O Vento by José Mena Abrantes

Translated by J. Pailler

José Mena Abrantes: A writer from Angola

Angola recovered its independence in 1975, after twelve years of a bitter war against the Portuguese. Then, for more than a quarter of a century, it experienced a bloody civil war. Ethnic rivalries had much less to do with this conflict than the callous calculations of an outside world divided by the Cold War and greedy for Angola's fabulous riches: oil, diamonds, and perhaps more important in Africa, fertile soil and a plentiful water supply. Today, Angola lives in peace and heals its wounds. It is striving to balance modern democracy with respect for grassroots culture, free enterprise with the necessity of protecting the disadvantaged

The identity of Angola, however, cannot be reduced to that of a battlefield nor to that of a huge deposit of mineral resources. In 1482, when the first Portuguese visitors came into contact with the sovereign of M'banza Kongo, they found a highly organized state, with several satellite kings (called N'golas, hence the modern name of the country). Formal diplomatic relations were established and maintained at that time between the two countries. Gradually the balance of power shifted, Angola became the main source of enslaved manpower for Brazilian expansion, then, in the XIXth Century, was conserved as a colony by Portugal. Emancipation followed the Portuguese revolution of 1974.

Angolan culture exhibits centuries of reciprocal exchange with Portugal and Brazil. It has a unique blend of influences and strong national feeling: the country certainly has great surprises in store for the future.

The Guild of Angolan writers has been from the start a powerful force of awakening in the country. Many have suffered for their own vision of its future. Some names are world-famous, but many more deserve to be known in the outside world, as there should be no more ranks in the army of poets, than boundaries between cultures that thrive on diversity.

José Mena Abrantes

José Mena Abrantes is an African storyteller, or a medieval bard, whose words have to be uttered to be understood fully. His language is no more Portuguese than Steinbeck's is English. It is a subtle and unconscious blend of all the trends that have combined into the language of Angola. His poetical stories, or tales, are extraordinarily moving: they all deal with the terrible issues of war and death, but with a tenderness, a loving care, and a modesty that are much more effective than the customary dramatic effects of the modern carpetbagger.

José Mena Abrantes was born in Malanje, Angola, in 1945. He went to school in his hometown, then to high school in Luanda. He read Germanic philology in Lisbon, and began to show his interest for drama, attending several courses on the subject at Louvain University with Bernard Dort and Denis Bablet. Then, to escape the pressure of the Portuguese political police, he lived in exile in Germany for four years.

On his return to his country in 1974, he took up journalism and was one of the founders of the National Press Agency of Angola - ANGOP. He is a member of the Guild of Angolan writers. He was for several years press assistant to the Head of the State. As a poet, and a writer of fiction, he received several distinctions in the 1980's. But fundamentally he is a playwright and a director of drama creations. He was a decisive force behind the emergence of new companies and original productions in his country. He was the founder of the Tchinganje and Xilenga Teatro groups, and finally, of Elinga Teatro. With the latter he has directed his own and others' plays participating in many international events. He is deeply committed to researching themes in the history of his country and in the oral literature of its five basic languages as well as working on a theorization of Angolan drama.

The work presented here is a translated excerpt from "Os Caminhos Des-encantados" (© Ed. Caminho, Lisboa, 2000) with the permission of the publisher.

