The Way I Remember It

MOÇAMBIQUE 1984–‘87 “Se sabes os çeos do meu coraçao . . .” When my daughter and i landed at the Moputo Airport, the hot steamy air nauseated me. Never recovered from the welcoming graceful atmosphere of courtesy, friendliness and nature’s abundance. I was fascinated by the overwhelming nobility or, as my friend and colleague called it “hidalgo spirit”, all the smiling, greeting people, always colourful streets, the exquisite, rich Portuguesa cuisine, especially the mariscos , and the true camaraderie spirit amongst the international community in the days of war. My favourite place for shopping was the Mercado - large, fenced open market in the Baixo, where everything could be bought - from fresh mariscos, spices, art, ready-made food, herbs, pimento, fish (lots of fresh fish), meat, bread (at that time, even bread was a commodity), sugar, jewellery, a small black bread…, to God-knows-what. Everybody who needed some money brought whatever they could for selling. Women, sitting on the curbs and chatting, men negotiating behind the doors about one or two pigs, fresh and powder milk straight from the nearby factory at a price ten times higher (for these women to buy the milk had to queue from 5 o’clock in the morning). There was no shouting, no fighting, a stolen purse from time to time, or a whole shopping bag. I loved it because it was the true face of the Moputo i knew. The people, like my domestic, from the dusty, roadless, red-sand squatters trying to get a few peços. During those hungry mid-80s, everybody was “inventive” (i don’t want to use a rude word). Learned many important things from the life in Moçambique, including how to shop with less money, which came very handy in my life after that. I was happy to cook with coco butter, eat coco and drink coco, despite my son’s “i don’t . . .” because it was much better in taste, fresh and abundant than any other cooking oils from the “civilised world”. The coconut provides all basic nutrients, and the coco relado is still my favourite ingredient for biscuits, cakes, or pastries. The steaming hot summer days were turning into pleasant nights; the verandas were full with chatting, drinking people, giggling girls, and smoke from cigarettes. It was difficult to breath in summer. The gentle breeze waves were slow as the tides and were going with them in both directions. I was blessed with an air-conditioner during the second part of our stay and my daughter could sleep easily on the floor close to the conditioner. She drew and drew pictures: water colours, charcoal, everything we had, she used it easily. She made the best portrait of her brother with simple pen! Catching the wrinkled socks and the “guilty” face (when he had done something, he knew, shouldn’t have). I was watching in astonishment the growing talent of my 9-year-old daughter. She cured the injured Cacti de Pascua, after Diolinda pulled it off the wall in a desperate attempt to clean properly, with a heartfelt whisper, a little transparent tape to help the aerial roots and lots of heart-felt gazing. Kids have love for everything, they know only to give, when see suffering. At least, that’s how it was then. The cactuses were well again and her reputation as a magician amongst my friends, rose above her 120 centimetres. The Plumeria on the balcony had blossoms and this was her next adventure. After that, the Yucca palm chub in the large cocktail bowl rooted and gave two shoots together with the decorative grass in the same bowl. I was enchanted by my little daughter’s rich soul; she was blossoming right in front of me. Oh, i loved those days and her innocent face with a soft smile. … ZIMBABWE 1992–1995 … The mesmerising huge African sun being born every morning from the horizon, slowly changing its colour, and sinking back into the Earth, burning flame of promises and dreams as if melting in the heated rusty hardened soil. I have never seen anything more fascinating in my life. … …After a month in the hospital bed with meagre prospects of being normal again, i tried to sit and stand, following a rehabilitation doctor’s instruction. Total failure - i fainted and dropped down (always wonder ever since how these actors on the screen jump on their feet after having an even bigger than my damage? Don’t they have “good doctors” to tell them how to do it?). … … After this, everything changed for me. Nothing was ever the same. My life was not the same, i was not the same. I was ready to be mature, humble and obedient; ready to count my cents, to value simple things, to let be loved and taken care of. Only, there weren’t many left… My lifelong gratitude, my dearest! Sorry! Soon after, some of the Latin American group went back to their countries. Some moved to other places - nothing was the same. I miss those hot summer nights with my Latino friends. The racist anti-white strikes grew in numbers and power - that was sad too. Didn’t have time to be happy or sad. Most of us were facing the animosity every day (never amongst colleagues). I was reminded my years in Moçambique. To all unforgettable and good-hearted people, who shared their life with me, black, white, purple, big “thank you” from the bottom of my heart - for all we had together, for your help, smiles, holding my bruised broken body, for your understanding! I was busy training my legs to walk, my head to stay straight, my eyes to look the same direction - forward. Long gone was the time when i knew half the city and the other half knew me. The subtle lilac blossoms of the jacaranda trees were falling again, colouring silently Leopold Takawira Street. Walking in, it looks like a blue-cloud velvety tunnel. I could see the pale-purple line laid across the city from the plane, flying away from three very turbulent years of my life. The same Leopold Takawira Street, where i almost lost my life. The red flamboyant canopy over the Blakiston Street stroke a short parallel to the purple. The horizontal green planes of the acacias were lining up for a last “good-bye”. Even if dropped blindfolded in an unknown place and see the comforting umbrellas of the acacias, i’ll know this is my Africa Austral. Her face from far away is like the skin of an old elephant. … … Africa took my heart and i gave it with a smile, almost like love at first sight. No other place has this privilege in my life. This was the time i was living, breathing, crying, and laughing with a huge heart. Even with my birthplace, we have, somehow, altering relationship, it requires so much from me, i think. Africa didn’t ask anything from me. This created the need for me to give everything. She has this kind of joyful, youthful, light-hearted attitude in comparison to the History and scale of Her breathing. Africa gave birth to humanity, only for the humanity to take much of her life. No god in the religions i know, is black with those elaborate, sophisticated eyes. I have not met a judgmental African in my life. Once they knew and accepted me, i had nothing to worry or fear about - so big was that copper heart. Naturally curious and tolerant, i find it difficult to believe how she was butchered in pieces by the so-called “civilised nations”. Please, forgive the lost prodigal sons, daughters and us, Mother of all mothers. You hold everybody’s heart, my love - everybody who has touched your face and ate your food. Bless your heart and soul, and wake up, please, before they have become drowned in blood of brothers. JILDA ...Nothing could take her attention from the children if they were around her, nothing! She was the playmate, the surrogate mother, the chair, cover, pillow, or whatever they wanted. Her devotion, all embracing love did not know boundaries… … Jilda - the noblest of them all, the most gracious, loving friend who forgave us, though i never forgave myself for abandoning her. Thank you and God bless your soul, my loving teacher.