ondjaki
short stories
--- --- ---
O Assobiador (“The Whistler”):
There are some books that are surprising because they are so completely unexpected - not in their appearance, but in their method. O Assobiador (The Whistler) is such a book. As a product of Angola, a country riven by civil war and its after-effects for the past 30 years, a novel of such laughter and unmitigated hope comes as a welcome shock. (Richard Bartlett)
One October morning, while it is raining, a young man arrives at a small African village, with a church on one side and a smiling baobab tree on the other. He enters the church and starts whistling. The sound is so beautiful, that the priest is left in tears and the doves listen in absolute silence. And there are the people of the village, like the madman KaLua, the old widow Dona Rebenta in her large wooden bed, the gravedigger KoTimbalo, KeMunuMunu, the travelling salesman and Dissoxi, who fills her house with sea salt and longs for the ocean. For a whole week the reader accompanies these characters, their dreams and their longings, the village’s whisperings and gossiping. All are surrendered to the moods of these melodies. But the whistler himself is affected by the inhabitants of the village. His melodies can rouse happy or sad feelings. The priest announces that the following Sunday mass will be held with the whistler. On the Sunday he bewitches the priest and the people in the church to such an extent, that they fall in a state of trance and unimagined sensuality and zest for life. The mass is followed by an orgiastic celebration. On Monday the whistler and KeMunuMunu leave the village and the reader likewise bids his wistful farewell to a bewitching world.
Seldom before has a story of such joy and such hope come from a country of such tragedy and such sorrow.
[Richard Bartlett, AFRICAN REVIEW OF BOOKS]
:::
Bom dia camaradas (“Good Morning, Comrades”)
is the loving memory of a childhood in Angola, around 1990. The young narrator, a keen observer, gives an uninhibited and humorous description of the small adventures of everyday life in a city marked by decades of civil war. Comrade Antonio, the young narrator asks the loyal African servant, don’t you think things are better now that the country is free? But comrade Antonio has good memories of the old days; a lot of things were better in the time of the white man. But things are slowly improving, much is happening at school, and at the end of term the beloved Cuban teachers, who are not exactly spoilt by wealth either, will take their leave, since the country will be able to look towards its future by itself.
Childhood is a former time that will always return, says the author. He depicts an Angolan childhood marked by all the country’s difficulties, but also by happiness. This is a book that will especially appeal to younger readers.
:::
Quantas madrugadas tem a noite (“How many Dawns has the Night”)
is also set in Luanda. Ondjaki again shows his talent as a story-teller. His figures come to life in the idiom of the oral tradition, with a wealth of word creations and allusions to the country’s regional languages. Provinciality and cosmopolitanism, new riches and abject poverty clash in a city that has arrived in the 21st century although still marked by decades of war and undergoing radical changes.
---
“seven loose voices for an angolan dawn”
1.
it were words
as inconspicuous sculptures
that made me dream
and go back to them
with the same appeal and disregard
as i would come back from the dream
in wandering compass
without them
the words
or their more or less visible shadow…
2.
worlds that later
through rain
would want to revisit
after me
in a close desert
so delightfully close
to the future.
3.
worlds in shadow
roaring shouts
smoke surrounding what was there to be said
once one would find out the uncertain rhythm
of the word
and the urgency that adjusted what was being said
to what was there to be said…
not coming out of my mouth
but through the voice of any man
4.
to north
particularly like this
the bodiless voice would go
because the people
the hands that live
the eyes that grasp
those would go unconquerable
a profound urgency to set out for south…
5.
it were silences
deadly whirlpools
hot as ardor
that would made me come back home
ardor from within – whispers
between what was seen to be silent
and what was left to question from the center
motherly place
where the aeration and suffocation
are seeds from the same stem
shivers
drifts
after all what was left to say and had been yet so close.
6.
the drawings
born through wind and parsimony
were remains of dust
which days piled up.
that is how the skin would get along with the sun of the place
that is how the brief scar would be unveiled.
footprint by footprint.
dawn by dawn.
and the drawings would resist
intact
in the memory of those who had frequented them
by the way it would move
or not
the retina and the colors of the iris…
7.
