Ermelindo Mucanga - a man who fixes things, a carpenter - has been dead for years; pretty much the same number of years that Mozambique has been independent. The problem is he, like the pre-colonial and post-colonial past, has not been buried properly, for things must be honoured, unpicked and folded the right way. As a result, the dead man crossed over into death with fists clenched "summoning curses upon the living." However, he is about to have a second chance at life, at campaigning for respect for history, because the frangipani by which he was buried lies a few metres from a former colonial fort, São Nicolau, turned refuge-for-old-folk, where the director (Vastsome Excellency, a mulatto) has just been murdered. The police inspector coming to investigate, Izidine Naìta, is marked for death and Ermelindo's halakavuma, assures him that he can inhabit the man's body.
This is how Mia Couto sets the scene for what is a masterpiece of invention, allegory, satire and language (which naturally means that the translator, David Brookshaw, must be commended too). Under the Frangipani is the story of a travesty for which nobody and everybody is responsible - not unlike Marquez's
Chronicle of a Death Foretold, where everyone is responsible for not warning the murder victim. It is an exploration of the history of the independence struggle, the assault of modernity on the values of the past, the intricacies of a coup d'état plot and a paean to a country that is broken but still beautiful, because she "sleeps unclothed" to "absorb the secret energies of the earth."
In the end, Under the Frangipani is part-entertainment, part-social history - by choosing to allow a cast of characters with names like Little Miss No, Old Gaffer and Domingos Mourão to confess to the murder of Vastsome, Couto also gives them the platform to furnish us with their own little histories of Mozambique, thus enriching the plot with texture and heritage. As a bonus, Couto's style is poetic, disarmingly honest and succinct and he switches perspectives almost effortlessly. The result is a delightful read, and right to the last word it is never predictable. I rarely give five stars, but this book is a small treasure (only 150 pages) and so is Mia Couto.