Back view of a young man drinking beer while while sitting at the bar counter
Fonte imagem: Envato
Era uma noite agitada de sexta-feira, e ele se encontrava diante do bartender da boate “Caídos do Céu”, isto depois de imobilizar o segurança que, além do ticket, exigia que deixasse o seu arco e flechas — sua arma mais poderosa. O nome “Caídos do Céu” atraiu-o àquele lugar, na esperança de encontrar pistas sobre sua missão. Mas ali só encontrou luzes coloridas piscando, som alto, homens e mulheres seminuas dançando com uma alegria que, para um mundo prestes a acabar, não se justificava.
Ocorreu-lhe perguntar ao bartender sobre os tais “Caídos do Céu”. Mas conteve-se, pois estava farto de fazer perguntas que aos outros pareciam ridículas.
O bartender serviu-lhe um copo e, ante o olhar de espanto do cliente, avisou:
— Isto derruba até um alienígena!
A ele, soou como um desafio. E ele não era de fugir a desafios. Aliás, foi mesmo graças aos desafios que se tornara uma lenda viva entre os seus e braço direito do Rei Kosi.
Espreitou o líquido, mas seus sensores de perigo não detectaram absolutamente nada.
— Se derruba um alienígena, certamente não um qawwi como eu.
— O quê? — perguntou o bartender, curioso.
Em seus olhos pairou alguma hesitação. Certamente, não era uma boa ideia revelar sua identidade por aí. Isso poderia interferir negativamente na missão.
— Dá cá isto! — disse, arrancando bruscamente a garrafa das mãos do bartender.
Bebeu de um só trago. Não tinha sabor de nada e não lhe lembrava absolutamente nada que já tivesse tomado.
— Desafio patético — pensou, pousando a garrafa na mesa.
— Heeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!! — rejubilaram-se os demais que presenciaram a cena.
Os gritos inflaram seu ego, gostava de ser o centro das atenções.
— Mais uma garrafa! — Disse. E os aplausos foram efusivos.
— Esta é por minha conta, meu rei! — gritou alguém.
Em vários meses de recuperação e adaptação, desde sua aterrissagem inglória num dos desertos do planeta, era a primeira vez que alguém se dirigia a ele com alguma dignidade.
Contorceu os lábios, ensaiando um sorriso. Certamente o Rei Kosi não ia gostar nada daquilo. Mas Kosi estava distante, em outro planeta.
— Aqui — gritou, tomando a garrafa das mãos do bartender — Vallen é rei!!!!
E, assim, estava feita a apresentação.
E houve uma ovação enquanto ele consumia toda a bebida. Todos haviam deixado seus lugares para se acercarem do Vallen.
Por aqueles instantes, havia se esquecido completamente da missão e da obsessão em encontrar Linan.
— Vallen! Vallen! Vallen!… — gritava a multidão, eufórica.
E quanto mais garrafas ele consumia, mais total era a festa.
Despertou na madrugada seguinte, no chão de uma cela fedorenta. Estava com fortes dores de cabeça. E, pior, não conseguia se lembrar do resto da noite passada, nem de como fora parar em uma cela.
— Pois então — disse para si mesmo, — derruba até um qawwi!
O nome Fausto não é fictício. O homem existiu, viveu — e partiu em silêncio. A dor que aqui descrevo não foi inventada. Foi sentida, testemunhada, e carrega o peso de muitas outras histórias semelhantes que nunca chegaram a ser contadas.
Escrever sobre ele foi um acto de memória, de respeito, e de desejo profundo de transformar dor em consciência. Esta narrativa não pretende julgar; apenas escutar o que não foi dito a tempo.
Aconteceu no início dos anos 90 — uma época em que pedir ajuda emocional ainda era tabu, sobretudo entre os homens. Quando o silêncio era sinónimo de força, e o sofrimento, uma questão privada — para esconder ou suportar sozinho.
Para o senhor Fausto e para todos os que, como ele, travaram as suas últimas batalhas dentro do peito, sem espaço para pedir ajuda.
Que nunca nos falte empatia. Que nunca nos falte coragem para ouvir o silêncio dos outros.
A História
Há lugares que parecem viver num ritmo mais lento, como se o tempo ali se curvasse à simplicidade da vida. Lionde era um desses lugares. Uma vila pequena, de ruas de terra batida, cinco mil almas e vizinhos que se tratavam pelo nome — ou pelo olhar.
Foi ali que o senhor Fausto chegou com a sua família e uma carrinha da empresa municipal de águas. Alto, magro, com uma postura impecável e um rosto sereno, instalou-se numa das casas reservadas aos directores que vinham e iam, como o vento.
A sua presença impunha respeito. Falava pouco, observava muito. Era difícil adivinhar o que se passava por trás daqueles olhos quietos. Mas o que ninguém via — ou talvez preferisse não ver — era que o senhor Fausto travava uma guerra silenciosa com o álcool.
Naquele tempo, não havia linhas de apoio coladas no frigorífico. Não havia campanhas sobre saúde mental ou conversas abertas sobre depressão. Não em lugares como Lionde. Não no início dos anos 90. Bebia-se, resistia-se, e seguia-se em frente. Qualquer outra coisa era vista como fraqueza.
Não era um homem violento. Não gritava, não partia copos. Apenas se perdia, noite após noite, no fundo de um copo. E, com o tempo, foi-se apagando aos olhos da mulher que, um dia, o amou com esperança.
As discussões começaram baixas como sussurros tristes no escuro; depois, cresceram em volume e em raiva, até tornarem-se públicas — um espectáculo amargo que se repetia no quintal, à vista de todos.
Ele chegava cambaleante, ela esperava em fúria. E nós, vizinhos, aprendemos a assistir. Uns em silêncio, outros com risos de canto de boca. As crianças, inocentes e cruas, achavam graça. Mas Fausto… apenas baixava a cabeça.
Nos dias mais intensos, as grades do portão enchiam-se de pequenos rostos curiosos, enquanto outros se sentavam nos muros da casa para ver de perto a tragédia que se repetia como um ritual. Quando os gritos começavam, largávamos tudo — e corríamos para assistir ao triste espetáculo, como quem vai ver um filme já sabendo o final.
Diz-se que a dignidade não faz barulho quando parte. Talvez por isso ninguém notou o momento exacto em que ele desistiu.
Na véspera do fim, a esposa lançou-lhe palavras como pedras:
“Hoje vais levar com o chinelo, com a faca… e com uma garrafa na cabeça!”
Disse-o entre o escárnio e o cansaço, sem saber que, naquele dia, a sua raiva teria um preço alto demais.
Na manhã seguinte, o senhor Fausto saiu como sempre. Rosto sério, passos lentos. Cumpriu o expediente, passou no bar, bebeu o de sempre. Mas, no caminho de volta, desviou. Parou a carrinha à beira do rio.
E, sem alarde, mergulhou no silêncio.
Quando a noite caiu e ele não voltou, o riso deu lugar à inquietação. E, na madrugada seguinte, a vila acordou com um choro que rasgava o céu:
“Onde estás, Fausto?! Onde está o meu Fausto?!”
Era a mulher, agora em pranto. Gritava o nome de quem, por tanto tempo, calou-se. E talvez só ali tenha entendido o peso do silêncio que tantas vezes ignorou.
Reflexão Final
Nem todas as dores gritam. Algumas vivem caladas, escondidas atrás de um sorriso breve, de um “está tudo bem” dito com os olhos no chão.
O senhor Fausto não foi fraco — foi humano. E, como tantos outros naqueles tempos, apenas não encontrou espaço para ser ouvido antes de se afogar na própria solidão.
Moro numa pequena localidade em Londres, chamada Woodstreet. É daquelas ruas discretas, quase tímidas, que se escondem no ritmo apressado da cidade. Mas, como todas as esquinas antigas de Londres, guarda as suas próprias histórias — aquelas que não vêm nos guias turísticos.
Numa dessas esquinas havia uma funerária muito antiga, com com o nome Ashworth & Co. gravado em letras sóbrias sobre a fachada escura. Fundada em 1888, resistiu a guerras, crises económicas, mudanças culturais. Sobreviveu a tudo, menos a um gesto de desespero.
A montra era singela, com espaço apenas para um único caixão. O mesmo caixão, todos os dias. E o dono — um senhor já idoso — também o mesmo, sempre lá, pontualmente às sete da manhã, sentado atrás do vidro, como se fizesse parte da montra. Presença constante, quase fantasmagórica, mas estranhamente reconfortante.
Até que um dia a loja fechou.
Soube-se depois que um homem, em aflição, precisou dos serviços da funerária, mas não tinha meios para pagar. Perdera alguém querido. E, ao não encontrar acolhimento, nem alternativa, cedeu à dor. Numa madrugada, destruiu a montra da loja. Desde então, o caixão desapareceu, a cadeira ficou vazia, e Ashworth & Co., um negócio com mais de 135 anos, nunca mais reabriu..
Valeu a pena? Valeu a pena perder um legado centenário por causa de um impasse humano? E, qual é o papel do Estado nestas situações? Como é possível alguém não ter acesso digno a um enterro? Onde está a rede de apoio? Onde termina a responsabilidade individual e começa a responsabilidade colectiva?
É curioso — e profundamente simbólico — que uma loja que vendia caixões tenha ido à falência por causa de um único morto desconhecido. Um só morto bastou para sepultar toda a história daquele lugar. Trágico. Poético. Real.
E se o dono tivesse estendido a mão? E se aquele homem tivesse família? Apoio? Comunidade? Tantas possibilidades que talvez evitassem o fim.
Foi então, pois, que me surgiram perguntas, as quais agora partilho:
Qual é o verdadeiro sentido da vida? Qual é o sentido da família? Qual é o valor da entreajuda entre seres humanos? Por que não criamos um mundo melhor?
Vivemos cercados de distrações e silêncios. Mas, talvez tudo o que alguém precise seja de uma pergunta sincera: “Estás bem? Precisas de alguma coisa?”
Talvez essa seja a chave. Talvez esta história — pequena, escondida numa esquina de Londres — valha mais do que parece. Talvez lembre-nos que, no fim de contas, o que estamos mesmo aqui a fazer… é cuidar uns dos outros.
Sobre Roberto Júnior:
Roberto Júnior nasceu no Chokwé , em Moçambique, e cresceu numa pequena aldeia chamada Lionde. Foi numa das suas idas a Maputo, ainda em criança, que viu pela primeira vez edifícios altos, imponentes, tendo ficado fascinado. Aos 16 anos, mudou-se para Maputo e, pouco tempo depois, foi viver para Lisboa com o seu tio Bonifácio — um médico de grande coração e visão. Foi ele quem impulsionou a sua mudança para Londres, onde reside atualmente. Roberto estudou hotelaria e trabalhou mais de vinte anos em hotéis.
Com o tempo, e com a chegada da família, a necessidade de estabilidade levou-o a perseguir um segundo sonho de infância: trabalhar num banco.
Hoje, trabalha num banco há sete anos onde exerce a função de Workplace Experience Lead, liderando equipas.
Tem 43 anos e é pai de dois filhos que são o centro da sua vida.
Nos seus tempos livres, gosta de escrever, quando pode, e de cozinhar aos fins de semana. Escreve sobre as suas vivências, sobre o que vê, sobre o que sente e o sobre que aprende.
