“FILHOS DA PÁTRIA” [SONS OF THE MOTHERLAND], BY JOÃO MELO:

WRITING THE NATION WITHOUT BEING NATIONALIST

Ana Paula Teixeira Porto*

Angola was the last African colony to break free from Portugal on November 11, 1975, when Agostinho Neto proclaimed independence—the culmination of a social and historical process that has always been accompanied by the nation’s literature. To this day, one can discern—in both Angolan poetry and prose—the image of a post-colonial country that, in social, cultural, and economic terms, has yet to overcome the problems that plagued it while it was still a Portuguese colony, such as a lack of development and the failure to surmount violence, corruption, and social inequality. As Ana Maria Diniz observes, post-1975 Angolan literature can be characterized “as a site of denunciation, of rejection of the colonial system, and, above all, as a space that suggests the affirmation of a national identity.”

The dialogue that Angolan literature produced after the country’s independence establishes with historical and social constraints is clearly evident in *Filhos da Pátria* [Sons of the Motherland] by João Melo. This relationship is not merely thematic; the compositional form, structure, and language employed by the author—in short, the aesthetics—shape and reinforce the depiction of the violence inflicted upon marginalized individuals within the space of Angola as a degraded country. According to Diniz, this second collection of short stories by João Melo (who is also one of the country’s most renowned post-independence poets) “unveils identities hidden in the shadows of the discourse of a country seeking to assert itself as a free nation.” Its central theme, she adds, is “the representation of the specific characteristics of the children of the Angolan territory and the complex events that envelop them following the establishment of the nation-state.” This observation is corroborated by Rosângela Mantolvani, who states that the work “deals with the representation of the unique children of the Angolan territory and their complex destinies—following the implementation of the post-independence capitalist system—shaped by political-economic circumstances.”

The book brings together ten short stories that generally examine a specific Angolan reality defined by social marginalization in the post-independence era, as most of the characters in these narratives exist on the fringes of society. Through the narrator’s inquiries, critical commentary, and an ironic tone—conveyed via free indirect discourse that often mirrors the narrator’s stream of consciousness—the stories in *Filhos da Pátria* offer a unique portrayal of the violence, inequality, poverty, and corruption to which the characters are subjected. They highlight the marginalization and social exclusion of individuals, narrated by voices that remain unidentified yet questioning and keenly aware of a deteriorating context, even though the country is no longer a Portuguese colony.

Indeed, the narrators openly acknowledge this hostile environment, inviting the reader to reflect on issues such as crime, violence, abortion, and humiliation, while questioning the very context they describe. A prime example of this perspective is the narrator of the book’s opening story, “Elevador” (Elevator), who begins by posing a question that prompts the reader to consider what lies ahead: “How far does the human capacity for humiliation extend? Is it as vast as the capacity for adaptation?” Answers to these and similar questions emerge throughout the reading, forming a critical reflection on Angolan people and the country they inhabit.

I will focus specifically on two of the stories included in this book by João Melo: “Tio, mi dá só cem” (Uncle, Just Give Me a Hundred) and “O feto” (The Fetus).

The first-person narrative of the short story “Tio, mi dá só cem” (“Uncle, give me just a hundred”) is constructed as a single paragraph consisting of a single sentence—despite the story spanning nine pages—and is defined by the continuous speech of the narrator. He is a young man who is “displaced”—as he himself puts it—having fled the “bush,” where he “wasn’t eating,” leaving behind sisters who “dragged themselves along the ground, covered in snot, flies, and tears; it was hunger.” Leaving the countryside, the young man traveled to Luanda, where he finds himself in a peculiar situation: he begs a man for food—having gone two days without eating—and lives as a “refugee,” “tattered” and “in rags,” searching for sustenance “every night in the dumpsters,” where he finds “good things—chicken bones, as well as recyclable strips.” The story’s opening pages immediately highlight the subject’s marginalization; having fled the countryside—where he suffered from hunger—for the Angolan capital, he experiences a continuation of his suffering, living with painful memories of a past defined by exclusion.