… which was the destiny of that people
peregrination.
little did they know about the route
or the end of the trip.
it was crucial to put in motion the feet, the bodies
the flying hands.
thus knowing that being lost was
so it seems
consenting oneself to leave again.
leaving behind the longing and the fear…
leaving on the side of the road
the gourd
the necklace
and the sour olive oil…
:::::
“The lost lipstick of the policewoman”
The policewoman found the old man with ripped red clothes and an oversized greasy planner among countless empty glasses of a sour beer that other customers had refused under the fair accusation that it was awfully warm and even impossible to drink,
the policewoman had been called by the bar owner because the old man had refused to leave – he and his messy white beard – from the bar which was about to close, “it’s almost midnight, on the 31st, I have a family too”, complained the weary owner,
the old man, with constrained movements in an almost sweet lingering motion, enjoyed the fact that the police officer was a woman, his eyes discreetly wandered over the blue curves squeezed under her tight uniform, smiled as if he was asking her to sit down, drank a bit more of his yellowish barley juice, pretended to ignore the horde that was gathering just to take a good look at him – and deter him,
the old man moved his foot, hidden, slippery, under the table, and a chair seemed to magically slide towards the policewoman,
the policewoman smiled in a spontaneous and candid way, made a signal to her partner so he would check out the open abandoned car in the nearest corner whilst the owner intensified the noise and the brush movements, spreading soap all over the wet floor from inside the bar to the sidewalk,
the policewoman froze her smile by slowly compressing her lips – in a simply sensual gesture – and thought about the lipstick that had been lost for a couple of days now, recently given to her by her husband who was, in turn, a constant and over-the-top accuser of her chronic tendency for losing things,
the old man finally asked the woman “do you believe in santa claus?”, glancing discreetly at her eyes, and hands, and lips, moving her hands, her back and bones preparing the body to lean backwards, she let a dense silence speak for her – under the watchful eye of the bar owner, she even mustered a smile,
the old man grabbed his oversized planner with a gesture of such simplicity that nothing seemed odd anymore to the policewoman, searched for the letter “s” and, checking the badge, her badge, whispered
“Sofia Burnstein”
the policewoman got up, straightening up her belt holding the gun and the radio, felt that something on the front side of the bra was bothering her but left that repairing gesture for later, the blue light of her car lighted up the bar, the bar owner took a deep breath when he saw the old man getting up with all his belongings tided up, his oversized planner was also put in the bag and his calloused and clean hand shook the policewoman’s hand in a fondling gesture of goodbye,
the policewoman, who adjusted her bra when she was already in the car and preferred not to make any comments to her partner, carried on quiet and chose not to say anything to her husband about the inexplicable absence of the lipstick – which she would receive by mail, in an unregistered package with no return address, on January 6th, just in time to embellish her lips for the late dinner that would be happening, on that same night, with her dear hubby.
texts previously published in
translated from portuguese by
Elsa Furtado and Soraia Martins
:::::
“the return of Múrio ”
Some years later, many years later, Múrio returned to that house searching for photos that would be lost there, and the house was in the same place, painted with a new colour and some changes on the bars of the gate and windows, but with an energy rather similar to the previous one – as if phantom guardians were waiting for him, or others like him, during all those years of absence.
Alvalade was still a rich neighbourhood, and of rich people close to decadence, except for some people and houses that were still there. It was still a place of embassies and ambassadors, business people, and decrepit politicians escorted at the end of the afternoon by their new mistresses and old whiskies in cellars with rich varieties.
Years before dying, his mother had whispered some sort of an unimaginable secret about such photos. Knowing that the house would have a new tenant once again, Múrio asked Ary's son for permission to go to the yard, more precisely to the annexes, where he spent the long and slow years of his lingering childhood. Authorized by the owners of the house and because that afternoon no one could find Ary to confirm the availability of the house, Múrio found emotional courage and went in search of the boxes.
He felt a warm sweat in between the fingers when he crossed the gate and his nails paled – like in the old days. On the right side, in spite of the changes made to the entry on the side of the house, there was the very old tree that embraced the sleep and dreams of his sister in all the naps after the late lunch under the intense heat of March in Luanda. A gust of cold air reached his neck and Múrio, now an adult of 1m 94 tall, had to bend down to let the uncomfortable breeze to pass by. “People are also places, Múrio, places that others still like to visit” – it was early in Luanda, at that time, and the bats, in spite of the light, were saying goodbye loudly to the act of nibbling guavas, avocados, figs and mangos at aunt Anita’s. And Múrio came in.