Evaristo bought the wristwatch from a friendly Nigerian, in downtown area. He bought it on sale. Thanks to Clayton Kazimira, app developer and great genius of this century, the focus has ceased to be on oil & gas. Southern Africa has found profit in a more colourful market, where everyone wants majority stake: the market of love. We are talking about an algorithmic love, sold on the Tandiza App.
If it weren’t for his friends, Evaristo would have never bothered for such an app. Firstly, even though he was a big fan ofmodern gadgets, he seriously doubted that love could come from exact sciences or computers. Secondly, because he had already found love. Or so he thought.
“Your house is on fire”,his friends warned him at the time, horrified by the ability of Evaristo’s wife to offend him; by the delight she took in humiliating him and putting him down.
“Your house has been on fire for a long time, bro, wake up!”
“But I love my wife,”Evaristo replied.
One day, however, he took a moment to think about it. He swallowed hard and admitted that promises had been discarded as household garbage. That woman had made him believe that he had too many flaws. That he should trim them up. As he trimmed himself, he realized that he had trimmed even the most beautiful parts. That’s when he decided. He left and called for divorce.
Many months later, too lazy to go to pathology, too lazy to go to the city council to deal with late paperwork, and even to get out of bed, Evaristo took the day off to enjoy his solitude, eating burritos and surfing on reddit. His friend saw him online.
“Hey gadgets lover, do you think this thing is real? I’m thinking of buying one for myself.”
Evaristo paid attention to the ad that had just landed in his chat.
“Finally, in our market, the little watch with the hands to the heart! Tandiza Love App is revolutionizing lives of millions of people on the continent and around the world. The chance has come to meet, based on scientifically indisputable evidence, without errors, your perfect match! Connect today and find out who is your true soulmate. 4 free virtual dates. Terms and conditions apply“.
Evaristo was intrigued. No errors? People take leaps of faith, hoping for the best. Sometimes they are lucky, but other times, they end up having to live with overwhelming disappointment. When he had sworn eternal love before the priest, he had taken a risk in the dark. He had failed. The only infallible love is that of blood connections, and even so. Evaristo bit his fingernails. He had decided it was better to die alone than to risk that love nonsense again, but if science now was saying that it could calculate the risk for him… well. Why not try it out. He needed to know who his perfect match was.
2. Evaristo tries the watch
It’s night. Evaristo observes the device still sealed in the box. He turns on his laptop and opens the website to download the app. The download is quick and the instructions clear: he must connect the patch to the bottom of the skull and activate the watch on his wrist before sleeping. That night, while sleeping, he will meet his perfect match. Science will show him precisely who is the love of his life.
3. The first date (the contours of the dream)
Evaristo, 00:15
An intense splendour descends. I hear waterfalls. I check myself, dumbfounded. Tuxedo? I have never been one to dress up. My fingertips moisten. Fear. This environment, this dream, seems all too real. I wonder where I am and who is waiting for me. Anyone who I know or will I see her face for the first time? What if this person is from another continent? Or if she speaks Mandarin? Worse, what if it is someone already committed? There were reports of users of the app who met their perfect matches already quite committed to other people.
I capture a sudden floral aroma. I look around and notice that I am surrounded by a ring of bioluminescent shrubs, daisies, and gerberas. The moon rises giant, deflowers with its soft rays the tepid dawn and brings to my ears a pleasant jazz, Nat King Cole.
What’s happening here?
About ten meters away, I see a row of wooden chairs and a woman sitting in the last one. I follow the trail of her long blue dress that crawls through the grass. The jazz orchestra now accompanies black tulips that fall slowly from the clear sky. A whirlwind of hope spirals through the long, colourful twists of her hair and hits me squarely in the chest as she turns to me.
“Evaristo…?”
Everything slows down for the both of us. The past is diluted in our present. An entire galaxy expands inside me. Then, I remember that its only a dream. My lips let out, in a slow ecstasy:
“Brenda…!”
I hadn’t seen this woman in years. She looks as amazed as I do.
“What is this place, Evaristo?”
“We are in a dream. We are within my dream.”
“And what am I doing, awake in your dream?”
“Uh, well, apparently…”
I tell her everything. About the watch. And its purpose. She flashes a gorgeous smile.
“The famous app! It’s interesting that its thinks I’m the person…”
And soon our palms meet. Our faces touch. The fingers intertwined.
“Where have you been, Bri?”
“Well, around here, in the city. I work in the Municipal Council. You?”
“Me…?”
I’m not able to answer, because I’m hypnotized. Brenda is still as beautiful or even more than I recall. We were colleagues at the university. From time to time, we would cross paths in the canteen. On Wednesdays, especially. We were the only ones who loved Mrs. Mapitso’s burritos. I offered to carry her heavy books and we walked side by side, ignoring the prying eyes of the boys who admired Brenda for her impudent beauty and clothing. We sat in the library, away from the air conditioning, as we were both shivery. We studied in silence. One day, just before graduation, I found an envelope in the middle of my books. Inside, a pen and a note that said: the Mesopotamians believed in the magic of engraved words. A souvenir so you don’t forget me. From your colleague, Bri. I held the pen up to the light and one verse that still lingers in my life.
I smiled, perplexed. Texted her thanking the gift. I had always thought about asking her out on a date, but never had the courage. The moment I finally decided to do so, I was in the car with my cousin typing the message, when our car got hit by another. The driver was my future wife. Life got complicated and the message to Brenda was postponed for a few hours. That turned into days. That turned into months. Years. I let her escape straight into the arms of some lucky man, to whom she is certainly married today.
Back to reality, or rather, to this atypical situation created by the software, I look at Brenda, nervously.
“Bri… Are you committed?” I ask her, fearing confirmation.
She takes a few seconds before answering:
“No, Evaristo. Since we are in a dream, since you summoned me into your dream, I will confess. There is no one special in my life and sometimes I still think about you”.
Pyrotechnic explosion inside me.
“Oh my God,” I moan softly, blessing the app.
I can’t stop loving her with my eyes. It doesn’t matter what I’ve done or not done in the past. Science is answering me. Brenda slides her fingers down my back and we walk together the warm contours of this dream.
4. Customer Line
Evaristo wakes up with the sun flooding all the rooms in the house. His brain, meanwhile, seems immersed in the dark. He remembers nothing. Wasn’t he supposed to have had a dream, a vision, something like that? Wasn’t him supposed to wake up knowing who was his perfect match? After brushing his teeth, he opens the app on his laptop.
Quick codes run on a dark command screen. Tandiza App is showing him a report, based on his brain activity during the previous night:
“Research and simulation complete. Successful virtual date. Perfect match found. Compatibility level: 98.99%. Affinity level: 99.99%. Margin of error: 0.4%. Our app recorded an abnormal production of serotonin. We are pleased to inform you that you were very happy during the virtual date. If you want to access the complete records of this first date or want to know the identity of your match, please upgrade in order to access all the functions of our app. You have a balance of 3 free virtual dates”.
Evaristo picks up his mobile phone and activates the customer’s line.
“Tandiza App, how can we help?”
“Yes. I used your app yesterday and today it’s telling me that I had a successful date, meanwhile, I don’t know who my match is!”
“Can I have your code, sir?”
“932546.”
“Right. Mr. Evaristo Moiane. You used our app yesterday and want to know the identity of your match, is that correct?”
“Correct.”
“Please hold on line. Mr. Evaristo, thank you for holding on the line. You are using a demo version. To access all the features of the App, you must pay the full package. The amount in meticais is the…”
Evaristo quickly jumped from his chair.
“Ma’m…!? Do you want me to rob a bank or what?”
“We’re sorry, sir. It is the price of the promotional package. If you want…-”
“No.” Heinterrupts, “That information is enough for me. Thank you for your patience.”
“You’re welcome, sir. Do you want to continue the trial period for free?”
“That would be fine”.
Evaristo decides to think about all that later. After all, life is unpostponable. There is work to do, bills to pay, documents to legalize. He decides, first, to go to the municipal council to regularize the title of the land, as that process was long due.
As he parks downtown, he sees a familiar face through the car window at the bottom of the stairs of the old government building. He is surprised. Brenda. His former classmate from university. He hadn’t seen her for years. She also recognises him and when she smiled at him, Evaristo’s heart skips a beat.
“It’s so good to see you again, Evaristo!”
He adjusts his glasses.
“Bri… how have you been?”
“Working here now, in the territorial planning department.”
Evaristo finds himself so absorbed by the encounter that he almost forgets the little time he has for the day’s chores.
“I heard you got married… how’s the family?”
Evaristo runs his hand over the back of his head.
“Oh, yes,” he tries not to show disappointment at the inquiry, “they’re all right…
His ego does not allow him to admit that he failed miserably as a husband, and that he even had the regrettable idea of pursuing propaganda loves, monitored by computers. Evaristo heads to the laboratory, thoughtful. He remembers the day when his ex-wife, in a terrible fit of jealousy, reduced to dust the box where he kept cherished memories, including the pen that Brenda had offered him so many years ago.
Who knows how things would have been if he had sent her that message? If he had… Evaristo shakes his head. It no longer matters.
***
After work, already at home, Evaristo constantly looks at his watch, waiting for some sign from the app, perhaps reviewing his face or knowing the name of the woman he met in the land of algorithms disguised as dreams. Darkness falls. Around 22:00, the app shows you a brief message:
“Perfect match found yesterday. You have established a deep connection. Ready to see her again tonight? Sweet dreams!”
5. The second encounter (heart aerobics)
Evaristo, 00:39
Within my dream, I meet her again. However, I am astonished. During the morning, when we bumped into the municipality, neither Brenda nor I remembered the night before.
“You looked so beautiful this morning. I swear I would have grabbed you right there, if I had remembered us.”
She stares at me discontent.
“Why did you let me believe that you’re still married?”
“Because I’m stupid, my love.”
Brenda lets out a sigh.
“But, Evaristo, if this is really happening, if all this is real and if this app really works, why we do not remember a thing?”
“It’s that I didn’t pay for the full package. I’m using a demo version. You know how we Mozambican are…”
She laughs so softly that I am immediately impelled to kiss her. It is a kiss that contradicts the planet’s coherence. This is new to me. It causes me a venipuncture and, suddenly, a few milligrams of the poem circulate in my body.
“My soul, of dreaming of you, is lost.”
Brenda takes my hand.
“My eyes are blind to see you.”, she adds“Florbela Espanca”.
I watch her slowly, enraptured, caressing her fingers between mine.
“Indeed it’s you, it’s always been you… you guys are right, it is her!”, I shout loudly for the blessed gods of the app to hear me, if they are there.
Again, Brenda giggles. She shakes me with a slight push.
“But, Evaristo, man!” That’s not the way to convince anyone. This whole thing is just a fantasy. An illusion.”
“But you’re real. And I want to be with you. Don’t you want to be with me?”
“With all my soul”, suddenly she pulls away and looks serious. “You have to see me urgently when you wake up, Evaristo. I’m about to travel. I’m going to Japan for a year, a postgraduate degree. I don’t want to leave without knowing that you want me”.
I scratch my head, anguished.
“What if, again… I don’t remember? I’m afraid of waking upset and then… cancel the app.”
“Don’t do that. Not before we talk” she snuggles up to me “Don’t resist me anymore, man. I will be yours, everyday”.
My fingers wander over Bri’s face, sobbing endless tenderness. And in silence I pray for my heart, because it is not used to so much aerobics.
“I will also be yours, Bri, today and at always.”
