scoundrel, as if he were your equal, doesn’t strike us as seemly.
I thought this was meant to be a reception, Henry Hamilton protested, not an inquisition.
On the contrary, sir, began John Holt, but Henry Hamilton interrupted him. The missionaries are happy about the meeting, the consul said. They want me to convince the Chief to allow them to widen the scope of their operations in his domain.
Mary Kingsley laughed. Traders, not clergy, are the soul of the imperial enterprise, she said. I would be shocked if the distinguished consul didn’t know that already.
Henry Hamilton regarded Mary Kingsley. Her eyes were laughing at him. The consul went red in the face.
Remember, sir, she added, without commerce, there would be no Empire.
Berlin has long given us leave to have direct access to the hinterland, Mr Holt said. But Chief Koko is a greedy middleman. Removing him won’t be achieved by holding picnics on the beach with him.
John Holt’s fellow merchants nodded. Henry Hamilton sighed.
Mr Holt dragged another puff from his pipe. Koko has to go, he said. That is our collective resolution.
Henry Hamilton scowled at the gathering. The merchants glared back. Mary Kingsley’s eyes were still mocking Henry Hamilton. The consul felt even more like a fool.
Are you in agreement with us on that? John Holt asked.
Henry Hamilton nodded.
The palaver was cut. Neither heaven nor earth can do anything now to change Chief Koko’s fate, John Holt would later tell his warehouse manager. The merchants smoked on in silence and contentment. Mary Kingsley began talking about her ascent up Mount Cameroon and the iciness of the winds that whip around its highest reaches.
Two Fragments of Love
Eileen Almeida Barbosa
I. Graffiti
We met on a school bench. Saladine and Salazar. I was the serious and studious one, you were the artist. You were always drawing – book covers, tabletops, toilet walls: all these were your canvases.
I don’t know what came first: becoming your muse, your biggest fan or falling in love with you. Or did it all happen at the same time?
You used to like drawing me from the front, even though I looked better in profile. You never cared much about your drawings once they were finished. They were beautiful. I kept all your sketches of me. And the others; any I could get my hands on.
I always wanted to be with you, though I never really knew why you stayed with me. I was never artistic. But no one loved you more! The years we had were wonderful. Intimate. Colourful. Supporting you was never a burden; it was a contribution to art. I saw myself as your patron, as well as your muse. And what a radiant muse I was.
Although you didn’t talk much, I always understood you perfectly, but not from your gestures or the expressions on your ever-reserved face. Simply from your drawings. In that sense, I always thought how transparent you were.
I know, I know, I know. There are no lies or inventions in what you draw. You never expressed a dark thought in your comic graffiti, or a bleak thought when you used bright colours. For a long time I’ve read you better than anyone. Better than your false friends or your true ones, your fellow artists, your critics, your parents.
That was how, when you drew bolder strokes, I discovered how happy you were, when your strokes seemed to tremble I felt you hesitate, when you used contrasting colours I knew you were comparing us and when your strokes wavered I sensed that you wanted to leave.
I wandered around the city, deciphering the drawings you spray-painted on public buildings, telegraph poles, crumbling walls, or wherever the police let you and the gangs don’t bother you.
I followed the trail of renegade, illegal artists, of non-transportable art all around Coimbra. Art for the street, your favourite place. I saw myself everywhere, but in the faded paint of someone drawn only in the past.
Now you draw new faces, eyes different to mine.
I could buy some tubs of paint and
I thought this was meant to be a reception, Henry Hamilton protested, not an inquisition.
On the contrary, sir, began John Holt, but Henry Hamilton interrupted him. The missionaries are happy about the meeting, the consul said. They want me to convince the Chief to allow them to widen the scope of their operations in his domain.
Mary Kingsley laughed. Traders, not clergy, are the soul of the imperial enterprise, she said. I would be shocked if the distinguished consul didn’t know that already.
Henry Hamilton regarded Mary Kingsley. Her eyes were laughing at him. The consul went red in the face.
Remember, sir, she added, without commerce, there would be no Empire.
Berlin has long given us leave to have direct access to the hinterland, Mr Holt said. But Chief Koko is a greedy middleman. Removing him won’t be achieved by holding picnics on the beach with him.
John Holt’s fellow merchants nodded. Henry Hamilton sighed.
Mr Holt dragged another puff from his pipe. Koko has to go, he said. That is our collective resolution.
Henry Hamilton scowled at the gathering. The merchants glared back. Mary Kingsley’s eyes were still mocking Henry Hamilton. The consul felt even more like a fool.
Are you in agreement with us on that? John Holt asked.
Henry Hamilton nodded.
The palaver was cut. Neither heaven nor earth can do anything now to change Chief Koko’s fate, John Holt would later tell his warehouse manager. The merchants smoked on in silence and contentment. Mary Kingsley began talking about her ascent up Mount Cameroon and the iciness of the winds that whip around its highest reaches.
Two Fragments of Love
Eileen Almeida Barbosa
I. Graffiti
We met on a school bench. Saladine and Salazar. I was the serious and studious one, you were the artist. You were always drawing – book covers, tabletops, toilet walls: all these were your canvases.
I don’t know what came first: becoming your muse, your biggest fan or falling in love with you. Or did it all happen at the same time?
You used to like drawing me from the front, even though I looked better in profile. You never cared much about your drawings once they were finished. They were beautiful. I kept all your sketches of me. And the others; any I could get my hands on.
I always wanted to be with you, though I never really knew why you stayed with me. I was never artistic. But no one loved you more! The years we had were wonderful. Intimate. Colourful. Supporting you was never a burden; it was a contribution to art. I saw myself as your patron, as well as your muse. And what a radiant muse I was.
Although you didn’t talk much, I always understood you perfectly, but not from your gestures or the expressions on your ever-reserved face. Simply from your drawings. In that sense, I always thought how transparent you were.
I know, I know, I know. There are no lies or inventions in what you draw. You never expressed a dark thought in your comic graffiti, or a bleak thought when you used bright colours. For a long time I’ve read you better than anyone. Better than your false friends or your true ones, your fellow artists, your critics, your parents.
That was how, when you drew bolder strokes, I discovered how happy you were, when your strokes seemed to tremble I felt you hesitate, when you used contrasting colours I knew you were comparing us and when your strokes wavered I sensed that you wanted to leave.
I wandered around the city, deciphering the drawings you spray-painted on public buildings, telegraph poles, crumbling walls, or wherever the police let you and the gangs don’t bother you.
I followed the trail of renegade, illegal artists, of non-transportable art all around Coimbra. Art for the street, your favourite place. I saw myself everywhere, but in the faded paint of someone drawn only in the past.
Now you draw new faces, eyes different to mine.
I could buy some tubs of paint and
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