He thought he was hearing noises inside the house. And there were noises. He could hear noises. He thought immediately on the logical possibility of a mouse having fun in the enormous empty house or even an infiltrated cat. But illogically what he in fact thought and was surprised by the invasion of memories was that it could be a giant round-worm, his own, and that caused the strange night of fevers and vomiting that, many years ago he had to face, amidst strange scents and rebellious sweating, in that same living room. He went straight to the annexes. He opened the door and a warm, slow wind, almost as an inane lick, sucked from his eyes thick and painful tears. It was his room. His world.
In the corner, on top, under a layer of dust and moss, lay the box. In the photos, photos of everybody of the past: his and those of the master house, his sister and his mother. And the noises he heard from inside the house seemed to approach now.
From the dark, seated inside, the door was an intense ball of bright light almost yellow. Dull red. Intermittent purple.
First he saw the thin barrel of the gun. Closing his eyes, and always looking in the direction of the door, he made his hand search for and find an abandoned iron. He stood up. For several times his size and the unfriendly expression on his face has discouraged some criminals from approaching him. He looked and recognised: it was the slightly rusty barrel of Ary’s gun. Against the light he saw the left hand and the only ring Ary would ever wear in his life on the second finger from the left. He saw his right hand finger on the trigger. And finally he saw Ary’s aged face, in the line opposite the sight of the gun, with his eyes laying on it, with no hesitation or even a wink, with heavy wrinkles bristled between the eyebrows and with some drops of sweat on the forehead. The gun was shaking. His hands were quivering. Ary’s knees were shaking.
In the silence of the afternoon, the bats were awakening and getting their wings ready, sharpening their claws, inside the caves or on irons found on old roofs, yawing as if they were pushing the sun to its destiny. Múrio felt a slight urge of explaining himself, invoking the photo box and his mother. But he was wise enough to shut up before speaking. And waited.
His arms shaking and trying to hold himself on his wobbly knees, Ary, without dropping his gun, finally said what he had in mind:
“You bastard, you won’t leave here without taking all the pills…”
Múrio sat slowly, fearing the gun was loaded.
Once the sun had set, the bats obeyed to a strange code of silence. Not even the avocados fell. Nor the guavas.
Only one dog, sad and distant, howled fourteen times – without counting the sound of the fourteen echoes.
:::::
the incredible story of the non inheritance of “Franisca”
looking at the bright colours of the flowers on the small hospital table, Francisca gave in to death tearing – in one last breath – the tubes that linked her to the machines of life,
she said goodbye to her sister at five p.m. sharp as if she were going to see her the next day,
“tomorrow bring me a good bottle of whisky without anyone seeing it”, she asked quietly
she talked to her children almost absent-mindedly, called her nice to thank her the attention received during the last few years
“specially the milk and beers you would take me on sundays, that was more than a blessing, if I die one of these days…”
“don’t say that aunt”
“if I die I’ll take recommendations to those upstairs, any message?"
“give a hug to my dad and a kiss to nitó”
“I’ll do that”
later the great-granddaughter and the great-great-grandson came in, gently people with sad smiles, the great-great-grandson’s mom with tears on her eyes and her daughter’s grandson with a calm smile, happy with the temperature of the air-conditioning.
“messages for your mother?”
“don’t say that granny”
almost at the end of the night, out the regular visiting hours, another niece came in, the one who is a doctor
“aunt Chica, how is your health?"
“God is in charge, my dear, did you bring anything to drink?”
the doctor smiled, sat near her, straightened the sheets and combed her white hairs
“I never thanked you…” said the old woman
“what, aunt?”
years before after discovering an inheritance deposited in bank that hadn’t gone bankrupt yet, the eldest Francisca was called by the managers to sign a document to finally receive the recently discovered mini treasure
“but I don’t know how to write” Francisca said
“I’ll teach you aunt, it’s just a word, your name, you can’t get it wrong on the day of the official signature...”
