On the Banks of the Zambezi

By J.A. Lourenco

On the Banks of the Zambezi, a novel based on a true story, captures the factual experience of those who lived through a pioneering, daring, dangerous, and eventually futile effort to carve out a living in the undeveloped interior of Africa during the Portuguese colonial war, a turbulent period of history which led, in the mid 1970s, to the independence of five separate African nations.

The book portrays, through the eyes of a white child whose parents settle in the interior of Mozambique to run a general store catering to the local Chisena people, a family’s struggle, in spite of sickness and death, to re-build life and business, only to have their lifestyle destroyed by forces beyond their control. The experience of growing up white in a remote black environment is portrayed vividly, as is the primitive life of the locals, the disparity of opportunities for the white settlers compared to the native blacks, and the build-up of war from a rumble to a tragic reality.

Finally, On the Banks of the Zambezi depicts the transition from a colonial war led by the distant Portuguese government to an equally senseless but even more vicious civil war within the newly independent Mozambique, and the toll on the lives of all residents of the new nation. The book is a story of life, death and survival in the midst of hatred and adversity by whites and blacks alike. On the Banks of the Zambezi is a tale that will appeal to anyone who has survived the adversity of war or has experienced life outside the main stream, and especially to anyone with a passion for Africa and its history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.A. Lourenco
• Release date: Jan 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301386550

J.A. Lourenco

J. A. Lourenco is an accomplished scientist and international manager. He writes for fun. He holds a B.A. (Kean University), M.S. (Seton Hall University), and MBA (The Wharton School). He has published numerous scientific and strategy papers, holds 5 patents, and has successfully managed an international division of a major U.S. corporation. He lives in New Jersey with his wife and three children. J. A. Lourenco invites you to visit his website for additional information regarding his books.

Book preview

On the Banks of the Zambezi

A Novel

Based on a True Story

By

J. A. Lourenco

***

Smashwords Edition

This book, although based on actual events, is a work of fiction. Characters, corporations, organizations, and institutions in this work are the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously and without any intention to be faithful to their actual conduct

ON THE BANKS OF THE ZAMBEZI

Copyright 2013. J.A. Lourenco

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, except brief extracts for the purpose of review, without the permission of the copyright owner.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient at smashwords.com. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover Design by Judy Bullard

**********

To all the victims of the Portuguese colonial war and subsequent civil war in the former Portuguese colonies. Many, most innocents, paid with their own lives for the hatred of a few, and for the stubborn attachment to an imperial past that had long ago lost its splendor

**********

Table of Contents

Preface

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Afterword

Glossary of Foreign Terms

About the Author

Preface

This book is based on a true life story. Although the names have been changed, all characters are real, the primary locations existed, the key events did happen, and the story captures the factual experiences of those who tried to carve out a living in the undeveloped interior of Mozambique during the Portuguese colonial war.

However, the author used literary license to weave a complete story. The dialogue that brings life to the narrative, the scenes that convey realism to the plot, the details that hold the story together, are often products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

* * * * * * * * *

CHAPTER 1

It is one of my earliest recollections. Maybe because it happened at an age when memories begin to stick, or because it was an emotionally charged time, or because on that day my godmother snapped four of only a dozen or so photographs from my entire childhood, black and white pictures that I have since spent countless hours examining. For whatever reason, that Easter Sunday in 1964 remains one of my most vivid memories, more a spectrum of feelings than the recollection of specific events, evoking, as it does, the complex and often conflicting emotions that represent the years I spent growing up in Africa.

Bela was a couple of weeks past her first birthday and I was almost five. The cast on my right leg had just been removed and I was jumping around enjoying my newly found mobility. Not that the heavy plaster that had compressed my leg for the last eighteen months had ever prevented me from being as active as a regular kid can be, but the totality of my newly found freedom made activity more enjoyable, even though the new buoyancy on one leg kept me slightly off-balance. The leg muscle and fat, protected and confined for so long, had withered and the skin was milky-white and covered with fuzz, and it would take time and much more jumping to restore the normal strength and flesh tone. The scars on my right shin, before hidden by the cast, were now clearly visible down the front of my leg like large button holes that someone has tried to cut open without scissors and then stitch shut without a needle.

The cast weight had stretched my right leg by about a half-inch, and I limped badly. But, childlike, I was oblivious to that, and no one around me seemed to care, certainly not after everything we had gone through together. With time, the height difference would become imperceptible, except when I stood straight. Anyone watching me from the back would notice that one hip was higher than the other and that my spine had developed a curvature to accommodate the difference, thus allowing me to walk without a limp. The bent torso, consequently, will be with me forever.

