Mafalala - Where they dance
Mafalala - Where they dance
For this edition of The Bright Continent I spent time in Mafalala, an infamous suburb in Maputo (the capital of Mozambique) that can best be described as the canary in the coal mine of climate change.
While maneuvering through the morning traffic of Maputo, my driver asked me for the umpteenth time if I was sure about my destination. The capital of Mozambique was waking up and smelled of fresh fruit, complemented by burnt rubber and a salty sea breeze. The splendor, grandeur, and faded colors of colonial fringes caught my eye. Along with a handful of monuments and the melancholy of crumbled ruins, they were silent but tangible reminders of a lost world. The Marxism of former times was casted in the concrete of gray apartment buildings. I was staying in one of those bombastic structures that lacked flair. Except for Mafalala, the suburb where we were headed, Maputo was a barred city. The smallest windows and largest balconies were captured by thick bars, front doors were hidden behind tall fences. It made me feel trapped.
While we approached the suburb, the tuk-tuk (a three-wheeled moped) of my driver tilted forty-five degrees to the left. We drove on a road that also served as a drain to carry away rainwater, while we were enclosed by iron ovens, small corrugated iron houses in which the residents of Mafalala spent their days. I assumed they are grilled by the stifling heat every day. Fences, roofs, and walls, the undulating zinc turned the slum into a metal maze that eagerly absorbed every ray of sunlight. It was brooding around the clock here, humidity gnawed at your spirit and reverberated in your head. The driver dropped me off at the edge of the neighborhood and dashed away. Dozens of eyes turned in my direction, surprised by my presence in the infamous slums of Maputo.
Ka Mafalala means something like 'where they dance' in local dialect. And dancing is what the residents did. Not necessarily stylish or smooth, but with rhythm, joy and carefree.
Between two rusty goalposts, football players plowed through the sandy soil with a ball at their feet. Goals were welcomed with loud cheers from the sidelines, where dozens of spectators conveyed their tactics to the players with big hand gestures. In the shade of a canopy, a girl grimaced while seated on a chair, as two friends braided her hair in a tight pattern. It was a craft and social affair combined, an craft that African women seemed to have a patent on. Street vendors trudged through the streets with a long wooden plank over their shoulder, filled with jars of nail polish in every color. Maputo appeared to be the Mecca of manicures, where people can get a fresh coat of polish on their nails on every street corner.
Centrally located in Mafalala, an ochre and brown building towered above the shanties. It was a neighborhood museum and one of the few concrete structures in the area. Benny was waiting for me. Sweat poured from his bald head, dripped through his beard, and formed dark stains on his wool sweater. He was born and raised in Mafalala and had no intention to ever leave. This suburb had shaped him, molded him into the articulate wheeler-dealer he was today. He made sure he always had several irons in the fire. Besides organizing informal tours like today, he was an English teacher and had some dubious deals going on in the background.
The ochre museum wore multiple hats as well. It served as a community center, a guesthouse, childcare facility, and exhibited the work of local artists. It was the pride of the neighborhood, mainly because of the rich history displayed in the small gallery. The space wasn’t much larger than a classroom, adorned with countless photos and newspaper clippings that had absorbed the moist air over the years. A few cats and a dog slept in the shades among old instruments displayed on the ground. Proudly, Benny started in a corner that was set up like an altar for Eusébio. 'The Pearl of Mozambique' was often ranked in an illustrious lineup with football players like Cruyff, Pelé, and Maradonna. Incorporated by the Portuguese but born and raised in Mafalala, Eusébio was one of the flagships of the worn-out neighborhood, where he first laced up his football boots on a field like the one next to the museum. Inspired by the Mozambican football greatness, numerous neighborhood children still pursued their dream of becoming football professionals someday.
In the opposite corner, surrounded by cheerful images of musicians – Mafalala Blues was a thing, Benny assured me – hang two other giants of Mozambique. Less skillful with a ball, but all the more with a pen and piece of paper. One of them was Noémia de Sousa. Her somber portrait was printed on a crumpled sheet of paper pinned to the wall with a single thumbtack. She was called the mother of Mozambican poetry and intertwined her work with political activism. She stood at the cradle of Moçambicanidade, a literary movement of resistance that fought the European influences and focused on Mozambican culture and traditions instead. 'If you read de Sousa, you read Mozambique,' one of the newspaper clippings stated. She was briefly detained by the colonial regime, but her poetry was never tamed by the Portuguese.
Fraternally pinned next to her, hanged an equally crumpled image of José Craveirinha, on which he leaned his chin on two fingers and stared thoughtfully into space. Raised in Mafalala, he, like de Sousa, united the worlds of poetry and resistance. Craveirinha also espoused an African mindset as a poet that did not garner support from the Portuguese. He envisioned an Africa governed by Africans and expressed that wish in poems like Grito Negro (Black Cry), in which he blended a fiery protest against colonialism with rhythmic African sounds.
