The Myth of Colonial Coexistence: Manipulating Angolan-Portuguese Rivalries in Zeze Gamboa’s O Grande Kilapy (2012)

Katy Stewart – School of Languages and Cultures


Zézé Gamboa is at the forefront of contemporary Angolan film-making, but his feature films have received little academic attention, despite their political content and social aims. This is partly due to a lack of widespread distribution of Angolan cinema, as literature continues to receive more attention in postcolonial discourse. Yet Gamboa’s films provide an incisive, critical portrayal of the colonial rule, political rivalries, and internal corruption, which framed the birth of Angola as an independent nation in 2002. Gamboa’s most recent film, O Grande Kilapy (2012)[1] will be the focus of this article, with particular emphasis on the ways in which rivalries are presented within a colonial coexistence. This article will also demonstrate the shifting balances of power within the Angolan-Portuguese relationship and will explore how personal conflicts within the film are a microcosm of the national rivalry which led to the war of independence. A central theme of the film is the protagonist’s manipulation of international coexistence and personal rivalries. It will be argued that, through this theme, Gamboa makes a searing criticism of not only the Portuguese colonists, but also of the corrupt leadership which emerged in Angola following independence, both of which have shaped the tentative coexistence of political structures in Angola today. The arguments of key postcolonial theorists, particularly Frantz Fanon and Albert Memmi, will be outlined here to demonstrate how O Grande Kilapy represents the colonial relationship, and how the memories and ongoing impacts of such coexistences are navigated and negotiated within contemporary postcolonial societies.

Contextualising Angolan Cinema  

While Angolan cinema could not be described as homogenous, it is evident that the process of decolonisation and the subsequent civil war, which ravaged the country from 1975 until 2002, are ever-present themes in reflecting and negotiating Angolan identity. In the country’s literature and film, as Fernando Arenas points out, clear tropes are evident, such as the contrast between ‘utopian ideals’ and ‘the disastrous fate of the nation’.[2] Most Angolan films deal in one way or another with the civil war, confronting a complex national trauma. Audrey Small demonstrates the importance to society of portraying ‘a historically neglected or silenced trauma’, which is one of the purposes served by contemporary Angolan literature and cinema.[3] The effects of a civil war, which ended barely more than a decade ago, are still unfolding amongst the Angolan people; it is a recent trauma with a long history, and the social implications of the country’s cinema are complex. Some audiences are not ready to confront the trauma of civil war; director Teresa Prata reported there had been some negative reception of her film Terra Sonâmbula, an adaptation of Mia Couto’s Mozambican civil-war era novel: ‘many people asked why I would make a movie about such a horrible war, one that they want to forget’.[4] Post-civil war film in Lusophone Africa, therefore, walks a balancing act of social responsibility; it is tasked with providing testimony about the events that occurred, but also taking a sensitive approach in considering its audience, who may not be ready to confront trauma head-on. Anne Whitehead points out that trauma is ‘resistant to narrative structures’, made all the more complex when it is a national trauma affecting each individual differently.[5] Therefore, a somewhat nostalgic return to the colonial period, which forms another theme in Angolan cultural production, is not so surprising. Looking to a past before the civil war brings with it the themes of utopia and hope, which characterised sentiment in Angola prior to and at the birth of independence.