Bela and I were playing catch with a small rubber ball when our mother, wearing a short-sleeve blouse under a light unbuttoned cotton sweater, and a pleated knee-length skirt, all black as was expected of a recent widow, joined us. She had lost a lot of weight and the clothes were loose fitting, as if borrowed from someone much heavier. A few months earlier, in this same place, under a moonless night sky, with tears that I could feel but not see, and holding me so tight as if to seal a wound, she had told me that Dad had gone to heaven. I didn’t quite comprehend why she was so sad about that. After all, my father was away so much – in Beira, in Boeza, in Chemba, in Molima – that another trip didn’t quite seem a big deal. When she said that this time he would not be coming back, I did not understand. What was so special about heaven that he could not come back to us? And when I asked if we could go visit him, she had shaken her head.

Child that I was, my attention soon moved on to something else and Mom didn’t pursue the subject. From that day on, we would say a prayer for Dad every night, but it wasn’t until this Easter Sunday, at lunch, with Bela, Mom, Godfather Armindo, and the Miranda family – Godmother Lena, Uncle Manel, Grandma Lurdes, and Grandpa Alberto – with everybody except Dad, that I was truly aware that he would indeed not return. I didn’t cry, I don’t even think I asked about him, but I was saddened. I had never spent much time with him, but instinctively I knew that he should be an important part of my life.

The Mirandas were not blood relatives, but they were true, long-term friends, with a lengthy personal history together, and we always treated them as family, sharing with them special occasions, like this Easter Sunday. They were our adopted relatives, replacing in many ways the grandparents, uncles, and aunts that had stayed behind when we left Portugal.

We were standing on their concrete terrace overlooking the Zambezi River, where the trusses of the Dona Ana Bridge stretched across the waters like an arrangement of Spanish fans disappearing into the opposite margin, some two miles away. Mom, pushing back an unruly strand of brown hair, was trying to look happy as she played catch with me and my sister. She was young and pretty, but her smile could not mask the sorrow and worry in her deep hazel eyes. Her future, and that of her daughters, was at best uncertain. Whatever dreams she harbored had been put on hold. What hope was there for a widowed woman with two small children in the interior of Mozambique, a foreign and hostile place where even single men had difficulty surviving?

My godmother came out of the house holding a camera and told us to stand by the corner of the terrace. No, not there, she said. On the river side, so that I can get the bridge.

We moved over, Mom carrying Bela and I running ahead of them. My brown hair was cut short and I felt very pretty posing for the photos on my sleeveless green dress, white socks, and brand new sandals, a gift from Grandma Lurdes. What a shame that Dad could not see me. Bela wore a short white dress with pink polka-dots, her almost-white baby hair that had never been trimmed falling uneven around her cheeks and neck. It was after lunch, the day was warm and pleasantly dry, the thinner branches of the trees and the tall grasses sway in the gentle breeze, and the sun splashed on the silvery waters of the river.

Gorgeous afternoon, Godmother said as she moved us around trying to catch just the right angle. And so peaceful.

She was beautiful, and I wanted to look just like her when I grew up. Her sleeveless dress, white with small blue flowers, fell gracefully around her hips and thighs and her shiny black hair fell to her shoulders, framing a round tanned face with full lips and piercing green eyes. She had a boyfriend in Beira and had been fretting over him not making the railway trip to see her this Easter.

Frowning, Mom didn’t reply.

My godfather came out from the house and waited for the picture to be taken. Then he handed me a paper bag. I brought this for you, he said. I had it in my pocket and almost forgot it. I opened the bag in a hurry. It was full of sugarcoated almonds of assorted colors, a traditional Easter present from godparents to godchildren. Don’t go choking on them now, he added.

Oh, I forgot all about the almonds, Godmother said, laughing, as she put the camera away. I guess I’m still learning this godparenting business. Sorry, Lenita.

My name is Helena, Lena for short, but all the Mirandas called me Lenita, an affectionate derivative, in part to differentiate me from my godmother, after whom I had been named.

Mom put Bela on the floor, picked up the ball and tossed it my way, but I was too busy with my almonds. The ball bounced past me and off the terrace into the grass growing wild in the sandy soil below. I ran down the stairs to fetch it, still protecting my white leg.

Watch out! my godmother cried, pointing at my sister, who was slipping under the handrail that surrounded the terrace to see where the ball had landed. Grabbing her dress just in time to prevent her from falling, Mom held her close as I searched for the ball in the tall grass below.

Have you decided what you’re going to do now, Laura? my godfather asked Mom as they leaned against the railing facing the river.

Mom didn’t answer right away. That question had been the only thing on her mind for months, but she was still far from reaching any conclusion. There simply weren’t any easy decisions.

I don’t know, Armindo, she said after some hesitation. What I really wish is that I could return to Portugal to live with my parents, where I could raise the girls properly and be sure we wouldn’t starve. But I have mountains of debts and it’s not there that I can earn the money to pay them off.

