“Yes, but the whites aren’t marrying your daughter. They won’t take her far away.”
“Mosi won’t take her away.” José seemed annoyed. “The Nigerian contracts force them to return to their country after a certain period. But if they marry in Guinea, they can set themselves up here, open a bar or a shop, or work a small plot of land. Above all, here they can get an education for their children and hospital services that they don’t have in their own country. Don’t you think those are good reasons? Many workers save up to pay the dowry and marry one of our women, which is what Mosi has done.”
To Kilian, paying the dowry reminded him of the old stories from the valley. Only in his valley, it was the woman who had to supply the sum and not the other way round.
“And how much is Mosi going to give for her?” he asked out of curiosity.
José gritted his teeth. “White man no sabi anything about black fashion,” he murmured.
“What did you say?”
“I said that the whites haven’t got a clue about black customs!” He jumped up and stood before Kilian. “Look, Massa.” He used the word harshly. “Let me tell you something. No matter how many times I explain some things, you’ll never understand them. You seem to think I don’t love my daughters, or that I sell them as if they were sacks of cocoa.”
“I didn’t say that!” protested Kilian.
“But you believe it!” He saw the young man’s look of disappointment and adopted a fatherly tone. “I think it’s good for my daughter to marry Mosi because Mosi is a good laborer. They’ll be able to live on the plantation for many years. When they are girls, Bubi women enjoy themselves and have fun, but once they get married, they don’t do anything else but work for their husband and children. They are in charge of everything, the firewood, the fields, collecting water . . .” He counted the tasks on his fingers. “The women plant, cultivate, harvest, and store the malanga. They prepare the palm oil. They cook. They bring up the children . . .” He paused for a moment and raised a finger in the air. “While their husbands spend the day”—the finger danced in the air—“from here to there, drinking palm wine or chatting to other men in the village house.”
Kilian remained silent, playing with a twig.
“Marrying Mosi is good for her,” continued José, now more relaxed. “They’ll live in one of the family barracks in Obsay. My daughter is a good student. She could help in the hospital and study to become a nurse. I’ve already spoken to Massa Manuel.”
“It’s a good idea, ?sé,” Kilian said hesitatingly. “I’m sorry if I upset you.”
José nodded as Kilian got to his feet and said, “We’d better keep walking.”
Bissappoo was located on one of the highest parts of the island, so there was still a good distance to go before getting to the most difficult part of the journey, which was when the path began to slope upward. Kilian grabbed his bag and his machete, put on his pith helmet, and began walking behind José. They trekked in silence for a good distance, going farther and farther into the jungle. The tree trunks were covered in parasitic plants, ferns, and orchids, on which rested a multitude of ants, butterflies, and small birds.
Kilian felt a little awkward with the silence. They had worked together many times without exchanging a word, but this time it was different. He regretted that José had misinterpreted his comments, born out of curiosity rather than bad manners. As if he had read his mind, José stopped and, with his hands on his hips, in the same way as if he were talking about the weather, commented, “This land belonged to my great-grandfather.” He gave the ground a small kick. “Just here. He exchanged it for a bottle of alcohol and a rifle.”
Kilian blinked in surprise, but grinned at what he thought was a joke. “Stop it! You’re pulling my leg!”
“No, sir. I’m serious. This land is good for coffee, because of its height. One day there will be a plantation here. The gods will decide if we’ll get to see it.” He glanced at Kilian, who still had a frown of disbelief on his face, and cheekily asked, “How do you think the colonists got the land? Have you met a rich Bubi?”
“No, but . . . Come on, I don’t believe it was all like that, ?sé. Your great-grandfather’s case was an exception.” He tried to defend the men who with tremendous effort had transformed the island into what it now was. “Besides, doesn’t every native get assigned four hectares for his own crops?”
“Yes, a few hectares that were theirs to begin with,” responded José sarcastically. “Very generous of the whites! If they hadn’t repealed the law a few years ago, you yourself could have opted for a thirty-hectare plot in ten years, or less if you called in a favor.”
Kilian felt like an idiot. He had never thought of the natives as the owners of the island. He was still just a white colonist who thought the history of Fernando Po started with the Portuguese, the English, and especially the Spanish. He was sorry for having had so little tact with the man he owed his life to.
“Well, I . . . Actually . . . What I mean is that . . .” He let out a snort and started slashing all the plants in his path. “It’s clear that I just keep putting my foot in it today!”
José followed, his face beaming. It was impossible to be annoyed with Kilian for very long. This young man, nervous and bursting with energy, wanted to learn something new every day. Although he had had a rough time at the start, seldom had a European adapted so quickly to the arduous work on the plantation. And Kilian was not one to just give orders. No. He was the first to go up a scaffolding, lift sacks, drive a truck, or take off his shirt to dig a hole or plant a palm. This attitude had shocked the laborers, used to the lash of the melongo. José thought that, in part, Kilian did all these things to please his father, even if he was not aware of it. He looked for Antón’s approval and, by extension, the rest of the family’s. He continually had to show how strong and brave he was. And even more so now with Antón showing obvious signs of being worn out.
Yes, Kilian would have been a good Bubi warrior.
“Look at the way you cut the undergrowth! With men like you, Kilian, the whole colonization would have taken two years, and not decades. Did you know that the members of the first expeditions died in a matter of weeks? Like flies! The ships were sent with two captains so that there would always be one in reserve.”
“I don’t understand why,” Kilian scoffed. “It’s not that difficult to adapt.”
“Ah! But that’s because things are different now. When there were no whites, the Bubis knew how to live in harmony on the island. The hard work, the work that is now done by the blacks, you did, the whites. You dug under the burning heat of the tropical sun and in the places where it was easiest to catch malaria. And there was no quinine then! In less than a hundred years, this island full of so-called cannibals has become what you see now.”