It is important to note that Angolan film is not just a reaction to trauma. The analysis of African Cinema in general tends to be situated within Third Cinema Theory, which, as Paul Willemen demonstrates, has a strong social manifesto and is intrinsically linked to a national space.[6] The collective takes precedence over the individual, and neo-realist techniques are favoured over authorial aesthetic approaches. Manthia Diawara points to a canon of Angolan films, made around the time of independence, which fulfil these criteria. However, he notes that the ‘constraints of social realism’ often reject the artistry and creativity of the filmmaker, noting that Sarah Maldoror’s 1973 film Sambizanga has been criticised for being ‘too beautiful’.[7] Gamboa’s films too, particularly O Grande Kilapy, have an emphasis on aesthetics and, significantly, a story centred on a sole protagonist. Limitations are therefore imposed on Angolan cinema if it is judged solely through the lens of Third Cinema Theory. Writing in Questions of Third Cinema, Teshome Gabriel points out that film can be aesthetically beautiful and represent a filmmaker’s vision as an artist, rather than just a ‘transmitter’, without necessarily making it less of a social or political film.[8] While Gamboa’s earlier film, O Herói deals directly with the aftermath of the civil war, O Grande Kilapy takes place at the end of the colonial period, set from 1960 to 1974. Some critics view it as a film steeped in nostalgia and far removed from Angolan trauma, with Renato Hermsdorff describing it as a film which ‘doesn’t offend, but neither does it surprise’, adding that ‘it doesn’t position itself as a political film’.[9] Yet there are deeply political aspects to O Grande Kilapy, which assert themselves through the negotiation of colonial coexistence, and the rivalries which emerge within it.

The Myth of Colonial Coexistence

In his seminal work on African decolonisation, The Wretched of the Earth, Frantz Fanon makes a prescient warning about the ‘vacuous bourgeoisie’ who will inherit leadership of the newly independent nations.[10] João Fraga, the protagonist of O Grande Kilapy, is the epitome of this fear; an Angolan student living the good life in Lisbon in the dying years of Portugal’s colonial rule. As a well-educated, wealthy member of the Angolan elite in Lisbon, João (commonly referred to as Joãozinho) is at the centre of the rivalry emerging between Portugal, the colonising power, and Angola, as independence movements take hold. Joãozinho does remain largely apolitical, interested in little apart from his own self-interests; as the central character, however, he serves to highlight and manipulate political tensions, which are often expressed through personal rivalries. As will be argued here, despite its sheen of nostalgia and surface-level portrayal of Lusophone coexistence, O Grande Kilapy is a critical commentary on the Portuguese domination in the colonial period, and the subsequent corruption of the Angolan elite following independence. By examining the power relationships between characters in the film, it will be proposed that Gamboa is asking his audience to confront the colonial past, which may raise questions as to whether Portugal and Angola have fully resolved their shared history and rivalries.

The first half of the film follows Joãozinho in Lisbon, where he is a student at a Casa do Imperio – a university boarding house solely for students from the African colonies. Set up under the Salazar regime (1932-1968), the Casas do Imperio were intended to keep the African assimilado students under Portuguese control, and to further indoctrinate them in Portuguese colonial ideals. The assimilados were Angolans who had assimilated into Portuguese culture, and therefore had access to Portuguese education. Marie-Françoise Bidault argues that the education of colonised subjects within the Portuguese education system ‘led to the loss of individual identity of the assimilados’.[11] However, in bringing together young, highly educated people dissatisfied with living under colonial rule in their home countries, these houses instead became the nuclei for revolutionary ideas. As João Tiago Sousa explains, Agostinho Neto, Eduardo Mondlane and Amílcar Cabral, who between them led the key independence movements across Lusophone Africa, all spent time in Lisbon’s Casas do Imperio, developing the intellectual impetus behind their future independence struggles.[12] The spectator’s expectations of Joãozinho are therefore subverted at the earliest opportunity: rather than engaging in the revolutionary struggle, like his friend Raul, he prefers to flash his cash, drink, and seduce women. It is this audacious character portrayal which perhaps led Hermsdorff to declare it a non-political film, but Gamboa in fact creates an atmosphere tense with political rivalry, magnified by the antithesis Joãozinho provides at the centre of it all.

