“If so, we all should be nervous.” Kilian raised his hands in the air and said, “You are as Spanish as me now.”
“Ah, really? I’d like to see your neighbors’ reaction in Pasolobino if I moved in with you. Do you really think that they’d consider me Spanish? The laws might change rapidly, but people don’t, Kilian. Maybe I can go to places reserved for whites, go to the cinema, take the coach, sit beside you in the cathedral, and even bathe in the same swimming pool without fear of arrest, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t see the looks of disgust . . . My papers say I’m Spanish, Kilian, but my heart knows I’m not.”
Kilian stopped and put a hand on his arm.
“I’ve never heard you talk like this, ?sé. Do you also agree with the ideas of men like Simón and Gustavo?”
José looked at his friend. “There is an old African proverb that says that when two elephants fight, it’s the grass that suffers.” He waited for Kilian to understand before walking on. “No matter what happens, it will be the grass that suffers. It’s always been like that.”
16
Ribalá Ré Ríhólè
Marriage for Love
On the way to Bissappoo, Kilian felt privileged to attend the naming of the new Bubi chief. On more than one occasion, José had admitted to feeling sad that the new generations of his tribe were lax about tradition. Thanks to the Spanish influence on education and daily life, the young people did not listen to the words of their elders as before. One day, they would regret not knowing about many of their customs.
The ceremony was special because although Spain had meddled in the life of the tribe by appointing the village chiefs and creating the position of Spanish administrator in the native villages, Bissappoo continued to name its own chief, even if it was just to uphold the symbolic value. It was perhaps one of the few villages that kept its traditions practically intact. And of course, the young man who contributed to this, Simón, was now guiding them with a speed and energy that surprised them all.
Kilian knew the route to Bissappoo by heart. The path through the palm trees. The stream. The cedar forest. The ascent of the slope. He had gone up to the village at least twenty times in the years he had been on Fernando Po. He no longer had to follow José’s steps or wait for him to clear the weeds with his machete. He knew for certain that, even in the darkness of the night, he would find his way.
However, on this occasion, he preferred to be in last position, just behind Bisila, admiring the movement of her body.
She was wearing a knee-length, green leaf-patterned dress, which was gathered at the waist and buttoned at the front, and a pair of white sandals. When walking up the steepest parts, Kilian could see how the material stuck to her body, outlining her figure. Bisila noticed his silence and turned her head from time to time to smile at him.
Kilian thought it was an honor to attend the naming ceremony of a Bubi chief, even if Jacobo had criticized him for participating in an event that did nothing but add fuel to the fire of independence sentiments. His brother could not know the real reason for his escape to Bissappoo. What really excited Kilian was the possibility of enjoying Bisila’s company for a few hours.
A short distance from Bissappoo, just after crossing the buhaba, they made out a large number of people nervously awaiting the arrival of the new chief under the wooden arch guarded by the two sacred trees, which sometimes served as the threshold to the village. That day, it was decked out with every type of amulet. Simón went off in a hurry to change. José began greeting one and all. Everyone was dressed up in the traditional style: the men sported huge straw hats topped with hen feathers; the women wore long strands of glass beads, shells, and snake bones on their arms, legs, and necks. The majority had rubbed themselves with ntola ointment, whose strong smell Kilian had become used to.
Bisila used the commotion to explain to Kilian everything that had gone on up to that moment. She moved close enough for their arms to brush against each other but made sure that, in the eyes of everyone else, her posture seemed normal, raising her hand in the air from time to time to point out one thing or another.
“The election and coronation ritual of a new chief,” she explained, “follows very strict rules on the burial and mourning of the previous chief, although some things have changed according to the area’s elders, like the ancient custom of burning the village of a dead chief.”
“Could you imagine burning down Santa Isabel if the mayor died?” he joked.
Bisila laughed and increased the elbow pressure. “Once the date for the ceremony is chosen, a house is built for the new chief and his principal wives to live in for a week—”
“How unusual”—he interrupted again, with a keen look—“and tiring . . .”
“. . . after which,” she continued, a smile on her lips, “the new botuku is placed under the shade of a tree, consecrated to the souls of previous deceased botuku. There we invoke the souls, the spirits, the morimò or borimó of the other world to bless and protect the new chief so that he never tarnishes the memory of those who occupied the seat before him. We also sacrifice a goat, and with its blood, we anoint the chest, shoulders, and back of the new chief. Later, the king has to climb to the top of a palm tree with wooden arcs on his feet and undertake the task of extracting the palm wine and cutting the bunches from where the palm oil comes. And last, we take him to a beach or a river, where we wash his body to purify it and remove all the stains of his previous life. We anoint him with ntola, and we dress him before returning to the village in procession, joyfully singing and dancing the batele, or ritual dance.”
Kilian’s voice became a whisper. “I would love for you to name me botuku and bathe me in the river, but I’d have problems going up a palm tree, unless you were waiting for me.”
Bisila bit her bottom lip. She was finding it very hard not to jump into his arms and let everyone know how happy she felt.
The people began to gather at the chief’s new house. Kilian and Bisila stayed behind and watched from a back row. A murmur indicated that the chief was leaving for the public square. Kilian could not make out the face of Simón’s father, a small, muscular man with wide shoulders. What he did notice was that his whole body was decorated in white shells called tyíb?, which was used as currency by the Bubis in the past. The shells had been strung in bracelets and rings for his arms and legs and as a belt from which a monkey’s tail hung.