Why don’t you just stay here with the Mirandas? They love the girls and you can help out.

That’s what I’ve been doing for the last five months, ever since your brother died. But I realize that the Mirandas don’t really need me and what they pay me feels like charity. There are no other opportunities for me here in Mutarara and I’m a burden that they can’t afford.

Don’t be silly, woman, you’re never a burden, my godmother interjected. You’re family. It’s a pleasure to have you and these beautiful girls with us. Your daughters already call my parents Grandpa and Grandma and my brother Uncle, and the affection is mutual. And I’m Lenita’s godmother, remember? You even gave her my name. Why do you keep making such ridiculous comments?

They’re not ridiculous, Lena, and you know it, Mom replied. Arsínio and I arrived in Mozambique without a penny. We barely had time to start working before my daughter’s medical bills left us in a financial mess. His death put me in such a hole that I don’t even know how to start to climb out. But I have to try, and it’s not here that I can do it. If it weren’t for the bills, I’d just pack up and go back to my mother’s.

You’re not returning to Portugal, Godmother protested. What are you going to do there, plant potatoes in a piece of land the size of a postage stamp? You stay here as long as it takes. You’re young. You’re a good seamstress. There’s always a need for someone with your ability.

Mom shook her head but didn’t reply. There was an awkward silence while they pretended to watch me head back toward the stairs with the ball.

There’s something that I haven’t told you yet, she said, hesitantly. She cleared her throat then added. Marques offered me a job in Beira and I’ve been considering it.

You mean at the inn? Godmother asked.

Mom nodded. "I’ll get a salary and free room and board, and the girls will be with me. He’ll lodge us in one of the guest rooms, we’ll eat from the restaurant, and I’ll work for him. I don’t think there’s a specific job description, I’ll do whatever’s needed, waitressing, cooking, cleaning, sewing, be a sort of jack-of-all-trades.

I can do that. It’s a good opportunity, she added timidly, trying to convince herself as much as them. After all, going to the big city alone with two little children in tow would be a huge step for her.

That’s not for you, Laura, my godfather said firmly.

And why not? Mom demanded.

Because it’s the wrong place and the wrong job for a young widow and her infant daughters, that’s why, he replied. Beira is full of rude men ready to pounce on anyone they perceive as vulnerable.

I can take care of myself, Mom assured him, tersely.

I know you can. But still, I’ll be damned if I let my brother’s widow put herself in the position of having drunks and drifters hitting on her, and exposing my nieces to all the crap that goes on in that place.

I stayed at that inn for two months when my daughter was in the hospital, my mother reminded him. You’re over-reacting.

You were there as a guest, and you were a married woman then, he replied. "It’s very different when you’re the waitress or the chambermaid. Or when you’re a widow. Believe me, I know the kind of people that come through Pensão Marques, and you don’t want to deal with them, day in and day out."

Do you have a better alternative? Mom asked in a halting voice. When my godfather didn’t answer immediately, she went on. Look, I have two small children to bring up. I have nothing but debts. I don’t have a husband to give me a hand. I live off the charity of others. I need to get on my own two feet. Is there something I can do that someone doesn’t object to?

Mom had picked Bela up and was hugging her tight, tighter than she usually did. Maybe because she too needed a hug. Mom, catch! I cried, throwing the ball in her direction. She turned, but the ball rolled past her and ended right back hidden in the grass below.

Mmooom! I protested as I limped back down the terrace stairs, a pink almond in my mouth.

Going to sit at a rectangular wooden table at a corner of the terrace, on a bench sheltered from the sun by an umbrella, my godfather lit a cigarette. He blew a smoke ring and watched it hover before dissipating in the breeze, all the time rubbing the back of his neck, a sure sign that something was nagging at him.

Uncle Manel came out of the house carrying two beers. As usual, he was in a good mood. A tall, lanky young man, barely twenty years old, home on leave from the Portuguese Army, he was stationed in the Tete district only a few hours drive to the west and would return to his base in the morning.

What’s wrong? he asked, passing my godfather a beer.

They didn’t answer. My godmother sat next to her brother, her tight dress allowing a peak at shapely brown legs when she crossed them.

You know, I’ve been toying with an idea for some time, Godfather said thoughtfully after taking a long sip of his beer, his eyes fixated on the bottle in his hands. Problem is, it’ll generate gossip from here to Europe. And of course you need to agree, Laura. But this is what I’ve been thinking. You could come with me to Boeza.

Uncle Manel, who had not been privy to the earlier conversation, laughed out loud as if this were the funniest joke he had heard in years.

You’re right about one thing, he said. You’ll need a very thick skin to survive the bad-mouthing from the old ladies and pseudo-friends waiting to criticize every move the young widow makes.