***
Evaristo is having a very troubled sleep. His heart runs dizzyingly into the night and his bed continues to moisten. He desperately wants to be able to remember when he wakes up. When…
***
The alarm rings. 6:00 a.m.
Evaristo finishes his push-ups, makes a cup of tea and opens the laptop.
A sudden pop up greets him:
“Pay full package | continue free trial?”
But… who is the person you’re talking about? Highly frustrating. Evaristo is about to hit the cancel option, when the application releases an audio. To his surprise, he hears his own voice. Clearly he is talking to someone, although only his voice is translucent.
“To whom would I have said these things?” he wonders in amazement. “I sound so in love!”
He decides to open the report of his dates.
“I’m curious to know who this person is and what it would be like to meet them in person.” He says it to himself, after reading it so briefly. He dips his fingers into his wallet. Fishes out his debit card. Calculates for a moment. Finally, he shakes his head and ends up turning off the computer. There is no money for so much nonsense.
6. The third date (love can’t be bought)
Evaristo, 01:00
I wait at the counter of a sumptuous rooftop bar, to the sound of You Don’t Know Me, B.B. King. The orchestras and sound effects of this software are astonishing!
The guest finally arrives, as beautiful as the first few times.
“I’m sorry for the delay, my dear. I fell asleep very late today” she explains.
“Is it your fault? These are delays marked in non-existent clocks”.
“Big illogicality”, Brenda retorts. “How is it possible that they prevent us from remembering?”
I close my eyes for a moment. Maybe a miracle will occur, maybe my bed will rotate in a gorgeous metamorphosis and I’ll wake up in hers. It doesn’t happen. Then I sigh.
“If I had the remote idea, I would have already paid for the app. I would give everything, Bri.”
She stares at me perplexed.
“For heavens sake, man, when are you going to understand?” Love can’t be bought. You don’t have to spend a single penny, you don’t have to buy the app. I like you and I’m just a call away.”
7. These ridiculous prices
Evaristo sits in front of the laptop screen. He removes his glasses, puts them back on. He is pale. Despondent. The app relentless hides any useful information. Evaristo is outraged by the absence of memories of what the App describes as the most intense nights of his life. To unravel the mystery, he will have to pay for the full package. But he hesitates. Is there really someone, some love, somewhere in the universe, that is right for him? He does not want – and will not – pay this absurd amount, for what in the end may be a simple scam.
He calls the customer’s line. The line is busy. He hangs there, to the sound of waiting music. Have You Seen Her, MC Hammer. It has to be cynicism of these people, he thinks.
“Thank you for waiting, Mr. Evaristo. We confirm that we will release the identity of your match. Both you and your match will have unrestricted access to all the memories you have created in your dates. All you have to do is pay the amount of 80% of the original price.
“What?” Evaristo jumps upset, “Madam, I bought your watch and it wasn’t cheap! These prices are ridiculous. This is 2027, people have more serious needs! I don’t need any of this, look… I’m going to give up!”
“Are you sure you don’t need this?” The voice on the other end asks him calmly, “It’s always easy to pretend than to accept the truth about loneliness, isn’t it?There is still time to go straight to the whole package and be happy, Mr. Evaristo. It’s super easy.”
Evaristo goes silent. The operator, obviously well trained, is making fun of him. Paying the full package is a problem. Having a heart that suffers from love for someone you don’t know, having your memories deleted in the morning, seems like an even greater outrage.
“Non sense! Unbelievable! You are manipulators and swindlers!”
“We are sorry, Mr. Evaristo. I have instructions that the decisions in this matter are final. Thus, either pay the requested price or cancel the application. You have one more day to decide.”
With a moment of silence, Evaristo ends the call.
8. The last date
Evaristo, 01:22
Inside my dream, the night is rainy. I wonder who the engineer is who decides on the visual effects of this software and if, by any chance, he has fun with all this. Dismayed, but still optimistic, I see myself emerging onto a trail with puddles of water that reflect the orange glow of the night lights. And when I see her walk towards me, my heart bursts into spurts of joy and also of fury.
I know, deep down, that I’m madly in love. And that I won’t have her.
I allow myself your kisses, thousands of them, before all this is over.
“I won’t see you again, Bri.”
She seems dissatisfied. At one point, she squints, crossing her arms in a defiant attitude.
“when a man wants, he makes it happen. If you want, if deep down you want, believe me, Evaristo, you will look for me”.
“But Bri, without the app, how can I…”
“Screw the app! Tomorrow morning. Take an action. A text, a call, you name it! Even if I don’t remember any of this and with my own dilemmas, I will welcome you with open arms. Well, I think I will… but you have to try”.
I feel cornered. Man, how unfair. How am I supposed to solve this? I sincerely wish that the first thing I do in the morning is to pay for the damn app.
The Final Investment Decision
“Your trial period is over. Pay for the full package?”
Annoyed and already fed up, Evaristo drags the computer mouse and clicks:
“No”.
The screen throws a huge red exclamation mark, accompanied by a loud alert and an automatic service voice whistling on the speaker:
“Are you sure of this operation? You will lose access to all your records.”
Evaristo’s fingers tremble around the mouse. He needs to get rid of that scam once and for all, before he ends up getting into debt for no reason.
He gives the final click.
“Service discontinued. If you want to regain your access, please call our customer services.”
Evaristo rushes to the city council to see the license for the property, because he does not breath love. As he leaves the municipal secretariat, with the title stamped, he glimpses some colorful twists swinging on the back of a woman wearing a blue dress. That was Brenda, down the hall. She seemed in a hurry, but when she heard Evaristo’s voice, she retreated to greet him.
“I’m on a trip. Leaving tonight, I just came to finish a few things…”
“Vacation?”
“Postgraduation. I’m moving to Japan.”
“Oh,” Evaristo feels something stranger in his stomach, “right, may everything go well, my dear, all the best!”
“You too, my dear class mate!”
Evaristo says goodbye to her with a kiss on her cheek, surprised at the warm shiver that climbs his entire skin, the strange sensation in his veins. He squeezes the envelope between his fingers as he watches Brenda walk away, leaving a trail of her sweet perfume. She was always very beautiful.
Evaristo stares desolately at the watch on his wrist. If only he knew what “the one” looked like. The shape of her smile. Where she was. Maybe “the one” walks around with mussiro on her face, or she was wandering around the Island of Mozambique; contemplating a piece of art in a museum in Singapore; perhaps teaching at a college in Manchester; or just selling stuff at a stall in Malhangalene.
A few seconds later, as if coming out of a trance, Evaristo snatches the watch from his wrist. He throws it into the first garbage box and starts running, desperate.
It doesn’t matter. He is not interested in knowing where “the one” is. He may never find the one. And that is ok.
“Bri…” He finally reaches her, panting.
He sweats. He clears his throat. Damn, the man is nervous. But he has also decided. From there he will not leave without taking the leap.
“Would you have a few minutes for a coffee before your trip?”
“Purpose for your visit?” The burly immigration officer’s voice lacked all intonation making his question come out like a declaration. He flicked through her passport with an air of boredom Maria did not appreciate.
“I am here to attend the writing conference,” she responded politely. Maria spoke in a full accent that carried her entire background. The officer peered over his glasses up at her, thoroughly unimpressed. He raked his eyes up and down the parts of her that were visible over his desk. Maria schooled her features and retained a pleasant face while looking him in the eyes. He handed her passport back to her and waved her off without another word. With a nod and a smile, she dragged her small carry-on away and headed to the wide doors. Once out of sight, she shook her head at his rudeness. There could not be many truly creative answers he heard in a day to have no reaction whatsoever. She concluded that the job must have numbed his humanity.
Authors had flown in from around the world to revel in the art of storytelling. They each jumped at the chance to congratulate themselves on their ability to string sentences together better than the average person. A week prior, Maria had been on the fence about joining in the hubris, but the opportunity to disprove all those who looked down on her ‘little hobby’ proved to be too tempting. She made part of only three authors across the diaspora chosen to attend.
“Did I hear you say you were attending the conference?”
A young woman rapidly approached, dragging a four-wheeled suitcase awkwardly beside her. Her blonde hair swung wildly around her chin where it was cropped.
“Yes, that is right.”
“Oh good! Can I share a taxi with you to the hotel?”
Maria nodded politely. “Of course. I am Maria.”
“Beverly,” the woman responded, stretching out her hand. Maria shuffled her handbag to the other side to reach her.
“This is so exciting! It’s just a little annoying that they haven’t given us the full itinerary yet.”
“That is true, but I am honestly just happy to have gotten an invite. It could not have come at a more perfect time.”
“Oh? How so?”
Maria adjusted her collar and led her new companion out through the automatic steel doors into the bustling hall. The pair passed hoards of people eagerly awaiting their loved ones. As no one awaited them, they headed straight to the exit for the taxi stand. Beverly’s question lay forgotten as she filled the air between them with every one of her passing thoughts. She detailed her body of work that merited her an invitation to the prestigious event, not once thinking to ask Maria about her own. Maria could not help but feel grateful for the oversight. The more time she spent in Beverly’s presence drained her of the energy to provide any meaningful contribution to the conversation.
A sterile scent greeted her as Maria strode into her hotel room. Inserting the magic strip of plastic into its little home by the door brought the place to life, illuminating the stark décor. Between the beige walls and white accents, the room was devoid of all character in a way that suggests modern-day luxury. Maria sat on the edge of the bed. A couple of test bounces found that the mattress had no give. Perching on the corner, she was momentarily overcome by the realization that she had nothing to do until the morning. The room styled to draw focus of the large desk that occupied far more space than it needed to. The bright desk light beckoned her over, compelling her to be useful. She could use this time to organize some thoughts for her next book. A large unattractive yawn distracted her mind. Looking to the pillows, Maria considered turning in early since she had a full day ahead of her, but going to bed this early would mean staring at the popcorn ceiling for more hours than necessary. The sleek bar downstairs emerged in her memory, but as a woman on her own, she quickly decided against it. Maria instead plucked up her luggage and threw it open on the bed beside her.
After her outfit had gently been laid out, Maria flicked through the room service menu. All the options only served to remind her how far away she was from home. None of the flavors that delighted her tastebuds appeared on the list. She played it safe by calling in an order for pumpkin soup with bread rolls, silently hoping that they did not outsource their baking in a hotel of that caliber. Her hips held proof of the universal truth of the comfort to be found in fresh bread. The rest of the room called for exploration while she waited. In the bathroom, her reflection immediately startled her. The bright lights that framed the large mirror emphasized the deep shadows on her face. Maria toyed with the switches on the wall until her image dimmed then angled the smaller, magnified mirror away. Avoiding reflecting on her appearance any longer, Maria turned to the shower. A wide showerhead hung in the center of the spacious tiled area. She tested out the pressure and jumped back when hidden jets in the walls came to life. A serious knock on the door interrupted her before she could jump into that experience.
A frazzled concierge rushed out of her room after setting down her tray, walking past the folded note Maria held out in her hand. His actions flew in the face of all of her reading. Maria had come to expect that people in this part of the world anticipated tips, and here he was, acting like he did not see her. She brushed it off, assuming he had a million other places to be she tucked the money away before settling down to a below-average meal.
Not concerning herself with the water bill, Maria took the most incomparable shower of her life. The continuous hot stream melted away all the tension she had been holding in her muscles. Steam billowed around her and filled the small room. The experience was diminished only by the plastic round that passed itself off as soap. Once dried and moisturized, Maria slid herself into the impossibly tight sheets. The mattress gave way around her body. Though she anticipated a night of tossing and turning, the silence lulled away her worries and she succumbed fully to her cotton-soft coffin.