The young man recounts his life story, revealing that he killed a foreigner who refused to give him the money he had asked for and, furthermore, resisted the order to stay inside his car. When the man failed to heed the young narrator’s pleas, the latter opened fire, killing him. The narrator-character remarks: “He’s the one who asked to die; who told him to resist? I just wanted a hundred to buy a loaf of bread.” After acknowledging that he had taken the man’s life and witnessing the grief of a girl who had been with him, the narrator is moved; he states, “I hugged her tightly, and my own tears began to trickle slowly from my eyes,” and—recognizing his own vulnerability—he adds, “What she didn’t know was that I was even more fragile than she was.”

The recollection of the criminal act he committed is accompanied by memories of his parents’ murder—events that, according to the narrator, drove him to flee to the Angolan capital. At various points in the story, he recalls his father’s disappearance, the sexual violence his mother endured, and the manner of her death: “he went off to the fields so long ago, I don’t remember him anymore; I only really remember my mother—they fucked her, shoved a bayonet up her cunt, and then, on top of that, burned her.” This narrative sequence highlights a cycle of violence the character witnessed even before arriving in Luanda.

Memories of the violence his mother suffered may well serve—in his own mind—not only as a motive for killing the man who refused to give him a tip but also, in a sudden surge of tenderness, for having sex with the young woman accompanying the man he murdered. Thus, he says: “We went to the beach; I took off her clothes, fucked her, fucked her, fucked her—it felt like I wasn’t just fucking her, but taking revenge on the world; she said nothing, crying and laughing.”

It is important to note that the depiction of the narrator’s past and present is constructed through a fragmented discourse. This style blends scenes—the request for money, the murder of the man, and the sexual encounter with the girl—merging the present moment with memories of a still-recent past marked by pain and familial suffering. The narrator’s discourse lacks organization, shifting from one scene to another without orienting the reader and intermingling the characters’ voices; this discursive disarray—an aesthetic device employed by João Melo—serves to underscore the chaos of the protagonist’s life. The seemingly disjointed connection between the narrated events appears to aesthetically underscore the disorder and chaos of the subject’s life, as well as a marginalization that transcends the differences between the social and economic contexts he inhabits—and has inhabited—within the same country. From this perspective, the balance sheet of the narrator-character’s life is negative: devoid of achievements, family, or a home, and without ever having become anyone of consequence.

He is aware of his condition, viewing himself as someone lost in life—stating, “my own life is completely fucked”—and regarding himself as “an animal, man, a wretched animal.” Furthermore, the use of colloquialisms and expressions specific to the Angolan context—distinct from standard Portuguese—brings the text closer to a non-dominant reality, reflecting the marginalized condition in which the character finds himself. The short story’s narrative style thus seems to accept this state of wretchedness.

The short story “O feto” (“The Fetus”)—also a first-person narrative—begins with the narrator-character stating that the fetus found in the trash was hers; she neither wanted it nor knew who the father was, as she was a “whore” who “fucked” everyone—”whites, blacks, mulattos, and Filipinos too.” Through a continuous stream of speech—with sentences that evoke a sense of suffocation—João Melo’s story lays bare one of the most painful aspects of Angola’s colonization: the violence inflicted upon women. Marginalized and with little means to resist an oppressive, male-dominated, and violent system, women fell victim to male sexual rage and were driven to prostitution as a survival strategy—a trajectory illustrated by the plot of “O feto.” According to the narrator-character, this mode of survival was imposed upon her by her mother when she was just thirteen, as it was the only way for both of them to avoid death.

The character—an unnamed woman—recounts in detail the suffering that followed her first sexual encounter, as well as her longing to escape that situation and lead a different life. This suffering is intensified by the repeated recounting of these events, as if the character felt a compulsion to externalize the indignity of her existence. This suffering and the rejection of her own existence are the motivations for the abortion, as the girl does not want another individual to lead a life as wretched, painful, and unhappy as her own, preferring death to giving birth to a child who might repeat her fate.

