the fireplace, silently hearing the waves settling by the faraway dunes. The words of ‘Holy Night’ comes back to me, and in Blondwe’s bearing, reflecting the glow from the stove, I grasp the meaning of With the Dawn of Redeeming Grace.

Late afternoon brings back breeze, glow and noise. Hanging fishing nets begin to gently lift their arms against blushing skies, the white-necked raven and the Cape crow launch a battle over territorial rights with loud croaking chuckles; even Blondwe, after our frugal meal, is suddenly vocal. He seems nostalgic today: solitude and idleness take a toll. I sit and listen attentively, as young African children do. Blondwe examines his divided lifetime between the savannah and the sea. How they have different voices and passions, how the Ocean is always forceful and boundless; and how the savannah is increasingly subdued to human will. Only wild animals still keep their old ways, he says. He reveals why the Gnu was named as such: they remind us that God, Nature and the Universe belong together. Their horns curve inwards as they bridge poverty and plenty, migrating seasonally in droves to avoid the depletion of land.

Blondwe tells me that he knew I would come by. He had heard from Domingos that soon I would visit, upset after hearing the tale of the African Wise Man. He tells me that between them they had agreed that on a special day I must hear from them one arcane wisdom: there are no unspoken words and deeds. God has a plan for each and every one of us. The only encounter we can possibly fail is with ourselves. That is why African Wise Men, since immemorial times, have the task to remind their young of this secret, at least once a year.

The sky is turning red, as red as only African skies can be, as deep in time as the beginning of us All, the humankind that once had its African birth well before the cradle of Jesus. Nightfall is coming, as is the evening tide. His revelations made a profound impression on me. It gave me hope and faith. With tears in my eyes I get up, bow in respect before leaving, only to hear Blondwe’s powerful voice saying: Look well in your pockets, which I did. A well-hidden, tiny handwritten note from Domingos came out from my shirt pocket. It read: There was never a penalty, only a purpose: His only plan was to spread Love; and He will live in Us for as long as We live. Merry Christmas dear child.