Maria arose before her alarm went off and primped respectfully to represent her people. She looked forward to shining a light on her country and hopefully drawing more attention to her book. The extra cash certainly could not hurt. Down in the restaurant, Maria scanned the room for allies when an overly excited wave caught her eye.
“Thank God, finally someone I recognize. I mean, I have seen some of these authors online, but I haven’t had the chance to meet anyone yet.”
Beverly’s chirpy voice provided an odd sense of comfort. Perhaps a little too much as Maria fought to stifle a yawn far too soon after waking.
“Did you sleep well,” she asked her energetic companion.
“Oh yes,” Beverly’s face brightened. “This hotel is a dream, don’t you think?”
Maria pursed her lips, curving them into a gentle smile to hold back her criticism.
“I am so glad that I forgot to pack my heels now that I see this schedule. I want to hit as many talks as I can before the mythology panel. Hey! How about you join me at that one?”
“I don’t know much about mythology. I write non-fiction.”
“I’m sure you have some interesting insights when it comes to that sort of thing.”
It took all the strength Maria had not to respond. Once again, she fell victim to the assumption that her blackness translated easily to superstition. Never mind the fact that she was raised deeply religious and never had the opportunity to entertain talk to false gods or demonic creatures. An overused and unappreciated tendency towards courtesy forced her to accept the invitation. Her only consolation was knowing Beverly as she had come to, Maria would probably not have the opportunity to speak.
The day passed far too quickly for Maria’s liking. Her handbag gained a little weight from all the business cards she collected. She would be more thrilled about the fact if she had handed out enough of her own to balance the load. Maria anticipated the moment she could return to her hotel room to look through her gains, but there was still one more event to get through.
Maria did her best to look engaged as the panelists touted their extensive knowledge of imaginative creatures. She nodded along as speakers around the room stood to ask what they believed to be pertinent questions. Her pantomime went largely ignored, which she considered a resounding success until Beverly had to ruin it.
“All of the panelists have discussed vampires at length in their works, so I direct my question to Dr. Machado in the audience. How do vampires appear in your part of the world?”
Far too many eyes turned her way. Maria was glad her dark complexion did not leave room for a blush to appear on her round cheeks.
With a practiced smile, she accepted the microphone handed to her. “I am afraid I do not know this creature.”
“Sure you do. Every culture has them. They are the most famous monsters in history.”
“Describe it,” Maria responded with a shrug.
Beverly looked to the other authors on the stage who simply looked back at her expectantly.
“Well. It is a terrifying creature that hunts for blood in the night. Surely, you know of something like that.”
Maria thought for a moment. “Must it be specifically for blood?”
“Yes.”
“And must it consume it?”
Beverly had the audacity to look annoyed. “What else would it do with it?”
“There are creatures that like to see others bleed.”
Murmurs and puzzled expressions filled the hall.
“What kind of monster does that,” the moderator, an older portly gentleman asked full of intrigue.
“The kind that plagues my country. These, how you call them, vampires. They come from their faraway lands and skulk in the shadows to spill the blood of animals they have no business killing.”
The moderator guffawed loudly. “That is just sport.”
“What health benefits are there to this sport,” Maria asked calmly.
The moderator sputtered into his microphone. “It can be argued that it sends the blood pumping.”
“Yes,” Maria conceded, “There is an entire market dedicated to the chase, and another to the selling of the products which are said to elicit the same high. Personally, I think that if one cannot stand erect without killing, then they have no business in bed. Innocent animals should not have to suffer for the shortcomings of sad men.”
“Agreed, that is wrong,” Beverly spoke as if remembering her voice had not been heard in a while. “But that is not a vampire. Please think. What do you call the creature your people fear? A pale thing on the cusp of death – smells like it too. It kills without abandon and takes your soul.”
Maria threw her head back in understanding. “Ah, I see it now. This monster was a well-known terror for centuries. Who knows what its final death count was by the end?”
Nods of agreement quickly turned to confusion.
“How do you mean?” If the moderator’s brow furled in any further, his face ran the risk of caving in itself.
“Colonialism is a famous vampire, is it not? People still suffer from how much blood, sweat, and tears it spilled. Half the world fell to its evil grasp.”
The moderator’s face contorted in fury while the others carried looks ranging from embarrassment, remorse, and deepening desire to be anywhere else.
“We are here to strictly talk about fiction. No politics!”
“So we dismiss real life as politics?”
“We do if it villainizes real people.”
Maria dropped her microphone for a moment to collect her thoughts. “What a luxury to only have fiction to fear. You must invent things to frighten you, meanwhile, the horror you describe, half the people in this room know personally.”
Lost faces regarded Maria closely. The moderator shook his head in anticipation, though he knew he did not want the answer. “How do you mean now?”
She could not stop the frustration from creeping into her voice. “Describe this monster again.”
All of the panelists turned once again to Beverly who never experienced such regret in her life.
“Okay…well. It is a soul-sucking creature that lives on blood, often targeting young women to rob them of their youth. In its attack, it turns its prey into its property.”
Beverly looked too proud of herself to notice the others around her quietly reciting her carefully crafted spiel, looking for any holes their unflappable contender could manipulate.
“Just to make sure I understood. You ask of a being that comes into your home looking to be fed, uses your body as it sees fit, takes and takes, and still declares you as its property?” Maria released a mirthless laugh. “The only thing astonishing here is that you consider this as fiction.”
“You have seen a monster like this?”
Writers across the room leaned forward in their chairs.
“Seen it? I am married to one.”
The crowd laughed at her response and laughed harder still at the annoyed faces of the panelists. Before they could open their mouths to retort, Maria revealed the bruised skin beneath her large, beaded necklace. Red marks jumped out angrily on her rich, black skin. She readjusted her necklace and collar as the gasps of shock and horror died down. The collective voice of the crowd was lost to the wind. Maria enjoyed the silence. The shame she had expected to feel in her actions failed to set in. Perhaps she had misjudged this topic too early. There may yet be things to learn about these foreign belief systems.
“I am curious now. What else do you waste your time fearing without cause?”
Há uma corrente fria rasando no átrio do prédio. Pensei que pudesse sair para apanhar um pouco de ar. Mas depois do segundo disparo, estava eu a correr. Nem vi o elevador aberto. Quando te convidam a correr pela vida, nada fica ao teu alcance, nem mesmo o que devia ser óbvio.
Chego ao 9º andar e da varanda olho para a cidade, do alto que me permite um vislumbre panorâmico. De um lado a estátua de Samora Machel, que se mantém muda. Envolta a tanto gás que se levanta, estão paralisados os seus músculos de ferro. De outro lado, uma fila de multidão. A polícia dispara contra a multidão. Contra cidadãos, contra sonhantes ambulantes. Para mostrar a outros cidadãos, que tão depressa os seus sonhos serão pesadelos. Mas não são todos cidadãos? Não somos todos? E todos somos sonhantes. E não importam os lados, ou as divisões, ninguem está imune.
― Entra, Linan ― pede-me Will, de pé na porta. Ele é um tipo tranquilo, mas vejo um rastro de preocupação traçando o seu rosto.
― Will, e os protestos?
― Não é seguro.
Não é seguro. Nada é seguro, concluo.
Aqui em cima, neste 9º andar, o gás não chega até nós; dispersa-se como os pássaros perdidos no vento. E, no entanto, as pessoas lá em baixo o encaram de frente, com as crianças que faltam à escola porque não há escolas para ir. As mães marcham porque não têm comida para alimentar os filhos. E, entretanto, quanto mais marcham, mais as prateleiras ficam vazias. As cidades suspensas no tempo, a economia ruindo no pendulo, o vento indecidido. E nos esquecemos que magoar o próximo, é magoar a si próprio. Pedras arremessadas tornam-se pedras em ricochete.
Will sempre se posicionou contra a violência, acreditando em palavras e não em punhos cerrados. Ele também não era do tipo que se aprofundava na política. Para ele, a política e a religião carregam o risco de dividir as pessoas, mostrando as fragilidades das nossas relações, como as rachas que aparecem na loiça. As nossas conversas às vezes complicavam-se, pois eu, como alienígena que sou, ainda luto para entender a lógica humana por detrás de algumas coisas. Este vácuo, por exemplo. A acappella das panelas nas varandas, que gritam porque há silêncio. Tudo isto ultrapassa qualquer orientação política ou crenças pessoais que eu possa ter.
― Isto não faz sentido!
― Senta-te Linan. E respira ― pede-me Will, com a voz calma de sempre. ― Às vezes é tudo o que podemos fazer. Respirar. Orar.
― Porquê? Por que é que não estamos a ouvirmo-nos? Por que é que não estamos a dialogar?
― Talvez porque reconhecer a dor significa assumir a responsabilidade por ela – responde-me Will com os olhos distantes. ― Não te revoltes, Linan, nem tomes lados. É preciso apurar a verdade. E agir de acordo com ela.
― Eu não tomo nenhum lado, Will. Eu sou pela união. Sou por Moçambique. Afinal, somos todos humanos. Somos todos um só país, certo?
Ele não me responde. Faço uma pausa, antes de murmurar:
― Como é suposto eu agir?
― Oh Linan. ― Will segura-me a mão. ― Melhor é continuares a missão que te trouxe a este planeta. Ser paz, ser luz, ser justiça. É isto que devemos todos fazer. Amar uns aos outros.
O coro de panelas persiste nas janelas. Já não se assiste Moçambique em Concerto na TV. Alguém, por favor, resgate os CD’s de Miriam Mabeka. Imagine um mundo onde reina a união, onde ninguém fica com fome ou é esquecido. Onde não há mortes. Estou a imaginar como John Lennon fez. Mas, por enquanto, é apenas um sonho. Na realidade, o edifício desmorona sobre mim e, com ele, os próprios alicerces da minha alma.
Então, de repente, acordo. Estou encharcada de suor, com o coração disparado. Foi apenas um pesadelo. Sento-me na cama, desorientada, olhando em volta. A minha casa está intacta, a rua tranquila sob o romper do sol. Mas Will… a cama vazia responde-me. Will não está aqui. Há muito que ele deixou este mundo. O seu espírito escolheu dar a vida por amor. Um sacrifício que nunca esquecerei. Sinto a sua falta. Mas tal como o seu amor falou mais alto, também fala alto o meu amor por este país. Fala mais alto a minha fé, que se enraíza teimosa como fechadura encravada.
E nestes momentos de dúvida, só uma coisa me mantém com os pés no chão: saber que, mesmo na escuridão, a luz da esperança cintila. Saber que Deus prevalece sobre todo o Universo, e que a Sua Vontade se cumprirá. É preciso ter calma. Se Will estivesse aqui agora, ele simplesmente me diria: “Espera, Linan. Mesmo quando a noite parece interminável, o amanhecer sempre chega. Não te esqueças de orar.”
Volto-me para o céu, e com as mãos juntas sussurro: “Will, onde quer que estejas, ora por nós. Ora por Moçambique. Ora para que encontremos coragem para amar, para sonhar, para abraçarmo-nos. Levantarmo-nos e todos juntos curarmos este país.”
The butterfly was still perched on Nuru’s hand, flapping its wings at the same speed as the cloud from a laser. He tried to focus, ignoring the snorts of the dinosaur sleeping in the garden.
“And the nothing, would become all.”
