A sleepwalking land

Literary Review, Summer, 1995 by Mia Couto, David Brookshaw

The novel is not conventionally structured but consists of a weaving together of episodes within a loosely based two-plot structure.

The first plot revolves around the experiences of an old man, Tuahir, and a young boy, Muidinga, who emerge from a war-torn landscape and seek shelter in a burnt-out bus, recently attacked by bandits. Muidinga discovers eleven exercise books among the effects of a dead man lying by the roadside, and begins to read their contents to Tuahir. They tell the story of Kindzu, his travels up the coast of Mozambique, in search of the naparamas, a group resisting the counter-insurgency movement in the North of the country, his love for the beautiful Farida, and his quest to try and find her son, Gaspar, lost in the chaos of war. The second excerpt published here, "Mati-mati, Land of Water," describes Kindzu's encounter with Farida, while also satirizing the petty corruption of government officials.

The Dead Road

War had killed the road thereabouts. Hyenas slunk along the tracks, snuffling among ashes and dust. The landscape had blended sadnesses the likes of which had never been seen before, in colors which stuck to the mouth. They were dirty colors, so dirty that they had lost all their freshness, no longer daring to rise into the blue on the wing. Here the sky had become impossible. And creatures had gotten used to the ground, in resigned apprenticeship of death.

The road that now unfolds before our eyes crosses with no other. It lies more prostrate than the centuries, alone bearing the burden of all distances. Along the shoulders, burnt-out cars rot away, the residue of pillage. In the surrounding savannah, only the baobabs contemplate the world shedding its flowers.

An old man and a boy make their way along the road. They walk with swaying gait, as if journeying were their only occupation since birth. Their destination is the other side of nowhere, their arrival a non-departure, awaiting what lies ahead. They are fleeing the war, the war that has contaminated their whole country. They advance, under the illusion that somewhere beyond, there lies a quiet haven. They walk barefoot, their clothes the same color as the road. The old man's name is Tuahir. He is skinny, and seems to have lost all his substance. The boy is called Muidinga. He has been walking ahead ever since he left the refugee camp. He has a slight but noticeable limp, his leg dallying longer than his step. The vestige of an illness which had but recently dragged him near to death. It was old Tuahir who had taken him in, when everyone else had abandoned him. The boy no longer had a country, his snot oozed from his whole head rather than from his nose. The old man had to teach him all the beginnings: to walk, speak, think. Muidinga became a little boy all over again. But this second childhood was hurried along by the needs of survival. When they had begun their journey, he was already in the habit of singing, giving vent to his gamely self-amusement. In solitude's company, however, his song eventually migrated from itself. The two travellers matched the road, withered and devoid of hope.

Now Muidinga and Tuahir pause before a burnt-out bus. They talk and disagree. The boy throws his sack to the ground, arousing the dust. The old man chides him:

"I'm telling you, boy: we'll set up house right here."

"But here? In a bus that's all burnt up?"

"You know nothing, child. What's already been burnt can't burn again."

Muidinga remains unconvinced. He looks at the plain, everything seems to have fainted. In that land, so devoid of life, to be right is something you no longer care about. For that reason, he does not press his point. He walks round the bus. The vehicle had swerved off the road, coming to rest half across the highway. The front end is crushed as a result of its encounter with a huge baobab. Muidinga leans against the trunk of the tree and asks:

"But isn't it more dangerous on the road, Tuahir? Isn't it better to hide in the bush?"

"Not at all. Here we can watch the passersby. Don't you see?"

"You always know everything, Tuahir."

"It's no use complaining. You're to blame: isn't it you who wants to find your parents?"

"That's right. But the bandits are the only ones to pass by along the road."

"If the bandits come, we'll act like we're dead. Pretend we died along with the bus."

They climb onto the bus. The aisle and seats are still covered with charred corpses. Muidinga refuses to get on. The old man walks down the aisle, examining the vehicle's nooks and crannies.

"These people really got toasted. Look how small they ended up. It seems fire likes to turn us into children."

Tuahir sits down on the back seat, which the fire had not reached. The little boy is still fearful. The old man encourages him:

"Come on, these dead have been cleaned by the flames."

Muidinga advances slowly, treading with extreme caution. This place has been contaminated by death. It would take a thousand ceremonies to purify the bus.

"Don't make such a face, boy. The dead get offended if we look at them with disgust."