The Sun on My Head by Geovani Martins

Author:Geovani Martins
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux

THE MYSTERY OF THE VILA

IN MEMORY OF DONA MARIA DE LOURDES

After the rain had come down—right on schedule—to cool the sweltering night, Ruan, Thaís, and Matheus scurried back onto the street, wanting to feel the wind that had been absent since early summer. Deep in the vila where they met lives Dona Iara, who, as one of the oldest women on the block, witnessed three generations of her family come of age on the land she helped tame. It is her house that the smell of macumba comes from.

The three friends manage to break up a game of footie forming between two speed humps, challenging the gaggle of kids to see who could get closest to Dona Iara’s house, who could best catch the smell of macumba, hear loudest the ruckus of rats, bats, and bamboo creaking beyond the open sewer.

The children advance cautiously through the darkening vila. It barely resembles the vila it’s always been, where during the day they shoot marbles, spin tops, and play tag. When it’s macumba night, everything takes on an air of mystery: the babble of the bamboo grove, the running water, the shadows, the voices, the echoing of all things. The children shake with fear, and together savor every second of that early childhood terror.

Suddenly, one of the kids spooks and tears off. Then, the others run after; hearts race, smiles creep, they look at each other, conspirators, bursting with curiosity, wanting to discover the reason for the sudden dash.

“Y’all seen that, mané? A strange creature crawled outta the river. I saw this humongous shadow.”

“I think it was the spirit’s voice speaking.”

Following the explanation, there’s always at least one other kid who says that they saw or heard it, too, adding to the tension and pleasure of the adventure.

During the day, everybody greets Dona Iara, fetching her cigarettes or word on the bootleg lotto winner. Dona Iara is too old to be walking down to the corner, so she always sends a kid. Sometimes, she lets them keep the change or gives them a coin. On bright, sunny days, Dona Iara really does look like a saint: oh-so-black, oh-so-old, with honey-colored eyes. At night, she’s transformed, by the smells, the wind, everything creaking with life.

“My dad says macumba’s like weed: the devil’s work! First syllable wouldn’t rhyme with ‘bad’ if it was good.”

“My mom says people who do macumba can do good things and bad things.”

“My uncle got possessed by the spirit and ended up killing Magnus, his own dog! My aunt says they done macumba to him.”

When Dona Iara built her shack on the riverbank, it was a nameless place with no aspirations of becoming a street. With time, houses began popping up. Back then, her husband was still alive, his name was Jorge, and he was a pai-de-santo. He was the one who started holding meetings in the backyard of their house. Nearly all the neighbors took part in the gira, even Catholics who went to Sunday mass. But, with the passing of years, the number of attendants fell as the number of churches in the area grew.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.