Nuru closed his eyes. No. That made no sense. Still, the message continued to slowly ripple through him. Like a raindrop in the river. He observed the surroundings. Stefanotis’ valley was still dotted with sparkling lakes, generous waterfalls descending the sunny slopes, flocks in the sky forming a vast v.
“Are you ready to dive in?”
Faced with the urgency, he allowed the butterfly to disappear, and merged with the earth. Crossed cables, water tables, until reached the castle. He then sprouted from the ground, in his original form. Sweating all over, as the molecules of the earth were all twitchy, burning as lava. Nuru pushed open the heavy doors of the noble hall of the sea, with an invisible tug.
The music ceased to play and everyone bowed before the king.
“Please, proceed”. He did not intend to interrupt the party. Although he feared that they were running out of time. For now, he was just going to get his brother Kosi.
“You have to come with me, Kosi”, Nuru had put an arm around his brother shoulder “Right now. Haven’t I seen Oderek around here …? Oderek!”
Oderek, an administrator famous for his bad mood and for the pragmatic way in which he resolved matters related to the Council, heard the call, and walked quickly towards the king.
“Your Highness?”
“Gather some members of the Council and issue an alert of level 1.”
“Level 1?”, Kosi repeated doubtfully, but Nuru continued to pass his instructions.
“A phenomenon is about to happen, on the other side of the white curtain. All are expected to hibernate, immediately, for the rest of the day. Oderek, please circulate this news, urgently.”
“Understood, your highness.”
Oderek towed himself with agility typical of his twenty-year-old physique, although the weight of his age was evident in the hard expression of his eyes.
Kosi followed his brother, the cloak of his origami dangling in the air.
“Hibernate? What kind of phenomenon are we talking about here? It seems as Stefanotis itself is going to resound!”
“Have no questions about that, my brother”, Nuru accelerated his steps, “Everything is about to resound! And we both have a sensitive task ahead. Let’s go to the lab!”
Outside, they stopped for a while and observed the sky as the weather changed. Warm, reddish clouds covered the triangular and lilac moon, lighting up the gold of Stefanotis’ arches and pyramids. Giraffes and elephants began to flee to the woods. A fleet of six horses, carrying members of the Unit Council, passed in a uniform trot. The statue erected in the middle of the capital, with the image of King Kosi and King Nuru, holding the autumn arrows, shone brightly. It was an astounding work of art, that symbolized an important milestone in Stefanotis’ history: the victory against NKunkumba Sea.
A strong qawwiwas mounted on the last horse, holding, and blowing a trombone. The sound spread everywhere. At the same time, telepathic messages were broadcasted: “Alert of Level 1! All qawwis must hibernate immediately. Predictions of rare phenomenon, over the white curtain.”
King Kosi crossed his arms:
“How do you want to go to the lab? through the caramel, or we just go?”
Several guards approached, waiting for instructions, but King Nuru dismissed them.
“We just go, Kosi! The two of us. There is no time to waste”.
Kosi’s wrinkled brow fell apart and his tone became warm.
“You never let me down, brother, so I will trust you on this. Let’s do it!”
The two disappeared across the land, as raw energy, transporting themselves through Stefanotis’ viscera. The laboratory resembled a helipad, and was built in the clouds, a few feet away, on the castle’s radar.
Two sparks crossed the air, giving way to Kosi and Nuru. In the middle of the atrium, a flickering bubble emerged, becoming the figure of a tall, dark qawwi, in uniform with an armor. He waited for the two to approach.
“Renowned master Godido”, greeted Kosi, happy “It is so good to see you, my brother!”
The other nodded slightly.
“The honor is all mine, Your Highness”, he then looked worried “I received the alert, Your Highness. A phenomenon over the white curtain? Is that right?”
“A phenomenon that will change our history, forever!”
Godido took a step back and made a blanket arise in the air. He stirred it towards the laboratory and some pink particles carried the encryptions to the entry. The gate, with a blue glass embedded in the wall, and two leaves of a few tons each, opened automatically in all its height, revealing its vast interior.
Nuru and Kosi moved forward, although Kosi was already uneasy and confused.
“I still haven’t realized what is this spectacular event that leads us in such a hurry!”
Nuru, however, had disappeared through one of the laboratory compartments.
The place was not just a park for the ship. It kept objects of extreme importance for the kingdom, and protected the only gateway to the NKunkumba Sea, a region inhabited by ikras, creatures sleeping in shadows. And that should remain isolated.
The metal and glass ceiling covering the gigantic helipad, contained several rows of reflectors arranged in circles. Same focused on the silver pavement and on the closed black glove-shaped nave, parked in the center.
Kosi became more apprehensive when he saw his brother returning from department B, carrying some pods.
“Essences? What do you need them for, Nuru?”
“I think we will have a new project, Kosi”
“Oh…”, realizing that his brother was just smiling, Kosi added impatiently “Enough already, don’t leave me with my “ohs”! Expand the details on this subject, my brother!”
With a very slight mechanical noise, the ship’s door slid upward. The voice of the electronic security system gave permission to enter, and the two moved forward, crossing the vast corridor to the cockpit.
“Let’s go to the space”.
“Sounds good to me” replied Kosi, curiously “but… where is that?”
Nuru raised his finger, pointed it upwards.
“There. Outside Stefanotis”
Kosi burst in laughs.
“Outside Stefanotis! Are you losing it, brother? Although separate, the NKunkumba Sea is within our dome! What “outside” that would be?”
“You’re wrong”, snapped Nuru, sitting in the pilot’s seat, staring excitedly at his brother, “I mean, you will soon be wrong. Can’t you feel how hot we are? The outside of the curtain is infinitely hot. Everything boils.”
“Outside of the curtain, hot?”, flabbergasted, Kosi almost missed his seat. Was Nuru referring to the same curtain he knew? The barrier that surrounded Stefanotis? That was impossible. The same had been created during the battle against the NKunkumba Sea. It was the only way found to separate Stefanotis from the other region, thus avoiding contact or invasion. It was a barrier made of wasps, particles of great elasticity when used in concentrate. The two brothers had managed to make the curtain impermeable.
But outside the curtain… well. It was a non-existence. An absolute nothingness. Not even a vacuum. How could Nuru now claim that its exterior was “infinitely hot”?
Nuru began to operate the ship’s commands, smiling. Kosi was about to have much more to question, very soon.
“It may not make any sense now, but… wait and see. It will be great.
“I think…”
Kosi went silent. He already felt it. For heaven’s sake, now he could feel it! They were about to expand.
Would it hurt?
Nuru looked at him. He did the countdown. Although time felt frozen.
Sixteen hours, two minutes, zero seconds.
Sixteen hours, two minutes, zero seconds.
Sixteen hours, two minutes, zero seconds.
Sixteen hours, two minutes, one second. Swoosh.
Part II
Sitting at the window of the ship’s small compartment, Kosi observed the great novelty. Space. The ship was sliding along the invisible edge of the elastic barrier. The white curtain protecting Stefanotis had broken into infinite portions. And everything expanded. Very quietly. For there could be no sound in the void. After the explosion, what did not exist before, continued to expand for fractions of a second. In a sudden impulse, Nuru and Kosi stopped the inflation.
Kosi was as amazed as he was frightened by the rain of matter and radiation. What a great way to test their strength! He knew he was very powerful, but combining forces with Nuru, they were just unshakable.
Sometime later, they discovered a giant atomic cloud, which collapsed and gave rise to a new system outside Stefanotis domain. Nuru was obsessed with the idea that there, in that domain, would be a suitable structure for his new project. He had asked his brother for help in creating a temporary portal.
It was on the 7th day of observations that Nuru confirmed his suspicions. At the sound of the harp of the sun, their favorite tune, he turned to his brother and held out a small mirror to him. Kosi observed reluctantly. Reluctance turned to curiosity, as the mirror reflected a cluster of luminous globes.
“Well, well, if I don’t have to bite my tongue”.
Nuru crossed his arms.
“I told you. Now hurry up with that portal, Kosi!”
“Agreed”, in an upright position, Kosi floated to his work area inside the ship, followed by Nuru.
Inside a shelf, a white sphere hovered and spun. Nuru slid it into his hands. The object reflected various colors, like a flashing light bulb. Leaning on the shelf, Nuru projected a replica of the new sun, next to the sphere. The brilliant numerical combination twirling around the sun, went down Nuru’s chest like a cool dew. He couldn’t help but laugh. Not just because he was fascinated by mathematics. But because that was what the message said. Maths would be the key to the future.
“Hey, what are calculating?”
“I am looking for the right frequency”.
“And what’s so funny about that?”
“It is very funny indeed, Kosi. Because we are going to be known as the singularity.
“Singularity”?
“Well, never mind. Now listen, we need everything ready in two days at the latest.”
“The idea is still to make a parallel launch?
“That’s correct, Kosi. And of course, to use some of our essences, for the qlubs”
Kosi snatched the sphere out of Nuru’s hands.
“Let me guess”, he closed his eyes, “all our species, I see… all our structures… good, settled. Wait. Is one of the essences the abundance?”
Nuru nodded. Kosi closed his eyes again.
“And happiness?”
Nuru nodded again, knowing in advance that Kosi would get all the essences right. And so, he did. The new qlubs would contain dreams, happiness, abundance, peace, trust, hope, and finally, love. The most exquisite essence of all.
“Why love, my brother? Why not hope?”
“Think, Kosi. What else would be more absorbing? Other than gravity?”
Kosi shrugged his shoulders. He popped up in his hand a tiny white capsule that looked like a pill. Soon after, two tubes appeared. One was transparent, as if empty, the other contained a brown substance.
“I have a few suggestions.”
Last Part
The harp of the sun continued to resound in space, now filled with galaxies.
“I hope you have a comfortable trip”, Nuru murmured, patting the chief crewman on the back. They were suspended, floating between the lab-ship and the travel pod. One almost parallel to the other. Nuru liked the vehicle very much. It was more resilient than he had expected.
The chief crewman floated close to the king, in amazement.
“It is an honor, Your Highness, to be one of the firsts, part of your new project”.
“I have to agree, it is a special event”
The captain and the other two, were in new uniforms, helmets, and carried a fair amount of oxygen. Even though the qawwis were somehow like Nuru and Kosi, they did not deal in the same matter with space conditions.
Nuru levitated to stand facing the ship.
“Kosi, my brother…!”, it was the second time he had called him.
Maybe space was getting monotonous and Kosi was bored. But would he miss the launch? None of it had any meaning without his brother.
He floated back to the capsule. Helped the crew members aboard. Once they were settled, Nuru positioned himself at the lead crewman’s window. He fastened a button on his suit and held out a golden scroll to him.
“The device on your suit is a second alternative for communication. And here is the list of everything you will need to know and check in the new home. I’ll seal the capsule for security reasons, but I figure the process won’t take long. As soon as the launch is over, it will open. Kosi and I have to get back to Stefanotis, we have been away for a long time, but we want to hear from you soon”.
The crewman nodded. Nuru continued:
“The new curtain has a grille. It will remain open. You already know the coordinates, but if for some unlikely reason you find it closed, or you can’t locate it at all, rely on these instructions”.
“Very good, Your Highness, all noted”, the crewman tucked the parchment in his uniform pocket.
“I will seal the capsule. Good luck!”
“See you soon, Your Highness”.