Why should Laura care what others say? Godmother asked, elbowing her brother to let him know they were not joking. It’s not like any gossipers are going to raise her girls or pay her bills. I think it makes perfect sense.

Can’t you see it, sis? he replied. They’ll be the only white people for a ten mile radius, and except for the blacks’ huts, Armindo’s is the only proper house in the entire village. They won’t simply work together, they’ll have to live together. He turned to my godfather with a grin: Just wait until your girlfriend finds out. Or better yet, wait until her mother learns that you’re living with your sister-in-law. And his grin grew wider, savoring the idea.

My godfather was close to throwing the bottle at him.

Come on, don’t look at me that way. I’m teasing you. But don’t kid yourself. There are plenty of twisted minds among our compatriots, both here and back home. They’ll have a field day with that idea of yours.

Don’t you think I know that? my godfather answered angrily, slamming his hand on the table. I just thought that it solved a number of problems in one shot. First, I need to hire someone I can trust to help with the store in Boeza. I can’t run it by myself and do all the others things that need to be done. Laura can be my employee, maybe even my business partner. Second, she needs a paying job that also allows her to care for her daughters. This way, the girls can be with her every minute. Third, Lenita and Bela will benefit from a father figure in their lives. With my brother gone, I doubt anyone can do it better than I can. Fourth, my sister-in-law can probably use some help with the kids once in a while. Maybe not as well as here, but I can do that too. And fifth, it would be nice to have someone around who can prepare a meal without having to open a can of beans or sardines.

As he said this, he got up and flipped his cigarette butt over the rail with a vengeance. Silly me, I thought it was a reasonable idea, and he stormed into the house.

What do you think about this, Laura, Godmother asked after he was gone. Mom had remained silent while the others discussed her future, and now her head was spinning.

They’re both correct, she said, still standing by the railing clutching my little sister. If we could forget about the rest of the world, Armindo’s suggestion would make a lot of sense. After all, he cares deeply about my girls and I know that he worries about me too. He’s the only blood relative my daughters have here. If it weren’t for him, I doubt that Arsínio could have raised the money for Lenita’s multiple operations, and she would probably be dead by now. He’s also the one I owe the most money to. His idea could be a good arrangement, certainly for me. She stared at me without really seeing me, before adding, But Manel is also right. We can’t pretend we live in a vacuum. I’d be thrashed like a tramp.

Look, Laura, you must do what’s right for you and for these two children that you’ll have to raise without a father, my godmother told her, going to put a hand on her shoulder. You’re an adult, so behave like a responsible one, not like a kid afraid that someone will disapprove of her behavior. Besides, this arrangement doesn’t have to be permanent. You can spend a few months working with Armindo to see how it goes. If it doesn’t work, you can always come back here. I’m pretty sure he won’t want to perpetuate the situation if it becomes uncomfortable for either of you.

Mom said nothing. She just stood there, her mind wiggling more furiously than the child in her arms.

Despite everything I said, you are effectively isolated from gossip, Uncle Manel said, approaching them, empty beer bottle in hand. Not that it won’t happen. You can be sure it’ll happen all right. But you won’t have to deal with it every day. You will be hundreds, heck, thousands of miles away from the gossip, and words don’t bite if you don’t let them. Besides, folks back in Portugal have no clue what the living conditions are here in the interior of Mozambique. All they have to know is that your brother-in-law gave you a job in his business. Period.

Mom shook her head. I don’t know, she said. I need to talk to your mother. She’ll have an opinion.

Why don’t you do that? Godmother said. She’ll give it to you straight.

Just then, Grandma Lurdes came out of the house carrying a tray with a pitcher of cold fruit punch and several glasses. A medium height woman in her early fifties, she moved with the agility of someone half her age. Her salt-and-pepper hair was cut short, allowing a full view of a thick gold chain around her neck. A simple short-sleeved gray dress fell to below her knees, doing a poor job of hiding the few extra pounds that had accumulated around her hips. Her narrow, curved nose would give her a hawkish appearance if it weren’t for the softness of the brown eyes peaking from behind dark-rimmed glasses and the thin lips that always seemed to curve upward in a friendly smile.

Grandma set the tray on the table and sat down. She was obviously done cleaning the dining room and putting all the leftovers away because she never relaxed if there was anything else she could be doing.

I thought you girls might be thirsty, she said. The boys only think of themselves. She then stopped me when I ran over and tried to grab a glass. Wait a minute, you can’t hold that. You’ll drop it and it’ll break.

Mom, Godmother said, we’ve been having a discussion here, and Laura wants to have your opinion on something.

Good to know someone cares about what I think, Grandma replied while holding a glass to my lips. What is it?

Armindo wants Laura to move in with him, Uncle Manel replied with a wink.

Can’t you ever take anything seriously? his