Grandma's blood is staining the carpet

Literary Review, Summer, 1995 by Mia Couto, Peter Bush

They would have grandmother Carolina come and live in Maputo. There was a war on. The old lady was barely surviving in the interior, in territory which saw more bullets than rain. Besides, grandmother was getting on in years. Carolina deserved some sympathy.

Grandma arrived and was impressed by the family's luxury goods. Carpets, marble tiles, cars, bottles of whisky. At first, she was very proud of that wealth. After all, hadn't independence been won so the people could live well? But, later on, the old lady had her doubts. After all, where did all these frills come from? And why weren't life's treasures given out to everyone?

Carolina wondered about this. She seemed to be in a festive mood. But these doubts kept churning round in her mind. In the village, the old lady had praised the militancy of her city-dwelling children, praised their sacrifices on behalf of the people. On her lips, her family was a flag raised high where no dust could sully it. But now she was anxious as she looked at that house packed with luxury items. Her daughter came from the shops with bags full to the brim.

"Haven't you bought too much stuff?"

"Shush, grandma. Go and watch television."

They sat grandmother in front of the television where she was a prisoner of the bright lights. Leaning on an old cane, she dozed off on the sofa. And they left her there. But at night, she woke up and her little eyes peered through the gloom. Her children and grandchildren sat round in a circle watching a video. She almost felt warm inside, memories of the fire back home seemed to soften their hearts. So she got into a storytelling mood. But nobody listened. The kids jammed headsets over their ears. Her son-in-law, in dark glasses, rambled wildly on. Her daughter made her face up, paying homage to the blue-headed lizard. Grandmother drifted back to her island, remembered her village. Everything was lost in the fires of war. Suffering, ashes, emptiness remained.

"Son-in-law, how do you get all this?"

"I'm working overtime."

Overtime and more besides, reasoned grandmother. Tired of so much she couldn't explain, she asked to go home. She wanted to return to the place where she belonged, to keep absence company.

Then, her children offered her nice clothes, shoes with big heels and even a pair of glasses to correct the vision of an elderly lady. Carolina yielded to temptation. Spruced herself up. Went to take her first look at the city.

"Don't ever cross the street. You're too old to go for walks."

She never got to cross the street. Right away on her walk, she saw children in rags, begging for a pittance. So many hands reached out to her, thinking she possessed deep pockets! Grandmother sat down at the corner of a street, took her glasses off, rubbed her eyes. Was she crying? Or might they just be tears brought to her cheeks by unsuitable spectacles?

Back in the house, she took her clothes off, piled the fripperies on the ground. She took her traditional robes out of her cardboard suitcase, covered her hair with a colorful headscarf. And went to the living room, an irrelevance among her relatives.

That night, the television was broadcasting a report on the war. They showed armed bandits engaged in grisly activities. Suddenly, before anyone could stop her, the old lady threw her heavy walking-stick at the television set. The screen shattered, bits of glass tinkled on the carpet. The groups broke up, there was just a square cloud of smoke.

"Kill those evil devils," grandmother shouted.

At first, they were all taken aback. The children cried and were scared. Her son-in-law picked himself up, he fumed with rage, towering threateningly above her. But grandmother grasped her walking stick and told him off:

"You can shut up. Aren't you ashamed? These bandits walk through your front room and you do nothing."

Stiff with fear, the family eyed the old lady. Carolina loomed over them, growing by the minute. Then, she crossed the room, swept up the damage, put the bits of glass in a plastic bag.

"They're all in here," she said.

She handed the bag to her son-in-law. Drops of blood dripped from the plastic. The son-in-law glanced at his own hands. No, he hadn't cut himself. It was grandmother's blood, ancient blood. The drops fell on the carpet, red and accusing. The next day, grandmother organized her return. She went back to her own land, never to leave there again. In the city, her family immediately regained their composure. They bought a new television set, a big improvement on the previous model. Occasionally, they remembered grandmother and had a good laugh together. They celebrated the old lady's lunacy. Poor old grandma. However, to this day there's still a red stain on the carpet. They tried to wash it off; they didn't succeed. They tried removing the carpets: impossible. The stain stuck to the wooden floor so tenaciously that it would have to be taken up. They called a witch doctor. The man looked the place over, consulted a few shades. Finally, he pronounced. He said the blood was endless, growing over time, oozing to the river, and from river to ocean. That stain couldn't really belong to only one person. It was the blood of the earth, sovereign and irrevocable like life itself.