Opening his hands towards the capsule, Nuru began to use his strength to seal the vehicle. A few seconds later, he lowered his arms, relieved. They were safe. Now, the final touch. The vital part of the project. He floated to the entrance of the ship, to fetch the sphere. Then walked back to the capsule to attach it to the rear of the vehicle. He was about to leave the ship, when had to stop.
What was wrong with the sphere?
Taking a few seconds to analyze the problem, he realized it was the project. All of it.
It was altered.
He stepped back, his pulse racing. Kosi had introduced new components, without his consent. The changes… looked appalling. The qlubs, once grouped in one field, as in Stefanotis, now seemed to be separated. Kosi had included the so-called eighth qlub, bare, and so many other elements which…
“Kosi!”, the scream made the ship shudder.
“You called, brother?” Kosi had reappeared quickly.
Nuru turned and saw Kosi, just as unsmiling as him.
“Have you lost your mind?”
Kosi continued to glare at him, his expression unchanged.
“Of course. In the moment I believed you had any regard for our bond and our collaboration. This isn’t your project, it’s ours. But you seem to have forgotten”.
Two days earlier, while they were discussing the sphere, Kosi had suggested the inclusion of a very strong pulsating element in the essences: the white capsule.
“With this, my brother”, Kosi explained at the time “figs will no longer be just for fun. This, in the new home, will make the qawwis need to feed”.
“What do you mean? Are you suggesting that when we go down there, we won’t be able to shut it? A kind of… hunger?”
“That’s right. Hunger. Wouldn’t that be stimulating? I also suggest we create an eighth, undefined qlub. Let the vessel fill itself.
Nuru cautiously had picked the brown tube. He felt the essence and its iotas. It was one of the strongest. He was familiar with it, although he had mixed feelings about it.
“What do you think of my suggestions, brother?”
“I’m afraid we might create an imbalance”, responded Nuru “Empties are dangerous, you never know what they will seek to fill themselves.
“But Nuru, don’t you trust the…”
“I prefer to keep it simple, Kosi, true to Stefanotis.”
Kosi could have argued, but at the time he had preferred to keep quiet. It was useless.
Nuru now comprehended that he had been so focused on designing the project, that he forgot to tell his brother the entirety of the message.
“Kosi, I will explain it to you, this is bigger than us, but first I have to reposition everything”.
Lights and liquids bubbled from the sphere, tubes whirled around it, faster and faster, like propellers of a fan, while Nuru fumbled and tried to set it down on the metal bracket. The sphere disappeared from his hands. And in the same second it fell into Kosi’s.
“Stop it”, Nuru’s veins were all bulging “this is not the time!”
Kosi held the sphere persistently.
“You want to work? Well, then work. But not on the sphere. On our relationship. Respect and trust my decisions! This is just an experiment, what’s the big deal? And you know what? It is by mere chance that you are the king of Stefanotis. Not because you are better than me! We were both made to rule. We both have the power and the duty to lead all this!”
Kosi had noticed that his brother’s ego was on fire. Maybe it was because he always got some of the most interesting things and experiments to be done around there. Always him. Now, that project too. Kosi was sure that if he had been in the same circumstances, in the same position, he would have been chosen by the fortuitous. But he had seemed out of touch with such phenomena. Chance.
“Kosi”, Nuru’s voice came out half muffled, “Kosi, my brother, without you, neither Stefanotis nor I are anything. You know that. Now, give me back the sphere, please, we’re out of time.”
“Prove it.”
“Kosi, don’t you dare!”, he tried to move forward to stop the other from attaching the sphere to the capsule, but could not. It was as if his feet, hands, and body were bound by handcuffs. He felt unable to use his strength. With a cynical grin, Kosi displayed his open palm, oriented toward his brother. Hurt, Nuru realized that his brother had just thrown a little grayish ball at him, which had unfolded into dark chains that leaped at him like catfish and disappeared within his body.
Nuru tried to hide his dismay.
“How long do you think you will hold me here?”
He was taking very small steps, like a baby learning to walk.
“Time enough to proceed with the launch, my brother”.
“Kosi, no. Please!”
After docking the sphere, he smiled jovially and showed his thumb to the crewmen inside the capsule. Then pressed the red button. An extensive beam of light erupted, and made a long traverse, covering the capsule, into the distant star system.
Nuru took another step. A flickering jump. Extremely fast, but wobbly. His arm had stretched out towards the capsule. It was at this instant that the crew members realized that something was not right. They tried unsuccessfully to get out. Kosi already had his finger on the second button. He pressed it, causing the capsule to shoot out.
Still not understanding what had happened, Nuru tried to stabilize. He found himself dizzy, on the edge of the lever. And stumbled at the threshold of the portal.
The portal was still open. Kosi saw his brother suspended, struggling against the force of the lightning, his arm raised. He knew he would not be able to climb. He was not able to use his powers.
“Kosi, brother, give me your hand!”, he tried in vain to float upward, his hands slipping from the invisible support.
“No. You brought this to yourself” there was no complacency in his voice. Just a simple remark “Good-bye, brother”.
Before the portal even closed, Nuru fell and was sucked up like dust by a vacuum cleaner, until he was out of sight. The harp of the sun stopped playing.
The portal, a few minutes later, closed, restoring the dark void.
Kosi took a deep breath, straightened his origami, and closed the ship’s door.
After he flew away and entered through the white curtain, he parked.
Now that he had come that far, he had to go all the way. No one, except the two of them and the crew, knew that the new white curtain had an opening. He exited the ship and floated to the invisible grille. Raising his hands, he sealed the grating, leaving his brother in the unforeseen depths of space.
Originally published in “Espíritos Quânticos: uma jornada por histórias de África em ficção especulativa (volume 1)”, 2022
Ancient stone portal with a staircase illuminated by a mysterious light.
At the end of the 21st century, a group of young people began a sequence of clandestine meetings on Mount Chinhamapere in Manica. They climbed the path at dawn, with the stars overhead as their only witnesses. They often followed in single file, singing ancestral songs, wielding torches that looked like reverberating comets. Every morning they would rise from the top of the mountain and descend the gorge quietly. The beaming faces seemed to reborn into a new existence. After that, they would sneak to their homes. And this was repeated almost every day.
One day, when they went to the mountain, they were surprised by a police contingent. The entire area surrounding Chinhamapere was fenced off. Had anyone died? Gondo, the leader of the group, approached and enquired the head of the contingent.
“We are here by instructions of the administrator”, the agent in charge said. “And you, what business do you have here?”
Gondo did not deign to answer. He turned his back and, along with his group, descended the gorge, leaving behind, at the top of the hill, a dozen suspicious agents.
The administrator was surprised by the unexpected visit when the sun rose in the district of Manica. It was his daughter, Narita, accompanied by a good-looking young man.
“Welcome!”, he said, still unable to disguise his surprise.
They moved into the spacious office. The administrator was gesturing vibrantly, happy to see his daughter, so he wanted to know:
“To what do I owe the honour of this pleasant visit, dear? And who is he?”
“He’s Gondo.” Narita replied.
The father raised his eyebrow. That name rang on the walls of his consciousness like an unwanted palpitation. He sat down slowly. The cheerful semblance that had just nourished his countenance disappeared. The administrator was aware that Gondo was the leader of the gang that was plotting in Chinhamapere, threatening the tranquillity of the entire District. He was startled to see his daughter in such company. Without holding back, he asked her:
“And you, daughter, what are you doing with him?”
“Gondo is my mentor”, Narita replied bluntly.
A nervous smile invaded his pursed lips: with which then, his little girl was also part of that gang. This thought made him rise abruptly from his comfortable seat and make his way to Gondo.
“A good opportunity to have you arrested.”
The administrator could not hide the gesture of disapproval, the disgust he felt for that uncomfortable presence, so he ordered:
“Get out of here now, before I have you arrested.”
“But you don’t even know what I’ve come for.”, Gondo said calmly.
The dialogue continued, without reaching a consensus. Gondo demanded the constitutional right to assembly, and the administrator countered by saying that the time at which such meetings took place was suspicious, and that if they really wanted to do so, they would have to do it in broad daylight, always observing the respect due to that sacred space.
“It will be as you say”, Gondo agreed.
“By the way, what do you guys do there? Do you pray?”, the administrator wanted to know.
“That too.”, Gondo replied, without hesitation. “But most of the time, we eat and chat.”
“Chatting in the mountains, like lepers…”, the administrator joked. Since, Chinhamapere, comes from the term Mapere, which means leprosy in Cimanyka, for that mountain, in times gone by, served as a refuge for lepers.
Because it comes in threes, and nothing can stop an obstinate will, the next day the young people gathered on Mount Chinhamapere at noon. But they were followed by the same police contingent as the other time. That’s when the unusual event took place, which would bring the entire administration to a nervous breakdown. It so happened that, once they reached the top of the mountain, the group of young men disappeared without a trace.
Then, in the administrator’s office, the atmosphere was one of tension and distrust. The officers couldn’t believe what their own eyes had experienced. It was inexplicable. Incredulous, the administrator looked deep into the eyes of the head of the operation – asking for confirmation.
“It’s true, Your Excellency”, the head of operations said. “We couldn’t figure it out, the fact is that we were following the elements and we were right behind them, but as soon as they reached the top of Chi, there was a flash that blinded us, and soon after, they disappeared.”
“You mean they were swallowed by the rock, is that what you’re saying?”, the administrator commented sarcastically.
“We have no explanation for what happened, they just vanished”, the officer concluded.
“They were abducted?”, the administrator insisted.
“I’d say they’ve broken the concept of space and time, that’s all I can say.”
“A travel through time! That is the last straw.”
The administrator asked for the telephone, his hands trembled, because his daughter was also on that expedition, not least because attempts to persuade her to move away from that group had fallen on deaf ears. He called the capital.
Immediately, help arrived from Maputo: archaeologists, physicists, historians, philosophers, mathematicians and a number of journalists; accompanied by a Zimbabwean and South African entourage with strange machinery. Quickly, they placed a tent in Chinhamapere and the place went from a simple secluded plateau to a center of scientific research.
They made excavations, used various measuring instruments and capturing sound, light, movement, heat; They searched molecule by molecule, but found no trace of human presence or passage through those days. At the top of Chinhamapere, researchers stared in amazement at the cave paintings: made of vermilion and orange, there was the art of hunters and gatherers; displaying scenes of hunting and combat, and other signs of praise and admiration for nature and life. The researchers were outraged: had the primitives imprinted on the images a kind of spell or a secret or a hyper-advanced technology?
They listed all kinds of theories, from the most realistic: a door, a window, a canal, a secret tunnel, any hole that would allow circulation in that room; to the most fantastic: electromagnetic fields, illusionism, black magic… but, of all the hypotheses raised, the one that had the most adherents was that of the existence of an invisible time portal.
So, they assumed that there was little to do but wait for the return of the hikers, who were the only ones capable of clearing up the contraption behind the whole paradox.
* * *
Meanwhile, Gondo, Narita, and the other thirty-one members stood before a large crowd of people of different tribes, ethnicities, and races. They were in a valley that was crossed by a multi-coloured river. A sun released delicate rays that gently flooded the space. Suddenly, familiar faces began to appear.
“Wonderful!”, Gondo exclaimed, enraptured.
The fascination of those present was remarkable, as those who appeared were none other than the most resonant faces of African blackness: Eduardo Mondlane, Samora Machel, Kwame Nkrumah, Tomas Sankara, Patrice Lumumba, Amilcar Cabral, Agostinho Neto, among others. Meanwhile, one of the elders took the lead in a kind of pulpit and softly began to speak.
