The Missãu de Santa Maria de Mocodoene ended with Grade 4. Padré Freitas told me to apply at the Escola de Habilitação de Professores Indigenas (Indigenous Teachers’ Habilitation Training School). It was at that school that I met Dr. Maia, a very kind white man. He was the Director and teacher at that school. Dr. Maia gave me much encouragement to study so that I could help my country to fight colonialism. He told me that I had a great capacity to succeed and he never wanted me to waste my time at Escola de Habilitação de Professores Indigenas.
I did well in that school, and applied to further my studies at Magude Catholic Junior Seminary. Dr. Maia promised that I would be admitted to the Seminary on the basis of my performance, and the recommendation he was going to send. My performance was so good that I was easily accepted at the Magude Catholic Junior Seminary. Dr. Maia was so happy that he wished me the best, and gave me one of his beautiful shirts. He warned me to stay out of trouble. My brothers and sister were very happy that I had been admitted to a new college without any problems. My brother bought me a small bag, which I used for my clothes.
The journey to Magude was very long, though I was travelling by bus this time. I arrived at the college late afternoon. I was not the only one. Many boys and girls had just arrived and were registering their names at reception. I just followed the queue. When my turn came to enter the reception office, a black lady assisted me for the first time in my life. She wrote down my name and provided me with a key and room number. I had to share a room with another boy. He spoke another language quite similar to my own. He spoke Shangaan, and his name was Augusto José Senepe.
My new friend and I spent the whole night talking about our previous schools and teachers. That’s when I discovered what language he was speaking. He was from the province we were in, Gaza. Our conversation became tense when I asked him about Lorenzo Marques. He had been in Lorenzo Marques for a while. ‘My friend, Lorenzo Marques is not a joke, that’s where my father works.’ He said with frown on his face. ‘My father works for a Portuguese man. That Portuguese
man treats him like a donkey. He is kicked, slapped and sometimes sent to the shop like a child. The salary he earns is much too little in comparison to the tasks that he performs .’
I was listening. Hearing him speak, I wanted to cry, but I had to listen carefully. My friend told me about the suffering of the black people in that part of Mozambique. What he was telling me was not strange. I knew that some Portuguese people were cruel, and others not , but listening to what my friend had to say made me hate the entire Portuguese Nation. I wished they would leave our country. I knew very well that they didn’t originate from here. Before he died, my father had told me that they were from a country called Portugal.
I fell asleep before my friend could finish his story. The next day we were given the rules and ethos of the Catholic Seminary. I was going to enroll for a Junior Course. I liked the school. All the white people were very friendly . It was a contradiction to what I had heard about them before. We attended assembly before starting our lessons. That’s where I began learning the Lord’s Prayer’ in Portuguese. After praying, we were given instructions for the day.
On the Saturday of the first week, we were told to attend a church service in Lorenzo Marques, once every month. That was the first week we were going to go to Lorenzo Marques. I was happy, very happy. I was selected to be in the school choir that was supposed to sing in the church. We started rehearsal for the Sunday.
On Sunday morning, we woke up very early. We prepared ourselves, and journeyed by bus to the city I considered to be the city of slavery. I wanted to see that city. I wanted to witness what my friend had told me . The journey was long as usual, but we were assured that we would arrive on time.
As we approached Lorenzo Marques, the children in the bus were so happy. I was quiet, longing to see the city. At last, there it was, some kilometers away. There were tall buildings and they were very beautiful. As we approached, I saw many cars. White people drove most of the cars. I realized that I was in another world.
I wished my brothers and sister were there to witness what I was seeing. We entered the city and drove to our church, but my heart was not there. My heart was with the city itself. It was beautiful, yet it belonged to the foreigners. The church service had just started. We went in and our choir was called to sing.
We sang, and after the service, we ate the food we had brought along from the
seminary school. After we had finished, we began our journey back to the college. It was evening when we left, and the whole city was lit up. It was beautiful. I wished I could stay in some of the houses and flats I saw. We arrived at the seminary, very late. I couldn’t keep quiet about what I had seen. I spent time questioning my friend, who was a bit more familiar with the city than I.
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