O VENTO THE WIND

Por hábito, que outra razão não havia, sentaram-se em círculo, cada um olhando e olhado. Era uma maneira como outra qualquer de todos verem que afinal ninguém fazia nada. Mas se a areia continua a vir no vento, como vamos fazer? Parar o vento?, acabou por perguntar o de sempre, que sempre perguntava duas vezes para não ter de responder nenhuma. Outro aproveitou o lugar livre das palavras: É a areia que temos de parar. O vento pode vir, sozinho. Já não tinham conta as noites que passavam assim, perto do fogo, incapazes de encontrar uma solução para conter as areias que lentamente iam enterrando a toda aldeia. O vento sozinho até é bom, faz passar o calor, concordou outro, sem dar opinião sobre o que importava. Já sei!, despertou finalmente o mais velho de todos de uma longa viagem por dentro da própria cabeça: Precisamos fazer que o vento volte para trás, para levar toda a areia embora. O espanto estava em todos os rostos: como é que nunca tinham pensado nisso antes? A ideia era tão boa que nem sequer se preocuparam em saber como é que a iam pôr em prática. Nessa noite dormiram descansados, sonhando a aldeia toda desareiada, assente no seu chão próprio e verdadeiro. Dia seguinte, manhã cedo, o dilema voltou. Soterrado. Isto é: a fogueira e alguns deles haviam ficado completamente cobertos pela areia depois de terem adormecido. Temos de formar dois grupos: um vai ver onde nasce o vento, o outro onde é que ele acaba. Só assim vamos poder compreender-lhe o caminho, para lhe inverter. Era a primeira vez que uma voz de mando se elevara firmemente sobre tanta passividade. Os mais fortes, quase todos jovens, seguiram contra o vento, protegendo-se o melhor possível das golfadas de areia que de forma regular e ininterrupta continuava a transferir-se toda para a aldeia recém-deixada. Os que partiram para descobrir a foz do vento, cedo chegaram a um impossível - o vento continuava para dentro de um mar tão escancarado que, nele, todo o deserto certamente se afogaria. Faltava saber por que é que a areia não preferia chegar até ali, acantonando-se em vez disso toda em cima da aldeia. Os que continuavam a lutar com o vento chegaram, ao fim de muitos dias e noites de penosa caminhada, a um lugar onde a areia se adormecia quieta no chão, desleixada. E viram claramente que todo o vento saía de um velho que, de pé, parecia esperá-los. Sei ao que vindes, disse. Posso fazer voltar todo o vento, se me entregardes os homens que foram para o mar, mais todo o sal que puderem trazer. Os jovens entreolharam-se. Na praia deviam estar todos os homens velhos e cansados, mais os mais fracos dos jovens. Pensaram também nas mulheres e crianças na aldeia, quase amortalhadas de areia. Sem hesitar, sintonizaram todos os gestos num só golpe. O velho caiu, desfazendo-se em areia, e nesse exacto lugar abriu-se um buraco no chão que começou a engolir sôfrego todo o vento. A humidade do mar não tardou a chegar ali. Pelo caminho ficavam todos espantados com o cheiro do sal na súbita frescura do vento, aposentando-se velozmente com a toda areia. Quando se voltaram a sentar todos em círculo, na aldeia devolvida, tinham já inventado sem dar-se conta outra razão para estarem juntos.

Through habit, and for no other reason, they sat in a ring, each observer and observed. It was a way as good as any to see that nobody did anything. But if the sand keeps coming in the wind, what shall we do? Shall we stop the wind? asked the one who always asked two questions, so that he could answer none. Another took advantage of the gap between the words: It's the sand that we must stop. It is all right for the wind to come alone. They could not count the nights they had passed thus, around the fire, unable to find a way to contain the sands that were slowly burying the whole village. The wind by itself is good, it even makes us warm, agreed another, without giving his opinion on what mattered. I know, the oldest of them finally woke up, returning from a long journey inside his own head. What we must do is make the wind go back and carry all the sand away. Awe showed on their faces: how was it that they never thought of it before? It was such a good idea that they did not even worry about how it could be put into practice. That night they all slept soundly, dreaming about their village cleared of sand, properly installed on its own ground. Early morning the following day, the dilemma resurfaced. Subterranean. That is, the fire and some of the people had been completely blanketed by the sand after they had fallen asleep. We'll form two teams: one shall go to the place whence the wind comes, the other one to where it ends its course. Only thus shall we be able to understand its route, and set it back. This was the first time a commanding voice rose firmly over so much passivity. The strongest among them, almost all the young people, started against the wind, protecting themselves as well as they could from the gusts of sand that, regularly and unremittingly, moved on the village they had just left. Those who had gone to the mouth of the wind soon arrived at an impasse: the wind went on into a gaping sea so wide that the whole desert could have drowned in it. But who could tell the reason why the wind did not choose to go there, and rather billeted at the village? Those who had been trudging against the wind came, after many days and many nights of painful marching, to a place where the sand was quietly dozing on the ground, neglected. And they saw that all the wind came out of an old man who stood there, apparently expecting them. I know why you have come, he said. I can recall the sand if you surrender to me the men who went to the sea, with all the salt they can carry. The young men looked at each other. All the men who were old and tired and the weakest of the young were on the beach. They also considered the women and the children in the village, almost shrouded in the sand. Without hesitating they combined all their moves into one blow. The old one fell down, dissolving into sand, and where he had stood, a hole opened in the ground, and patiently began to swallow back the wind. The sea's humidity did not take long to get there. On their way, they marvelled at the salty smell and the sudden coolness of the wind that was fast retiring with the sand. And when they all sat down again in a ring in their redeemed village, they had just invented, without thinking, one more reason to be together.

José Mena Abrantes - A bibliography

Ana, Zé e os Escravos (Ana, Zé and the Slaves, teatro, Sonangol prize for Literature, 1988)

Nandyala ou a Tirania dos Monstros (Nandyala or the tyranny of Monsters, drama)

Luís Lopes Sequeira, ou o mulato dos prodígios (Luis Lopes Sequeira or the miraculous mulatto, drama)

A órfã do rei (The king's orphan) drama

Meninos (Children - Sonangol prize for Literature, 1991)

Caminhos desencantados (The Disenchanted Paths)

Na Curva do Cão Morto (Dead Dog's bend, fiction)

Objectos musicais (Musical objects, poetry)

Cinema angolano: um passado a merecer melhor presente (Cinema in Angola: a past deserving of a better present, essay)

O Teatro Angolano (The Theatre in Angola, essay)