Less poetically or athletically, Benny fervently spoke about the three greats. He was proud of his neighborhood, which he named 'the land of legends'. According to him, Mafalala was instrumental in several upheavals in Mozambican history, including the struggle for independence. It is one of the oldest neighborhoods in Maputo, founded by the local population during colonial rule.
Led by the Portuguese explorer Vasco de Gama, the first trading posts were established in Mozambique by the end of the fifteenth century, after which the Portuguese incorporated the country into their territory at the start of the twentieth century. The colonizers who then settled in the center of present-day Maputo drove out the actual residents from the centrally located neighborhoods, where they were only allowed in by invitation of the white occupiers. According to Benny, that period was shaped by an apartheid similar to what we saw in recent history of South Africa. The Mozambicans were forced to seek their fortune elsewhere, far outside the city. However, as there was a lack of employment opportunities at the countryside, they decided to settle on marshy land instead, where the quirky Mafalala was born. In the years that followed, the Portuguese underestimated the creativity, critical thinking, and progressiveness that clustered in Mafalala and eventually heralded the independence of Mozambique.
By now, the sweat dripped fiercely from Benny’s head. His woolen sweater was a shade darker and a few pounds heavier due to excessive moisture loss. We ventured into the neighborhood, traversed the daily heatwave and a maze of souls, walked through narrow corrugated iron tunnels, passed rickety porches, and jumped over muddy trenches that carried away filth like an open sewer. The smell was unbearable, the amount of garbage indigestible. As we descended further into the labyrinth of Mafalala, I losed my sense of direction. The slope became steeper. We approached the lowest point of the neighborhood, the lower-lying arena where all of Maputo looked down upon.
It was a part of the neighborhood where you didn’t want to stay longer than strictly necessary, especially now rainy season was approaching. Located in one of the lowest parts of the capital, the groundwater level was high. During periods of tropical downpour this part of the neighborhood was flooded with water and mud. The corrugated iron fences, corroded by moisture and human waste, indicated that the muck sometimes reached knee height here. It turned Mafalala into the drain of the Mozambican capital, where cholera played leapfrog and the filth of Maputo's elite floated through the living rooms of the poorest. The consequences of climate change were imminent here.
Despite its rich history and the important role it played in the struggle for independence, Benny explained that politicians hardly showed their faces in Mafalala these days. 'Men in three-piece suits or women in heels don't visit our neighborhood, unless there are elections coming up and votes to be won.' During those rare visits, politicians have big plans for the neighborhood, promising to pull it out of the doldrums in record time in an attempt to give Mafalala a central place in Maputo. 'All lies,' Benny assured me with a cautious grin on his face.
What worried him way more was climate change which results in a rising sea level and an intensification of the cyclones that hit the Mozambican shores each year. In that sense, the residents of the lower-lying parts of Mafalala are like the canaries in the coal mine of climate change these days. 'The consequences of climate change have been felt here for a long time. Mozambique is at the forefront of the world’s struggle with climate change, and in Mafalala we are the forefront of Mozambique’s battle. But so far, no one seems to care.'
The contrast between Mozambique and my home country is staggering. In the Netherlands, we emit way more carbon per capita than Mozambicans do, yet the consequences of climate change are - in a sense - still manageable. Mozambique on the other hand, is part of a select group of twenty countries emitting the least, while it is also among the twenty countries most vulnerable to climate change. This skewed balance applies to large parts of Africa. The continent accounts for a few measly percentages of global carbon emissions - only four percent of the world's emissions on an annual basis - but experiences the most severe consequences. Climate migration, climate conflicts, and climate poverty aren’t just bleak future scenarios but a harsh reality. In countries like Ghana and Liberia, I had already witnessed how the rising sea levels nibbled at the coast, while South Sudanese and Malian friends expressed growing concerns about the encroaching Sahara. Rightfully so, many young Africans are demanding compensation from major polluters for the ‘loss and damage’ they suffer.
We ended the day in Benny's courtyard, a postage stamp he shared with two other families. On the sidewalk, an artist sculpted busts of Nelson Mandela and other African leaders. He got the clay from the flooded, marshy ground in the neighborhood, which gave his art a certain level of climate urgency. Two nephews who lived with Benny at that time, had pushed aside the curtain that served as a front door and listened quietly from the darkness. Benny pointed to a makeshift opening in the corrugated iron fence. The families dug the rabbit hole after the latest cloudburst, hoping that the rainwater would drain better in the future. But if no significant measures are taken, Mafalala will disappear in the waves of the Indian Ocean like a Mozambican Atlantis, Benny emphasized. He couldn’t bear to think about the rich culture and history that would be lost. 'Without Mafalala, Maputo loses its soul.'
That’s all for now folks. I hope you’ll stick around and it would be greatly appreciated if you tell people (to tell people) about this publication. Do feel free to drop me a line in case of any questions or suggestions and don’t forget to have a look at the amazing work of the African creatives I work with here.
Daaf - Curator and founder of The Bright Continent
Great story! Youy should really put a few of these stories of Africa together in a book and publish them with some of those beautiful pictures you post in insta! Keep writing :)