“Children of the earth, I greet you, our mission is far from over. Today, more than ever, you are called to resume our struggle: to completely liberate the African continent. Freedom!”
The voice echoed on the vast plain and among the innumerable stars in the vault of that sky. Then the thousands of guests responded in chorus: freedom, freedom, freedom. Everyone shouted, sang and danced in tremendous joy.
After that feast, and receiving the proper guidance, the groups that were formed were taken by a kind of epiphany, from which a body of knowledge was incorporated into them. In the end, everyone went to their respective portals, it was time to return, they couldn’t even tell how many hours, or days, or weeks or months they had spent in that mysterious place.
* * *
In Manica, more precisely in Chinhamapere, rays of light set the room on fire with an intense glow, momentarily sparking those present. Thus, they were unable to see the re-emergence of the group of young people who, after literally being spat out by the mountain, walked serenely beyond the Chinhamapere plateau.
Originally published in “Espíritos Quânticos: uma jornada por histórias de África em ficção especulativa (volume 1)”, 2022
No ano passado anunciamos a abertura de submissões ao Diário de Uma Qawwi, com o intuito de partilhar com os leitores novas histórias. Esta a é primeira edição da Qawwi, uma fanzine eletrónica onde partilharemos histórias do fantástico e da ficção especulativa.
Nsta edição, apresentamos contos inéditos dos autores Adelino Albano Luís, Ana Charles e Bruno Areno. Eles nos trazem a fábula por detrás do surgimento de arco-íris, a história do Universo e a história de um homem que trocou o seu coração humano por um coração de papel.
Votos de boas leituras.
Um abraço interplanetário,
Virgília Ferrão
Diário de Uma Qawwi
Arcolino Pires
Quando as primeiras gotas timbilaram o chão da nossa aldeia, houve grande alvoroço.
― Está a “chover chuva” ― gritava-se.
As mamanas da aldeia, vestidas apenas de capulanas, saíram das palhotas carregadas de bilhas e seus corpos eram lindamente decalcados pela molha. Em suas bocas saíam as mais antigas e bonitas canções da nossa terra, numa alegria que pertence apenas às mulheres.
As crianças, sem roupa, corriam de um lado para o outro
― Chuva… Chuva… Chuva… ― Gritavam.
Os homens saudavam-se com calorosos abraços. Era o fim de uma espera que se fazia longa. Era o fim daquelas rezas silenciosas com olhares de súplica aos céus. Era o fim dos suspiros de triste esperança, de que
― Há-de vir… Está a procurar o caminho.
Porém, ao cabo de uma semana inteira de chuva que se fazia cada vez mais intensa, com suas trovoadas e relâmpagos que acendiam até o íntimo de cada um, os semblantes assumiram outras fisionomias.
― A água esqueceu-se de parar.
Sofremos tanto com a seca e, agora, é para sofrermos com a chuva?
Começaram a surgir relatos de palhotas, tão bem maticadas, destruídas pelas águas; Currais arrasados: os bois, tão donos de tamanhos, eram arrastados pela fúria das águas; E o pior
― O rio está vindo!
O rio, com a gula das águas, ambicionava outros tamanhos. Invadindo o interior das machambas, casas e o interior das pessoas, como se vasculhasse alguma coisa que lhe pertencia.
Todos nós saímos das nossas casas e fomo-nos abrigar na única casa da aldeia feita com blocos queimados. Dentro dela, no tempero do desespero, começaram a rolar teorias, afinal, em África as desgraças nunca vêm com os seus próprios pés. Havia, certamente, alguma ofensa contra os espíritos.
― Enterraram algum bebé sem cerimónia.
― As traições estão demais ― e acrescentou, ― muito sexo sem nexo.
― Alguém casou sem lobolo.
E muitas outras teorias foram aventadas. Nada poderia ser provado ou, até lá, já teríamos sido varridos pelas águas.
― Eu tenho a solução.
Quem? O louco? Quando até aos loucos é concedida palavra, é porque a situação é mesmo de desespero.
Todos olharam para ele como se portasse uma mensagem divina. Os olhos eram de renovada esperança, como se o facto de ter sido louco a vida inteira fosse para nos salvar daquelas águas e daquele rio que se aproximava. Não é verdade que todos os Messias do mundo sempre foram vistos como loucos? Por que com o Arcolino Pires seria diferente?
― Temos de varrer as águas. ― Disse, justificando assim a vassoura de palha que tinha nas mãos, até então ignorada por todos.
― Acho que lááááá nos comandos se descomandou. Precisamos varrer as águas e deixar alguém de guarda para isto não voltar a acontecer.
Falava com tal convicção que parecia uma solução óbvia. Mas só para ele. Para nós era claro: estávamos diante da nossa morte e ninguém nos poderia salvar.
Os olhares, desde as crianças aos velhos, transmitiam o mesmo medo, preocupação e desilusão. Afinal, toda morte é sempre prematura.
― Eu vou, verão o meu sinal nos céus. ― Era, uma vez mais, o Arcolino Pires.
Alguém, sem sucesso, tentou agarrá-lo para que não saísse da palhota onde nos havíamos acumulado. Era a casa mais bem construída da aldeia e seria a última a desabar.
Lá fora as chuvas continuaram intensas, com seus raios e trovoadas. Mais uma vez soou a frase:
― Sofremos tanto com a seca e, agora, vamos morrer com as águas.
Os velhos entreolhavam-se, tristonhos. Nem mesmo a lembrança dos tempos de estômagos e celeiros fartos, os podia consolar. Nesses tempos em que se bebia para celebrar a vida e se somava mulheres e mais mulheres, pois, naquela zona, isto era sinónimo de riqueza. Depois veio o tempo de seca severa. E as cerimónias sucederam-se: primeiro na pequena igreja de caniço deixada pelos missionários e, depois, nas sombras das árvores sagradas. Insatisfeitos com a demora da resposta, levamos os batuques, rezas e canções cerimoniais para o mais próximo possível dos ouvidos dos nossos antepassados: o cemitério tradicional. E lá a aguardente era quase um suborno: despejávamos umas gotas em cima das campas e dizíamos:
― Mandem chuva que nós damos mais nipa.
Tudo isto eram formas de namorá-los para ver se aceitavam enviar algumas gotas de chuva.
― Já nem precisam ser gordas… bastam que sejam gotinhas, meros pingos.
Desses que só servem para mostrar que ainda não se esqueceram de nós. Os céus, porém, respondiam com mais calor e, com ele, a fome e a miséria.
A seca foi tão severa que as pessoas desenterravam as sementes nas machambas, já murchas, para pôr nas panelas. Outros morreram por colocar na panela raízes incomestíveis, dessas que só são visíveis aos olhos da fome. É como diz o ditado: O que mata não engorda… ou será o contrário? Bom, eu…
― A água está ireeeee!…― Gritou alguém, para o silêncio dos que já se tinham adiantado para os choros.
Admirados, saímos da casa e tudo a volta tinha virado uma planície, pasto das águas. Mas é como diz Isaú Meneses, cantor largamente admirado naquela aldeia:
Mas o que nos chamou mais a atenção foi o que estava pendurado nos céus, como se alguém, com uma grande vassoura, tivesse varrido as nuvens em formato de um arco com diversas cores. Era o sinal. Não havia dúvida:
― Foi obra de Arcolino Pires… Ele salvou-nos …disse que mandaria um sinal…
Gratos, saímos pelas aldeias vizinhas espalhando o feito do Arcolino Pires, o nosso salvador. E a informação voou.
Da boca do povo, porém, e com o tempo, Arcolino Pires começou a ser chamado de Arco-íris. Para nós não importa, desde que, após as chuvas, olhem para o sinal nos céus e saibam que tem alguém de guarda, cuidando de nós, impedindo que as águas nos devorem.
[1] Isaú Meneses, esperança. Álbum esperança. 1999.
Por Adelino Albano Luís
Adelino Albano Luís nasceu em 1998 em Chimoio. Licenciado em Filosofia pela UEM. É autor da obra ″Cronicontos da Cabeça do Velho″ (2022), prémio literário Calane da Silva ⁄ Alcance Editores (4ª edição- 2021). Conquistou o primeiro lugar do concurso de Crónicas da 1ª edição da Feira de Livros da Beira (2021); Conquistou o primeiro lugar do concurso literário Dia mundial da Língua Portuguesa: estórias pandémicas e foi finalista do prémio fundação Fernando Leite Couto (2022), com a obra Estórias trazidas pela Ventania. Participou em algumas antologias, com destaque para ″Espíritos Quânticos: uma jornada por histórias de África em ficção especulativa-Diário de uma Qawwi (2022) com o conto ″OCaçador de Elefantes″
O Mundo Distante em Nós
Quando a criação estava pronta, o SENHOR do Universo disse para a SUA companheira e seus descendentes imediatos: Façamos, agora, no planeta Terra, um Ser à nossa imagem e semelhança!
Como assim, o Homem não foi o primeiro a Ser criado por Deus? Já existiam outros planetas antes de Terra? Há quanto tempo?
Há mais de 40 milhões de anos o Arcanjo Miguel foi enviado à Lamúria para preparar o planeta Terra para um novo Ser que o habitaria, o Homem. Antes disso, Lamúria era somente habitada por seres hominídeos que nunca saíam das cavernas.
E onde andam esses hominídeos?
Ainda vivem nas cavernas. Mas, antes, deixe-me continuar a história.
O SENHOR do Universo vendo, através da SUA imaginação, que a VIDA para além dele seria fantástica, projectou, a partir da SUA mente, uma companheira para o seu lado oposto, de forma a complementá-lo. Tendo gostado dessa projecção, amou-a profundamente com o seu Espírito Puro e Invisível. Vendo que a VIDA dos dois era maravilhosa, o SENHOR enviou a SUA Centelha Divina para a SUA companheira, que concebeu o SEU UNIGÊNITO. ESTE possuía as mesmas caracteristicas dos seus progenitores.
Vendo ELES que o que criavam e projectavam através da sua mente era bom, decidiram projectar outros seres com espírito puro, que pudessem fazer companhia ao UNIGÊNITO, na nona dimensão.
Esses seres são aqueles que nós conhecemos como Anjos. Arcanjo Uriel, Gabriel, Miguel e Rafael são os mais conhecidos.
Mas existe, também, o Lúcifer, que dizem ser o Anjo mau!
Sim, é verdade, mas isso é assunto para outro dia. Hoje eu quero-me debruçar sobre o papel destes 4 anjos que mencionei,especificamente sobre o papel do Arcanjo Miguel.
Este anjo, além de ter um papel de liderança na protecção dos Portais Divinos, tem, também, o papel de liderança na criação e protecção dos novos mundos.
É por isso que a ele foi designada a tarefa de preparar o Planeta Terra para a recepção de um novo Ser: o Homem.
O Homem foi projectado nos céus e trazido para a Terra assim que o Arcanjo Miguel criou todas as condições para que o novo Ser nela habitasse.
Os pretinhos são os nossos ancestrais, eles foram os primeiros a viver em África. São os pais dos lemurianos. Os lemurianos eram homens belos, altos, atléticos e donos de uma inteligência sublime. Eles dominavam a tecnologia 5D e tinham a capacidade de se transmutar para diferentes formas físicas e de se deslocarem entre 2 dimensões diferentes ao mesmo tempo. Dominavam a matemática, a física quântica e a genética.
