Samba-Favela
Conceição Evaristo is one of the names to remember in Brazilian literature. This prolific writer’s earliest published work, Samba-Favela, is a short story about Pindura Saia — the now-desmantled favela where she grew up in Belo Horizonte, Minas Gerais. Nonetheless, this translated story is sure to give you insights into life in favelas, before their image was tarnished by movies and criminal organizations, and perhaps a few revelations about a Brazil too often forgotten:
The houses are mounted side by side. Houses no, shacks. Made of wooden boards, cans and pieces of cardboard. Alleyways without exit, foul, filthy, putrid. But who lives here, is not animal. It’s people who dream, yearn, suffer, laugh and who, sometimes are happy.
In each of those shacks lives three, four, five or even more people; fathers, mothers, daughters, aunts, human communities that at first glance may appear monsters, but perhaps more humane than others.
In that house — yes for them it is a house, and home—, live the dad, the mom and their seven children. In fact there were nine: the oldest daughter got married, and another lives with her aunt. The father is a bricklayer, he constructs the most beautiful buildings, gives the maximum and lives on the minimum. The mother is everything, and a laundress as well. But it’s difficult; their house has no water, nor electricity, so she collects paper off the street. You, sometimes see her passing on the street and call her “dirty black”, “tramp”, etc. But no, that is her work. Look, it’s worth much more than washing clothes, because, while she collects paper off the street, she finds a portion of leftovers that you throw away, yet for her it is a lot. She finds what is left of meats, cloths, firewood, cans and even toys for her kids.
Ah, and you’d know about the world of dreams that is carried by a mother from the favela in relation to her children! … Everything exists in the favela, but what’s most present is poverty and samba.
There’s lots of samba!Samba of poverty, samba of sadness, samba of joy. Samba of the mother’s sadness who starts the day with nothing to give to the kids, of the mother who sees her daughter lose herself, prostitute herself. Sorrowful samba from the mother who had to open the door for the police, who beat and took away her son, because he is criminal, a marijuana-user. Sorrowful samba of the daughter who sees her mom switch between companions every night, of the young lady who sees the man who took her virginity gather his clothes to look for another girl in some other favela perhaps. Samba of revolt from the worker who labours, who struggles, who constructs that beautiful building in the center of the city, and when he arrives late, climbs wearily to his favela, his shack which, with rain arriving, could fall apart at any hour. Revolted samba of that young man who steals from others, and has been jailed many times. But there are criminals much worse than him. Yes many owners of factories and large businesses who slowly and covertly steal from the workers and common people through absurd and excessive profit, and whom no one punishes.
Samba of the boy’s revolt, who, upon completing elementary school, does not think to study more. Studying is for the rich and he is poor, poor and living in the favela. The laundress’s samba of revolt, that woman who worked her whole life and today has nothing.
Ah! It’s not worth being honest. Who’s honest doesn’t get/stay rich. If working was only honor, the donkey would have millions of medals.
Samba of hope that things improve, who knows, maybe next month comes the raise, maybe the city council will install another water faucet here?!So the water supply increases, we can wash more clothes and earn more.
Who knows, one day I could study, be a pilot, doctor or engineer?!
Who knows, will I even be president? Ah! If one day I would be president of the workers, of those living in favelas.
The samba of hope is more for the boys and girl, for the children; the children always see a way out. They always dream. Dream with the day in which, instead of being loaders at the fair, they will also be shopping; dream with the day they will be able to buy trucks full of apples.
Mmm! … Apples are so yummy! … But so expensive! …
They dream with the day that they will receive presents, as the rich children do at Christmas.
They dream!
Could it be that Santa doesn’t like children from the favela? One day I’m going to have a bike just like Roberto’s! But here it’s not possible, there’s no place for bicycles. I have to live in a house where there is pavement, a sidewalk.
Hopeful samba that one day… one day… When? … When? But there is also joyful samba, of joy, yes. After more than two years of unemployment, Antonio got hired in that construction project. After three consecutive years in Grade 1, studying the same book, Zezé passed into Grade 2, although it will be his 4th year in the school.
Boys from the favela are dumb, aren’t they?No, no they aren’t, but they are malnourished. “Hopefully lunch time comes! I’m hungry… Eta good little porridge…” Children in the favela are born to illiterate parents who don’t know how to read that note the teacher wrote, who don’t know how to sign their report cards, don’t know how to respond to the questions their children ask and if they do, are in doubt.
“Dad, how do you write fifty in Roman numerals?”
“I don’t know, Zé… I don’t know.”
“Mom, how do you spell the word pássaro”
She thinks for ten minutes and still responds in doubt. “Pássaro is written with two esses”. And she keeps thinking: “Did I teach that right? Is it written with two esses or a c?”Joyful samba, when the daughter married with veil and garland, a virgin. It is so difficult to marry a girl virgin in the favela, a girl with her virginity, even more so being the daughter of a single mom! Yet another single mother, oftentimes, with more morality than certain “madames of society”.
Samba of the boys’ happiness whom kick that ragged ball, but think they’re in the Mineirão and each one feels like a second Pelé.
There is Brazilian samba, but even more African samba, samba de morro, men drumming, singing, dancing; some don’t sing, just stagger around because they’re drunk.
Some drum on the counter, others on matchboxes, or with the palms of their own hands; they drum the music of their own lives, songs with nuances of sadness, revolt, hope — sometimes with a lot of hopefulness. Even though the hope sees no basis for hope to exist.
~ Published 6 February 1968.
