Night of Kings, a text by Colin Miranda
In my childhood, if there was ever a time when my "nose for business" really woke up, it was on King's Night.
That January 5th was undoubtedly the most eagerly awaited moment in the calendar. It wasn't just for the tradition of going door-to-door through the villages wishing "Happy Holidays"; it was, above all, for the opportunity. While the other children saw it as folklore, I saw it as a real mission. The wish for happy holidays was genuine, of course, but it was driven by a greater goal: the money we would earn.
I had my elite team formed: me, my faithful squire and brother Edson, and our neighbor Mónica. Dressed to the nines, we looked like three magi ready to conquer the neighborhood and then extend our territory to other places. But my entrepreneurial instincts told me that in order to win well, we had to be different. While the competition was always singing the same classic "Nho San José", we innovated. We brought instruments - a harmonica or a small accordion - and a different repertoire. It was our way of ensuring that the reward would be greater.
Back then, the usual currency of exchange was to receive sweets or the famous "Mustura" (bread, cakes or cookies). There was money, but not that much. Except that our "company" had a strict policy: the priority was the precious metal, although we refused food as politely as possible (most of the time).
I remember, as if it were today, visiting the house of the late Nha Quina. A lady of immense friendliness who welcomed us with a smile and, at the end of the song, offered us a beautiful piece of Gufongo. That smell of corn and cinnamon... But we wanted coins! But her kindness and respect for her age prevented us from doing that in front of her. We accepted.
But as soon as she closed the door... (Mónica, my dear, forgive me for breaking our promise of secrecy): we took a few steps until she was out of sight and, in a gesture of pure mischief, Mónica came back and threw Gufongo over the gatepost. We ran out, laughing. We had no idea at the time, but today, I confess, I feel bitter regret. May God forgive our childish ingratitude.
The lesson, however, was not learned immediately.
We soon arrived at Professor Vavá's (now Pastor) house. After the serenade, he appeared with a slice of cake, with all the kindness in the world. This time, we were ruthless. We refused. He insisted, praising the cake. And we, with the nerve that only children have, unleashed the pious lie:
- "I'm sorry, but our mother told us to only accept money."
The man was embarrassed and had no choice but to go and find a coin to give us. Victory for our strategy!
The night went on in a frenzy, with each group trying to win as much as possible. The highlight was the parish residence. Father Mário was waiting at the window with his famous box of coins to give to everyone. There were always the "clever ones" who tried to turn around and sing twice, but Father had an eagle eye, noticed straight away and didn't let them pass.
When tiredness struck and our legs got heavy, we'd resort to the old trick: we'd abandon the fancy repertoire and go for the quick song "Daca, daca, minino di Jesus...". We'd sing and hold out our hands.
But the evening couldn't end without a scare. We arrived at the house of a lady who, in the legends of our childhood, was reputed to be a sorceress. Few had the courage to sing there, as they were afraid to accept what she gave.
We knocked. The delay in opening the door unnerved us. We then decided to utter the forbidden phrase: "Galinha txoca, baxo di cama...".
We had barely opened our mouths, and she opened the door! It was quite an embarrassment. We were shaking with fear. She scolded us (with good reason), but in the end she gave us our coin. We ran out of there like there was no tomorrow.
On arriving home, the final ritual: making the "profit" accounts. And it wasn't small, because as I said, our rule of preferably accepting cash paid off.
Today, times are different. Innocence has changed, the streets have changed. But now, we're the ones opening the door. We pass on the flag (and the "bag") to our children, hoping that they have as much fun as we do... but, if possible, that they don't throw away the neighbor's Gufongo!