The desire to break free from sexual violence—imposed nightly for the family’s survival—and to see an end to hunger drives the character to continually voice her pain, marking her as a marginalized subject with nowhere to turn, as no one can alter her fate. Since she is unable to change her own history, the narrative form itself mirrors this harrowing tale: the voice is lent directly to the oppressed—unmediated, violent, and frenetic—reflecting how violence underpins the formation of her “structure of feeling.” The narrative explicitly recounts the painful struggle for survival faced by families devastated by hunger and a lack of life alternatives, set against a backdrop of labor exploitation—including sexual exploitation—targeting women and children in Angola, even after the country had gained its independence.

The short story’s plot also serves as a reflection on the social violence inflicted upon Angolan women. The events recounted by the character allude to the intensity of this social violence, reducing women—and even children—to the status of objects or commodities; indeed, prostitution—the sale of bodies, whether forced or voluntary—stands perhaps as the greatest form of social violence committed against women. This violence is exacerbated by its utter normalization; furthermore, the professionalization of prostitution—which finds proponents even among feminists—frames the total appropriation and commodification of women as “work,” supposedly as legitimate and dignified as any other occupation.

Merely classifying it as “work” elevates the purchase of women—whether fleeting or permanent, as in the case of girls who are abducted, raped, and forced into prostitution—to the level of a market transaction, a matter of monetary justification and integration into the mechanisms of social production and reproduction. The social violence inflicted upon the protagonist represents a painful facet of the post-independence Angolan context, where—it can be argued—transforming prostitution into a profession effectively legitimizes the violence inherent in the material and symbolic appropriation of women’s bodies. Hence the naturalness with which men come to avail themselves of female sex work, and the absence of actions to alter the situation, as the narrator denounces.

The two short stories analyzed here bring together images of pain, violence, and social exclusion in an Angolan setting defined by marginalization and a lack of avenues for upward mobility. These narratives depict the post-independence era, implicitly critiquing the outcome of the struggle for national liberation; the freedom won failed to deliver the long-sought progress to the formerly colonized population, leaving the country—and the young protagonists of “O feto” and “Tio, mi dá só cem”—on the margins of society.

The daily violence to which these independent yet marginalized Angolans are subjected is both physical and symbolic. The characters are at the mercy of an oppressive reality, revealing how the barbarism of pain, hunger, violence, prejudice, and inequality leaves a deep mark on these dispossessed Angolans. In both stories, the protagonists’ lives are shattered by war and hunger; violence serves as the foundation of their emotional makeup while also acting as the means by which they interact with the degrading environment of Luanda following their migration from the countryside to the city. The violence they endured at the hands of armed groups in rural areas transforms into the urban violence they face in the city.

In the two short stories—“Tio, mi dá só cem” and “O feto”—there is a first-person narrator, a repressed individual who, speaking ceaselessly, tells his story directly through a frenzied and violent discourse. Their life stories contain no idealizations, only the violence, pain, and oppression that characterize a post-colonial context marked by the ongoing erosion of the Angolan subject’s integrity—a subject who, despite the years that have passed since the struggle for the country’s emancipation, has failed to overcome old problems. Accustomed to chaos, violence, and pain, João Melo’s narrator-characters regurgitate their lives much like someone vomiting up the scraps and leftovers of their wretched existences.

In discussing post-colonial Angolan writing, Inocência Mata identifies a “shift toward the writing of History”—that is, a movement in which literature turns to a non-nationalist, non-utopian representation of the context, prioritizing the margins: a “literature that, for reasons external to the text, continues the writing of the nation, albeit no longer from a nationalist perspective.” João Melo’s *Filhos da Pátria* bears out this observation, as it sets out to depict and interrogate the ills and complexities of life within the contemporary Angolan community.

* Postdoctoral researcher in Literature. Professor in the Master’s and Doctoral Program in Education at the Regional Integrated University of Alto Uruguai and Missões (URI), Brazil. Researcher and author of academic texts on Portuguese-language literatures, reader development, and educational reading practices.