The Ballad of Swahililand

By Kethia Embelo

The gardens of Fort Jesus were drab and dull compared to the lush green of Lisbon’s convent nurseries I was accustomed to. The plants were frail and dry, constantly at war with the thick heat for the moisture in the air. The garden was an unformidable oppenent and instead relied on the rainwater that came once a fortnight. Leaving the nearly bare trees with parched leaves. Never had I thought of traveling to Swahili Land; however, General Gaspar de Coutinho e Mombasa had commissioned me to paint a portrait of the negro woman for his new Quinta. The portrait would be hung above his collection of trophies, which he returned home with. A few weeks prior, the General invited me to his new home. His parlor was grand, decorated with spoils from Swahililand. Masks carved smooth from wood. Copper figurines molded by hand. Elephant tusks and ivory jewelry. His crown jewel was a full set of the Sultan Muhammad Ibn Rashid’s teeth. His soldiers brought them to the General as a gift once they had secured all borders of the city-state. Fort Jesus was built soon after; above it flew the king’s flag, square and white, adorned with our royal shield.

Three soldiers escorted the first woman into the garden. Her hair was hidden, tucked into a white scarf. A green cloth was wrapped tightly around her chest, squeezing her large breasts together, and falling right above her ankles. As she walked towards the stool the soldiers placed in the middle of the garden, her nose flared, and her eyes darted around. When they landed on me, they contained a level of discontent I hadn’t thought possible from a woman’s gaze.

I became the subject of her observation. I was scrutinized, as was my paint and easel. Her eyebrows furrowed as she soilders forced her down into the chair. I explained that she was to keep the same expression and stay as still as possible while I worked. Her face remained firm as I spoke, yet a blankness made me doubt she understood me. Despite the soldiers relaying my orders in Swahili, she gave no reaction. Instead, she stood still as a statue, her shoulders rigid and unmoving.

Yet once my paintbrush dipped into the paint, she turned her back to me. I was mistaken; she understood me after all. Her back was decorated with ritual scarring. Simple shapes with little symmetry. All of the void space was filled with countless small dots. The designs resemble the small sketches I would scratch onto my legs as a child, yet she had cut them into her body.

Quietly, I pleaded for her to turn back to me. I had seen what happens to defiant negros in Lisbon. They were hung in the city center. Or set free into the rural areas so the farmers could hunt them like dogs. At worst, they were sold to another Nobel man. There was a market for defiant negros. It seemed like with the African’s, the simple act of dropping a glass or forgetting to polish a spoon was enough justification for men to exert their most depraved fantasies.

Yet she refused to turn her body towards me, even as the soldiers began to yell commands. Even after they fired off two shots from their muskets, she remained turned towards the garrison. Eventually, the soldiers grew tired and began to drag her away. I watched as they roughly took hold of both of her arms, throwing her onto the ground. As they threatened her, I saw not one expression pass over her face. The only movement was her eyebrows furrowing and her nose flaring.

Minutes later, the three soldiers returned. In tow was another woman, smaller and frailer. She walked quickly through the garden with her eyes glued to the floor. As the soldiers repeated the instructions, her body shook, moving back and forth like a baby’s rattle. I was not sure if she was a woman or a child. When she raised her eyes to me, her expression was stricken with sadness, her eyes shimmered with tears and fear.

What had happened to the woman of Swahililand? How could I convince the General that this fearful child represented his success in Swahililand? She would make a better house girl than a portrait. Whenever the nobility visited his house, they would be able to see in her eyes the fears that possessed every negro throughout the dark continent.

By nightfall, I had finished painting her face; tomorrow, we would continue again. However, as the soldiers gathered to observe my work, their faces grew disgusted. I looked back at the painting with horror. There was no woman on the canvas; on the contrary, there was a monstrosity. I had painted an animal trapped in a cage. A dog, with a chain wrapped around its neck. I ordered the soldiers to destroy the painting; they would bring me another woman tomorrow.

Their disgust confused me. Daily, the women of Swahililand were beaten, raped, and ordered around at the hands of these soldiers. I am a painter, not a politician, philosopher, or general. My eyes cannot see through flesh paralyzed by fear. My paintings are revered across Europe, yet a negro stumps me more than Delacroix's work. The General has requested an impossible task. It would’ve been simpler if he had removed his rib and placed it in front of me on the stool. I could then see the beginnings of man; here I am, a painter. Playing god.

The next morning, I sat back in the gardens of Fort Jesus, faced against my canvas. A third woman entered the garden alone. She walked gracefully, wearing a light blue silk dress that flowed in cascading waves. Once she sat on the stool, she placed both hands on her lap.

“Good Day, Sir, Fatuma binti Ali.”

The smooth Portuguese that flowed from her lips surprised me. She spoke with an accent; the words came roughly and abruptly from her lips. It was obvious she was accustomed to the quick and jagged sounds of the native language. I didn’t know of any negro women who spoke the mother tongue. The housewomen I came across in Lisbon spoke simply like children; they understood enough to take short commands from the other maids. But not much more, you could talk about them right in front of them, and they’d offer little reaction.

“Jean-Baptiste,” I replied.

“I hear I am the third woman you paint.”

“Yes, well, the portrait has been a difficult process. My first subject refused to face me.”

“Well, the soldiers pulled her from her house.”

“Where is she now?”

“Buried outside the gates.”

“Well, she is not the first woman to die for the sake of art.”

“Are many of your subjects in Lisbon obliged? Do all of the women you paint end up under fresh earth so soon after? I didn’t know the painter’s brush was enforced by the soldiers’ guns. But I suppose I know less about your country than you know of mine. Every day, your boats arrive, bringing your great thinkers and artists to learn more about us. Rarely does the inverse occur. We know little more than your guns and God.”

“You know our language.”

Fatuma blushes, “A gift bestowed upon me as a child from the first convent to enter Swahililand. I learned your language, your religion, and your civility. What happened to the second woman?”

“She was quite fearful. I could not find her in the painting.”

“They pulled her from the kitchen; the liberties your soldiers take with the kitchen girls make them fearful. Is fear a subject you dignified men dislike?”

“I don’t want to give my patron a fearful painting.”

“What would you like your patron to see when he looks at the painting?”

“Triumph.”

“Well, there is not much humanity in Triumph.”

“There is emotion.”

“Does a painter paint the emotions of his viewer, or of his subject?”

“So what emotions do you women have? I see one who is willing to die fruitlessly, and one too scared to live.”

“And me?”

“You’re too curious for your own good.”

“Defiance, Fear, and Curiosity, have these emotions already surpassed the Franks?”

“No, these are the emotions of man; I doubt we will ever overcome them.”

“Then why do men like you struggle to see them in us? You have painted the defiant eyes of a man. The fearful ones of a bride. The curious gaze of a child. Perhaps the emotions of animals are too difficult to decipher.”

I paused as I went to reply to the woman. She was a kind negro and I didn’t aim to offend her.

“You are not an animal, you’re a woman.”

“Then paint me like one.”