Confession of the Lioness by Mia Couto Page A

diary. I don’t interfere. I let his greedy fingers turn the pages of my little notebook. In fact, rather than finding it irritating, I’m filled with an unexpected vanity at his interest. Could it be that the artist himself recognizes the value of my artistic endeavors?
    I don’t know—I’ll never know—what Gustavo thinks of what he is reading. What I do know is that at a certain point, his hands tremble and there’s a glint in his eye.
    *   *   *
    The sight of the papers shaking in Gustavo’s hands takes me back to my childhood. Once again, I see the day when Roland was obliged to check the true content of the missives that my mother spent her time composing. And my father, arms crossed on his chest, awaiting the supreme judgment. Indeed, I also asked myself: Were the letters that Martina wrote faithful to what my father dictated?
    This is what happened on that occasion: My father stopped his dictation and stood there in silence for some time.
    Well, then? his wife asked, seeing him absorbed.
    I don’t believe you’re writing down what I told you to , he replied, advancing resolutely toward his wife.
    Henry Bullseye brusquely snatched the letter from his wife’s hands. He turned the sheet over, this way and that, next to his face as if he were looking through the paper. For me, this was proof of what I had long suspected: My father couldn’t read.
    Roland, my son, come here.
    My brother got up, quivering from his soul to his feet. Our old man handed him the notebook, staring fixedly at his firstborn.
    Read out loud what’s written here.
    Roland stared wide-eyed as if struggling to focus clearly. The lines danced before his trembling hands. His voice was all of a muddle, unsure of where to begin.
    Read!
    Where, Father?
    Read. Read wherever you like.
    My mother looked at him imploringly. Roland stared at me aghast, terrified. Then he took a deep breath, and I didn’t even recognize his voice as it rang through the room:
    My darling Henry, my beloved husband …
    Go on, continue …
    Â â€¦ One and only love of my life.
    I examined my mother’s face and I saw her sadness, the sadness of all humanity.
    *   *   *
    It isn’t long before the welcoming banquet, scheduled to take place in the center of the village, is going to begin. The writer wants to gain time and make use of the hour before it starts to interview witnesses and take down statements. I go with him. We wander haphazardly along the paths of Kulumani. I walk in front, my rifle over my shoulder, my gait military. The writer asks me why I need a weapon in the middle of the day, and in the middle of the village.
    Animals have a different way of distinguishing between night and day, bush and village.
    I begin to get an idea of the size of the village. The huts extend over the other side of the river and cover the slopes on the opposite bank. The village has grown since the last time I was here. Those who have settled along the banks of the Lideia are almost certainly war refugees.
    The villagers greet us, standing aside to let us pass along the narrow paths. Some seem to remember me. And I go along distributing pleasantries:
    Umumi?
    Nimumi , they answer merrily, astonished to hear me greet them in the local language.
    They smile. But their happiness gives way to a look of apprehension. These men are bound together by the same vulnerability: They are doomed, awaiting the final blow. For centuries they have existed in the margins of the world. That’s why they are suspicious of this sudden interest in their suffering. This suspicion explains the reaction of one of the countrymen when Gustavo asks to interview him:
    Do you want to know how we die? No one ever comes here to find out how we live.
    Mangy dogs cross our path like wandering shadows. Yet these dogs, at first so shy, surrender to the slightest caress and nestle against our hands as if they