Confession of the Lioness by Mia Couto

the night.
    *   *   *
    Ever since early morning, a woman called Hanifa Assulua has been sweeping, washing, cleaning, heating up water, without uttering a single word. Her presence has the discretion of a shadow. Only when she leaves does she address me, but without looking up.
    Do you remember me? she asks.
    I have no recollection. I explain the fleeting nature of my visit. So much time had passed since I had come here to hunt a crocodile. It had just been a few days and then I’d left and never come back again. I’m trying to excuse myself for any eventual indelicacy. But she seems relieved at my lack of memory.
    Tell me the truth: Have you just come here to hunt? Or have you come to take someone away from Kulumani?
    Who? I don’t know anyone.
    That’s good. It’s not as if there was anyone here.
    And she said nothing more to me then or on the following days. She did her rounds devoid of body, of voice, or of presence. As far as the writer was concerned, the woman was our conduit to the village community. And there was more to it than that: She was the mother of the latest victim of the lions. That’s why Gustavo follows the maid’s every step like a shadow. Hanifa is filling a can of water when the writer asks her about the circumstances surrounding her daughter’s death.
    What happened that night? Was she out at that time of night?
    The lion was inside.
    Inside the house?
    Inside , she repeats, almost inaudibly.
    She points at her chest as if to suggest a further meaning to the concept of insideness. Then she raises the can in her arms, refusing any help to place it on her head.
    I have to go home. I still have to cook, to prepare your welcome banquet.
    She draws herself up, proud and erect, as if the can of water were part of her body, as if it were the water that was carrying her along.
    *   *   *
    The administrator appears midmorning to introduce the tracker who will accompany us on our hunting expeditions. His name is Genito Mpepe, and he’s the husband of Hanifa, the woman who cleans our house. That’s how Florindo introduces him. Then, in veiled tones, he adds:
    The girl who was killed … was this man’s daughter …
    I roll out a map on the table and ask the man to show us where the victims were attacked.
    I can only read the land. Maps are a language I don’t know.
    That’s how the tracker answers me. His ways are abrupt, almost rough. I know this type of person. Uncouth in speech, but excellent in the art of hunting. But something makes me think Genito harbors some resentment, some offense toward me.
    Am I going to have a right to a weapon?
    No. I reply in the same terse terms. The administrator tries to break the ice by exclaiming with exaggerated enthusiasm:
    Our hunter has an explanation for the lions’ attacks. Explain this to Comrade Genito, he needs to know …
    As far as I was concerned, it was obvious: The country folk had exterminated the smaller animals, the food supply for the larger carnivores. In despair, these had started to attack the villages. People are easy prey for the lions. This rupture in the food chain—I used this precise term with some petulance—was the reason for the lions’ unusual behavior.
    Pigs , the tracker says accusingly, turning toward us.
    At first I think he is insulting us.
    It’s the pigs’ fault! he repeats.
    The writer looks up to express his incomprehension. But then he gives up: Incomprehension has been his most notable activity since arriving in Kulumani. At that point, Genito Mpepe concludes:
    It was the pigs that showed the lions how to get here.
    The wild pigs would visit the kitchen gardens, attracted by the crops planted around the houses. The lions followed on their trail and so broke into a space they’d never dared invade before.
    *   *   *
    Later, while tidying my things, I catch the writer taking a look at my