“Gosh! And that’s not special?” Kilian asked. “Congratulations! Which one?”
By now, Kilian knew José’s history. His mother was Bubi and his father Fernandino, the name used to refer to the descendants of the first slaves freed by the British in the previous century. The majority came from Sierra Leone and Jamaica and mixed with other freed Africans and Cubans. From what José had told him, they had once been an influential bourgeoisie family, but when the Spaniards acquired the island, they lost their status. From his father, José had learned English and Bantú English and had been sent together with his brothers and sisters to the Catholic mission school. He was one of the few natives his age who could read and write. José married a Bubi woman and had several children. Continuing his father’s tradition, they also attended the Catholic school. Not all the Bubis approved of this. The more reactionary ones thought that white culture offended their spirits and traditions, though they had no option but to obey the colonists.
“The last one,” responded José.
“The last one!” exclaimed Kilian, pretending to be scandalized. “Good God, ?sé! But . . . isn’t she five?”
Kilian knew that the young Bubis got married at twelve or thirteen, but he also suspected that the little girl who affectionately hugged him each time he went up to the village was the smallest of the numerous other children born of polygamy. The practice was frowned upon by the Spanish Catholics, so José never talked about his other wives, if he actually had any, and especially not in front of the missionaries and priests like Father Rafael, who were still trying to free the natives from their ancient customs.
José let the comment fly over his head. He looked around him to make sure that everything was tidy before going to dinner. When they had gone some meters, he turned and asked, finally, what Kilian had been waiting to hear.
“Perhaps you would like to come to a Bubi wedding, Massa Kilian?”
Kilian’s eyes lit up. “I’ve told you a thousand times not to address me like that! I’ll accept your invitation if you promise me not to use the word massa again.”
“Agreed, Ma—” José corrected himself with a wide smile, “Kilian. As you wish.”
“And I don’t want you to be so formal with me either! I’m much younger than you. Agreed?”
“I won’t call you massa, but I’ll still be formal. It is difficult for me not to . . .”
“Oh, come on! You’ve had to adapt to much more!”
José shook his head but did not answer.
Waldo took them by truck to the southeastern border of the plantation, where the track became unsuitable for road vehicles. From there, José and Kilian continued on foot along a narrow path crossed by hundreds of branches, lianas, and leaves that screened, and occasionally completely blocked out, the sunlight. The sounds of their steps were softened by the springy carpet of fallen leaves dotted with palm pips from the fruit that had rotted on the ground or been eaten by monkeys. Kilian enjoyed listening to the trills and chirping of the blackbirds, nightingales, and filicotoys; the chatter of the parrots and the cooing of a wild pigeon that intermittingly broke the solemn calm; and the grave silence under the soft green and living canopy through which they walked with difficulty. The scenery and sounds of the island were very beautiful. It was no surprise that centuries ago, the island’s discoverer, the Portuguese Fern?o do Po, had called it Formosa, meaning “beautiful.”
Kilian imagined other men like him journeying down this same path in centuries past. It was the same path, they said, but it always looked different because of the tenacious vegetation. How many machetes had moved the plants that kept sprouting back? On his previous trips to Bissappoo, and in answer to Kilian’s many questions, José had told him about the island’s history. Kilian knew the long-living ceiba trees held many stories in their wrinkled trunks, as well as multitudes of languages.
The island had been Portuguese until Portugal swapped it with Spain for other territories. Spain wanted its own source of slaves to transport to America. At this point in the story, Kilian always shuddered at the thought of José, Simón, Yeremías, or Waldo being captured to be sold in the same way as caged animals. As the Spaniards did not really take control of the island, the English war and merchant ships made use of it to collect water, yams, and live animals for their scientific, commercial, and exploratory voyages on the Niger River, on the continental part of Africa, and to control and keep in check the slave market, as England had already abolished slavery. Kilian thought of Dick, dressed in old-fashioned sailor’s clothes as he freed his Bubi acquaintances. But Dick did not seem the hero type.
For many years, English was spoken on Fernando Po. England wished to buy the island, but Spain resisted, so in the middle of the nineteenth century, the English navy opted to move to Sierra Leone and sold their buildings to a Baptist mission. After that, the Spaniards tried once more to set up effective settlements with more complete expeditions, incentivizing the colonists and sending missionaries to convert the village natives, easier to convert than the city Baptists like José’s paternal ancestors, until they dominated.
Kilian saw himself as one more link in this chain of men who, for one reason or another, had made the tropics their temporary home, but he was pleased to live in a more peaceful, civilized age than those previous. Still, in the middle of the wild jungle, it seemed completely the opposite.
After clearing the way with machetes and negotiating fallen trees, they decided to stop and rest in a clearing. Kilian’s eyes stung from the sweat, and his arms bled slightly from small cuts from the branches. He cooled off in a stream and lay down on a cedar, close to José. He closed his eyes and inhaled the acrid smell of the dead leaves, ripe fruit, and damp earth that a barely noticeable breeze guided through the trees.
“Who is your future son-in-law?” he asked after a while.
“Mosi,” José responded.
“Mosi? The Egyptian?” Kilian shot up. That was the colossus from the deforestation job. When he tensed his muscles, the sleeves of his shirt stretched to breaking point, and his head was shaven. It was best not to get on the wrong side of him.
“Yes, Mosi the Egyptian.”
“And you are happy with this?”
“Why wouldn’t I be happy?” When Kilian did not answer, José said, “Does it surprise you?”
“Well, yes . . . I mean . . . I think he’s a wonderful worker. But I don’t know why I thought that you would prefer your daughter to marry one of your own.”
“My mother was Bubi and she married a Fernandino . . .”
“I know that, but your father was also from Fernando Po. I was referring to the Nigerian laborers who come earn money and later return to Nigeria.”
“Don’t take offense, Kilian, but though they earn less, in this respect they are the same as the whites, yes?”