Francisca spent the afternoons from 2 p.m. to 7 p.m. on the balcony of her niece who gave her some quick writing lessons just to fulfil the purpose demanded by the bankers
“I ain’t going to make it” Francisca claimed the first time she tried to write her name
the afternoon were like parties, the old woman demanded quality whisky, really chilled national beers, greasy snacks, sweet desserts and ice for the corns of the feet in exchange for the promised effort of managing to perform the graphic task
children spent the afternoons with her sharing the manual drawing of each letter, those meticulous curves of the “f”, the little loop of the “r”, the simplicity of the “a”, the wave of the “n”, the “curve of the “c”, the dot on the “i”, the wriggling of the “s” the new attempt of the “c” and the simple return to “a”,
under beautiful sunsents on the luanda coastline road, after weeks of black label and crates of cuca or nocal, the old woman considered herself ready for the tour to the bank, on the last afternoon that the event to sign was scheduled for
and it in fact was a family tour – with time to go to a hairdresser with skills in the art of disguising absence of hair, to stop at the bar at the corner, to buy flowers, to film some smiles and at almost 5 p.m. the family, from the eldest sister to the young great-great-grandson entered the bank as if to pick up an enormous amount
“but do you remember, or not?”, Francisca laughed hours before she forced the tubes of medicine, “I can’t forget your face…”
the nice adjusted the temperature of the air-conditioning, changed the flowers, kissed her on the forehead, turn out the light, and left the room with the curious memories
in silence, in the bank, at the same time the manager smiled because the old woman had failed, the doctor niece let out a tear for sorrow and feeling of injustice – the old woman sure of herself grabbed the pen and smiled moments before drawing the name that would make her lose the symbolic inheritance: “Franisca”.
:::::
my little countryside: childhood
to the others of the other countryside: luandas...
when uncle chico was alive, my childhood was spent there: in the yard of his house, which was also aunt rose’s house. times with colours of the old days – so old that get stuck to the memory as if they were forgotten candies in a taste that I would live to recall. but time goes by, it is true. the past becomes true and that, that stays ahead is what we actually make up as the most significant thing that stayed behind. worlds and memories full of worlds: the coloured childhood.
sometimes I wonder about the relationship between my childhood and my literature. I smile. and do I know? and will I know with such accuracy to the point of a subject exhibition? and a well, in search of what is personal and also fiction, is it explainable like that, in words that we give to others? or is just simply a thing to live on and smile about?
thus, through those questions that are asked and that I myself ask, on the way to my writing, I feel I need to know about those people, those places that stay glued like dusty nests – but always with an open door. they seem like houses where one comes back to where one is welcome.
the beauty of it is to meet these people again throughout life. and because of books that happened once in a while. when I finished “good morning comrades”, I organized a dinner with the characters that I managed to locate. at the table, like if it were in the old days, more than friends and school mates, I noticed that the smiles and the looks were the same. so were the provocations. we had grown, life had passed by, shaking our personalities and ideological trends. but the smiles were there. the children who grew up in luanda, during the 80’s, between ngola kanini and the fighting youth, were now adults ending their studies or in their professional lives: the memories were unravel accompanied by wine. old new stories were told like if years-before could be by magic transformed into simple-yesterday. stories of an urban luanda that was ours. the echoes of war and all the rhythms - from parties to classes, from the streets to the paracucas, from kizombadas to the lack of water – were commented with the good mood that only caluandas have, and it was us, once again, there, looking at each other, searching for exaggerated stories and old loves disguised as a teenager thing.
it is curious. characters attract characters and stories. the memory, trapped like it is, slowly starts igniting, as it is provoked or caressed. maybe it was at that dinner that I started writing mentally “those of my street”. and it was also at that moment that I understood the importance of meeting my cuban teachers. but none of us has their address or their full names. so we continue tied to the memory of their smiles and ways of speaking – the eyes of the teacher maria, the smiling moustache of our comrade and teacher ángel.
later on other meetings took place. after so many stories around the bispo beach, many years later, it would eventually come to áurea and charlita, daughters of (my) character mr. tuarles. talks, moments, rediscovers. life was after all very different from what I had imagined or described, but that, I hope, my characters will forgive me for. fiction is only what I can remember at the moment of writing. reality is just uncertain reference and that I know very little about.
what I really know, is about the happiness that my heart feels when I meet those more or less true characters of my coloured childhood. even those who I do not see physically. those who visit me because I called them, grandmother catarina, mrs. libânia, comrade antónio, brunos and comrade teachers of portuguese. the tones that colour my reinvented stories to be true. perhaps they are my poems in memory revisited. compasses and symbols. affections and maps contrary like those who plough the land with care. and awaits the flower –believing in the powerful seed of affection…