Depois de muitos milhões de anos transformando o planeta Terra naquilo que hoje é, eles começaram a ficar, por um lado, aborrecidos com a mesmice em que viviam e, por outro, arrogantes. Assim, começaram a desafiar as Leis Universais fazendo experimentos com outros seres humanos e não humanos através da manipulação genética.
Vendo que isso era desastroso para o projecto desenhado para o Homem, o SENHOR decidiu afundar a Lemúria depois de escolher uma família que, apesar de todos os poderes, nunca tinha agido contra as Leis Universais.
̶ Noé é a família?
̶ Ai como és esperto, sim!
̶ Noé foi o escolhido, por isso, graças à sua boa índole, hoje existimos.
̶ Tenho a impressão de que nós e os lemurianos somos parentes.
̶ Por quê? ̶ Quis saber, entre risos.
̶ Veja, como eles, somos inteligentes, ambiciosos, egocêntricos e gostamos de manipular geneticamente.
̶ Pois! É verdade e preocupante!
Depois da Lemúria veio a Atlantis. Depois da Atlantis veio a Amafrica, em que os índios, celtas, egípcios, maias, aborígenes viveram (e ainda vivem índios, egípcios e aborígenes).
̶ E os aborígenes são mesmo gente?
̶ Que pergunta! Claro que o são. Por que fazes essa pergunta?
̶ Porque num grande relatório que os ingleses fizeram para a rainha deles, eles afirmaram categoricamente que a Austrália era uma terra linda que parecia um paraíso. Com plantas lindas, animais exóticos e com uma paisagem como um conto de fadas, mas sem nenhum ser humano!
̶ Olha, é óbvio que esse relato não contou toda a verdade, pois os aborígenes são pessoas que ainda existem um pouco por toda a Austrália. Basta lá ires que os verás. É verdade que constituem cerca de 1.8% do total da população australiana, mas existem.
̶ E a Telos, será que existiu mesmo?
̶ Áh, a Telos…a telos não existiu, EXISTE.
̶ Existe? Como assim, como podes afirmar com tanta certeza? Se existe, onde ela está?
̶ Sim, a Telos existe, existe em todo lado, no mundo subterrâneo, debaixo de cada montanha com formato de animal, planta ou Homem.
̶ A sério? Então quer dizer que debaixo do Monte Mtuquê em Cuamba, da Cabeça do Velho em Chimoio, Ayers Rock na Austrália ou Montanhas Azuis em Montana está a Telos?
̶ Bingo!
̶ Uau! Então me explica, o que é a Telos?
̶ Lembra que te falei dos hominídeos?
̶ Sim.
̶ Pois, eles habitam a Telos, junto de seres angelicais, numa sociedade tão avançadaque a nossa mente humana, tal como a conhecemos, não consegue alcançar. Veja que nós ainda vivemos e concebemos o mundo na 3ª dimensão, mas a Telos já está na 5ª dimensão. Mesmo estando aqui no planeta Terra, os povos que lá habitam tem um sentido de cooperação e colaboração tão grande que nada falta a ninguém. Todos têm o que precisam, todos são felizes e vivem uma vida alegre, de riqueza e de prosperidade. Tudo baseado no AMOR incondicional e regidos por uma Lei e Ordem que agrada a todos.
̶ Deve ser o Paraíso.
̶ É sim, o Paraíso.
̶ Me conta mais avô, como fazemos para viver nesse paraíso?
̶ Ah menino isso é para ser contado na próxima roda à volta da fogueira… e só trazeres uma garrafa do melhor vinho tinto que há.
̶ Então esse é o acordo? Uma garrafa do melhor vinho tinto por uma história?
̶ É sim.
̶ Combinado!
̶ Combinado.
Por Ana Charles
Ana Francisco Charles, conhecida por Anita # Mai Nkulo nos meandros da família, adopta o cognome de Mai Patti, nome dado pela sua mãe desde pequena pela sua forma despreocupada de andar. Nasceu na Vila de Manica no ano de 1966. O seu gosto pelas letras vem desde a tenra idade de 4 anos quando no lugar de brincar com bonecas preferia ler livros como a colecção de aventuras de Anita e mais tarde romances de Corin Telado. Depois disso o seu gosto pela leitura só cresceu e estando no ensino secundário teve a oportunidade de escrever e publicar alguns poemas no Diário da Beira. Profissionalmente, é mais conhecida por Ana Charles, Médica Generalista com especialidade em Saúde Publica pela Universidade Eduardo Mondlane. Com Mestrado em Saúde Publica na área de Promoção para a Saúde pela Universidade de Queensland na Austrália. Adora viajar e fazer passeios longos na natureza. Fazer viagens internacionais principalmente para países onde o clima é seco e frio e interagir com povos e culturas diferentes é algo que a encanta muito. Aprecia paisagens montanhosas e a vida no campo. A ajuda ao próximo é algo que pratica com regularidade através de pequenos gestos como doações regulares a instituições de caridade como centro de apoio à velhice, igrejas ou centros de refugiados. Mãe de 5 filhos, Ana tem uma filha biológica e 4 enteados, avó de 3 meninas e 1 menino.
Coração de papelão
Nascera num país não apropriado. Não passava de um Zé ninguém. Sem estatuto social. Adalberto era uma grande aberração aos olhos de quem o via. Ninguém se dava ao trabalho de cumprimentá-lo. Seu problema: ser cauteloso demais. Talvez, demasiado amoroso, atencioso e paciente num mundo que era urgente. Na verdade, Adalberto era o único homem que nutria temor na cidade-sem-medo. Estudava o inimigo e conhecia as suas fraquezas. E isso ia contra a lei daquela cidade. As pessoas da cidade-sem-medo não eram cautelosas.
Quando se recrutavam jovens para os campos de batalha, Adalberto era sempre ignorado.
— Precisamos de homens não inteligentes, mas sem medo, e tu, jovem, és a personificação do medo — Diziam em gargalhadas, todas a vez que o jovem homem se candidatava.
Numa dessas manhãs de recrutamento, Adalberto insistiu tanto que venceu. “Milagre”, pensou ele, deixando escapar um sorriso vitorioso. A sua velha mãe, que jamais sentira medo na vida, ficou felicíssima. Aqueles olhos que outrora se viram melancólicos, ganharam vida.
— Finalmente o meu filho perdera o medo, tornar-se-á comum, assim como nós — Dizia ela alegre enquanto os militares tiravam o jovem aos empurrões de dentro da sua casa. A mãe derramou nenhuma lágrima, afinal, não possuía medo algum, muito menos previa os possíveis riscos que o filho correria no campo de batalha. Estava Felicíssima, pois não mais seria a maior aberração entre as amigas. A velha saiu de casa gritando aos ventos: O meu filho finalmente perdeu o medo!
Depois de uma semana, um general bate à porta da velha, e ela fica pasma:
— O que significa isso?— pergunta endireitando os óculos, prestes a tombarem sobre o chão húmido.
— Sinto muito, Senhora— responde o general aborrecido. — Esse filho que a Senhora tem é um pau torto e torto morrerá. O temor sobre o seu Ser é tanto que passava horas a tentar estudar o inimigo— Fixou os olhos nos da velha e acresceu — Ele diz que é necessário estudar o inimigo para conhecer as suas fraquezas. Ele ainda disse que devemos ter medo, medo de perder a nossa nação, a nossa cultura, o nosso povo. Fique com ele.
O general empurra-o de volta para os braços da progenitora.
A velha ficou ali, perplexa, imóvel. Aqueles sentimentos ataram-lhe o corpo. Virou-se para o filho:
— Essa cabeça que não regula, não te vai ajudar. Ninguém te quer por perto. Mas também quem te iria querer? És muito cauteloso, fazes as coisas, pois fazes, mas só depois de muito ponderares. Tenha coragem, filho, faça-o de olhos fechados, Adalberto! — Dizia a velha— Aja por instinto, assim como os grandes animais ferozes.
Passado alguns dias, Adalberto sai a rua. Com os olhos presos no chão, escuta murmúrios e insultos ao vento. Afinal, jamais alguém tinha sido expulso do campo de batalha por medo. Muitos morriam. Nem metade deles voltava à casa. Exausto de semear os olhos sobre a terra, Adalberto ergueu o rosto. Mas, de imediato, encolheu-se, embaraçado. Não era medo dos falatórios do povo, mas sim do seu próprio coração. Encantara-se com a mulher diante de si. Estava apaixonado, ela acabara de roubar-lhe o coração.
Pensara em falar-lhe dos seus sentimentos naquele mesmo instante, mas preferiu aguardar e entender melhor o sentimento que o cativara.
Depois de semanas, vai ao encontro da mulher, exprime o seu interesse, mas ela desafia-o, dizendo que só o aceitará depois que perder o medo.
Cabisbaixo, Adalberto faz-se a rua, e quando decide erguer os olhos para contemplar a cidade que dele tem nojo, nota uma oficina. No interior, por detrás do balcão, está um idoso, de óculos com grandes lentes e mal de tossir.
— O que o senhor trouxe para que eu concerte?— questionou o velho, acendendo um cigarro.
— O meu coração.
— Ah!— exclamou o velho— Teria que o deixar comigo por alguns dias.
— Mas eu não posso viver sem um coração— respondeu Adalberto.
O velho direccionou-se para um armário alto e de lá tirou um coração de papel. Entregou-o a Adalberto, dizendo:
— Use-o enquanto conserto o seu.
— Funciona perfeitamente? É igual aos demais?
— É um coração de papel.
Da oficina, Adalberto saiu com um coração de papel novinho em folha. E já não era o mesmo. Dali em diante, passou a ser igual aos outros. Já não tinha interesse na mulher que vira na rua. Interessava-se por todas que via passar. Fora-se a cautela. Passara a ser violento. Metia-se em brigas nas ruas, roubava e ninguém o criticava. Afinal, era igual a todos.
Um dia passou em frente da oficina. Decidiu entrar.
— Deixei um coração aqui, há anos.
— Prontos, não se preocupe, lembro-me perfeitamente de si. — O homem retirou do armário um coração coberto por um pano branco.
— Consertou?
— Não. — Respondeu o velho ajeitando os óculos.
Adalberto sentou-se na poltrona da oficina e suspirou profundamente.
— O desconserto deve ser maior.
— Nunca vi em toda minha vida, um coração tão perfeito, tão completo feito este. Ele não requer um reparo — Explicou o velho estendendo-lhe o coração. Adalberto recusou-o.
— Para o senhor talvez seja perfeito, mas para mim e para a minha gente esse coração só traz decepções, desigualdades e prejuízos. Para o povo, o coração de papel, esse sim é perfeito.
Levanta-se da poltrona e diz:
— Gostou do coração? Fique com ele, eu ficarei com o de papel.
— Mas não existe, Senhor, coração tão perfeito quanto o seu!— Insistiu o idoso desesperado. Adalberto aproximou-se do velho, agarrou-lhe as mãos trémulas e disse:
— Já lhe disse: para este país, para esta gente, esse coração não está bom. Gostou? Fique com ele. O coração de papel, sim, é perfeito.
Por Bruno Marquês Areno
Bruno Marquês Areno, nascido em Nampula, é autor de “Fotografias Feitas à Letras” e co-autor de livros como “O Estrangeiro”; “Olhares Negros”; “Poesia Brasileira”; “Água”; “Poemas do Eu”; “Alma de Mar”, entre outros.
