When we arrived in Maputo in the summer of 2004, the city greeted us with humid heat and the bittersweet scent of blooming acacias. It was a day of farewells, of discreet ceremonies for the relatives of coworkers who had passed away due to an “unknown cause.” That was how they referred to AIDS, a silent specter haunting homes and streets, a shadow no one dared to name.
Our house, a colonial-style townhouse on the corner of a jacaranda-lined street, bore an optimistic name: “Vila da Alegria.” Portuguese tiles adorned the entrance, mahogany doors stood tall, and the furniture was simple but welcoming. It was there that we met Vasco, our cook. A Mozambican of the Shangana ethnicity, thin in a way that was almost comical, with a loud and sincere laugh. On the first day, we set schedules, tasks, and days off. Everything seemed settled when he hesitated and then made one final request:
“I have AIDS. My colleagues do too. We need a day off to pick up medication at the clinic. Do you agree?”
We shook his hand. The contract was sealed.
Vasco became an unexpected presence in our routine. We noticed he often lingered while cleaning the furniture near the door to our room. Frequently, he appeared with trays of South African biscuits, Brazilian coffee, and on Saturdays, a glass of wine. He would sit nearby, as if wanting to share something but unsure where to begin. One day, we asked why he spent so much time near our room.
“I like the music the boss plays… Brazilian songs talk about love, about dreams.”
And he confessed: his favorite was Outra Vez, by Roberto Carlos.
You were! The greatest of my mistakes/The strangest story/That someone has ever written/And it’s because of these and others/That my longing/Makes me remember/Everything once again…
“And the mistake, Vasco?” – we asked. He smiled slightly, without answering. It was clinic day, time to get his medication.
The ritual continued for three months. At the end of each day, he would light a cigarette, pour me some wine, and ask, “Boss, play Outra Vez.” When the day of our farewell came, we remained silent for a long time. Finally, Vasco spoke, with the hoarse voice of a lifelong smoker and the weariness of a man who knew time was running short:
“My ex-wife died young. Your ex is alive. You are too… Don’t complain about life, boss. The sky is bluer in Brazil.”
And so we parted, without promises.
That year, HIV had already infected more than 1.4 million Mozambicans. The tragedy went beyond numbers; it was made up of daily, cruel choices. Overburdened doctors had to decide who had the conditions to follow the treatment and who would not survive. Like a brutal and everyday “Sophie’s Choice.” But Vasco endured.
His mistake? Unknown cause.
Palmarí H. de Lucena, Maputo 2004