Free Confession of the Lioness by Mia Couto

there, as his voice speaks. To tell a story is to cast shadows over the flame. All that the word reveals is, in that very instant, consumed by silence. Only those who pray, surrendering their soul completely, are familiar with the way a word ascends and then plummets into the abyss.
    *   *   *
    One night, the story had been going on for a long time, and everyone was well oiled with drink, when Genito Mpepe, his voice slurred, interrupted:
    Hey, there, Adjiru! You’re a hell of an imposter!
    It was like a stone thrown into a puddle without any water. Adjiru’s astonished look was like a wound ready to be opened. Raising his finger, he declared rancorously:
    You, Genito, have just snapped the fork when it’s still in the mouth.
    Shattered, my grandfather withdrew from the shitala and melted into the night. Only I went with him. I sat down in the dark and waited for him to speak. Finally, after a long pause full of sighs, he complained:
    Why? Why did Genito do this to me?
    My father’s drunk.
    Ungrateful. Ungrateful, the lot of them. What they call lies, I call gifts.
    His gaze became lost in infinity. A thousand thoughts swept through Adjiru, a thousand memories. Gradually, his anger subsided.
    Do you know something, Mariamar? The saddest thing is that Genito may be drunk, but he’s right. All that bragging in my tales: It’s all smoke and no fire.
    You shouldn’t trust the hunter, he admitted. Not because the hunter is a liar. But because hunting contains the truth of a dance: bodies in flight from their own reality. This was how Adjiru understood it.
    In fact, he explained, a hunter’s career is made up of fiascoes and forgetfulness. No matter how perfect his aim, a man who hunts is a bungler. For one victory, he has to suffer a thousand defeats. That’s why the hunter is an inventor of his own prowess: because he doesn’t believe in himself, because he’s more fearful of his own weakness than he is of his most ferocious prey.
    I’d rather be a liar. For, at heart, I’m nothing. I’ve never done anything.
    Don’t say that, Grandfather. You’ve done so much hunting.
    Do you want to know something, dear granddaughter? In hunting, the prey works harder than the predator.
    He wasn’t complaining. Deep down, his ambition was to be free of all obligations. Happiness, he used to say, consists in not doing anything: To be happy is merely to let God happen. And he fell silent, his hands nervously rubbing his knees.
    Suddenly he jumped to his feet, decisive, as if visited by some new spirit. And with firm step, he set off again for the assembly hall. Climbing up on a chair, he puffed out his chest and faced the crowd.
    Do you want stories? Well, I’m going to tell you a story. Your story.
    Here we go again , some mumbled.
    Have you forgotten you were once slaves? Adjiru continued.
    We’re doomed , others commented.
    Or have you forgotten that we were once taken across the ocean? None of us came back. Or have you forgotten about my father, Muarimi Kapitamoro? He was taken to S ã o Tom é , remember?
    We’re going , the men shouted in chorus. And, turning to me, they added: Come with us, because the words are going to fall thick and fast now.
    One by one they walked off, until I was the only one left in the hall, my heart in my hands, as I stared at the wobbly chair on top of which my grandfather continued his impassioned rhetoric. I even dared, with timid voice, to call him back into the world. But at that moment, I was invisible to him. An enraged prophet had taken possession of my old relative.
    Do you know why the slaves left no memory? Because they have no grave. One of these days, here in Kulumani, no one will have a grave anymore. And there will no longer be any memory that there were once people here …
    Grandfather, let’s go home.
    Nowadays, we don’t even have to be put on ships. S ã o Tom é is right here,