One key scene which demonstrates the political nature of the film takes place at a party held in the social club of the Casa do Imperio. Soon after the revelry begins, PIDE (secret police) officers can be seen entering and hovering at the side-lines, waiting for any excuse to pounce. When a fight breaks out between two students, instigated by jealousy over a girlfriend, the PIDE seize their opportunity. In this single scene, Gamboa builds the tension of a fragile coexistence, and it is the personal love rivalry between the two students which sets into motion the far greater rivalry between the coloniser and those moving towards a fight for independence. This highlights the apparent Angolan-Portuguese coexistence as a forced relationship, bringing together coloniser and colonised in a deeply unequal space: the Angolans far outnumber the Portuguese, but the Portuguese are the dominating force. In The Colonizer and the Colonized, Albert Memmi depicts the inner struggles of both coloniser and colonised, struggles which can never be reconciled to achieve true coexistence. This leads, he says, to colonial society becoming paralysed: ‘The calcified colonial society is […] the consequence of two processes having opposite symptoms’.[13] Portuguese colonialism in the time period of this film was, of all the colonial systems, most obviously in a state of paralysis: by the early 1960s, most other African nations had gained independence, but as Bernd Reiter and Fernando Arenas suggest, so deeply-rooted in the Portuguese psyche was its identity as a colonial power that it was unable to start processes of decolonisation.[14] Without the colonised, Memmi demonstrates, the coloniser ceases to exist, and Portuguese identity was too heavily invested in this role for that to happen. The scene referred to above is a microcosm of the colonial situation in Angola at that time and a representation of the burgeoning rivalry between the oppressive Portuguese regime and young Angolan revolutionaries.

Having set up this situation, however, Gamboa uses his protagonist to question the concept of the colonised as merely an ‘oppressed creature’.[15] Joãozinho’s relationship with Carmo, the white daughter of a government minister, is what causes the PIDE to despise him and, to a certain extent, what also protects him. This relationship, on the surface, is an idealised example of Angolan-Portuguese coexistence, one free of racist or colonial overtones. This was a popular view, eagerly propagated by the Portuguese regime in its justification of the continued colonial relationship of the 1950s and ’60s, which was described by Salazar to the international community as a ‘Portuguese “pluricontinental nation”’.[16] This idea drew heavily on the work produced by the Brazilian intellectual Gilberto Freyre following his tour of the African colonies in the 1950s, which Salazar had commissioned. Freyre expounded a theory of Lusotropicalism, claiming that racial and cultural hybridity existed in the Lusophone world, describing it as: ‘an ultra-racial synthesis: a meta-race. A race beyond’.[17] However, in a colonial regime, which, as Alberto da Costa Pinto demonstrates, still viewed Angolans as uncultured and subordinate to the Portuguese,[18] the relationship between Joãozinho and Carmo is treated with hostility by both the PIDE and members of the Portuguese elite, in whose circles Carmo moves. At this point, we can admire Joãozinho’s ability to shake off the racism and even violence that he faces and, though it is subtle, beyond the sheen of nostalgia – which comes in part from the sepia-tinged cinematography – Gamboa is making an incisive criticism of the Portuguese regime: Portugal is still the coloniser, and within that relationship, the Angolans are necessarily subordinated. Assimilated in name they may be, but assimilating into the upper echelons of Portuguese society is portrayed as impossible within the colonial structure. Therefore, by conducting this public relationship with Carmo, Joãozinho challenges the very core of Portuguese identity, disrupting the regime’s model of colonial coexistence by exposing an oppressive, racist reality.

The colonial relationship creates a direct and personal rivalry between Joãozinho and the PIDE Inspector. Joãozinho is questioned numerous times, in darkly-lit scenes which are restrained and understated but nevertheless demonstrate the physical brutality of the PIDE, as well as the deep-seated racism within the system. It becomes a game of cat and mouse between the Inspector and Joãozinho. When read as a symbol of the national rivalries emerging in this period, Joãozinho represents the new Angola, ready to assert itself as an independent nation. The Inspector is the old pillar of the outdated Portuguese regime, unable and unwilling to adapt to a changing world order. He is the embodiment of Memmi’s ‘mediocre’ colonialist, who has ‘wagered everything […] on the colony’ – or more accurately, in this case, on his own sense of self-importance, which he bases on his ability to subordinate the colonised other.[19] Gamboa further emphasises this in the PIDE’s treatment of Joãozinho’s compatriot Raul. As a true revolutionary, unlike Joãozinho, Raul asserts his rivalry against the Portuguese system. The Inspector acts swiftly, conscripting him into the Portuguese army, thereby forcing Raul into a position where he is betraying his nation, as well as his personal beliefs. Reading this in the colonial context, this event can be seen as a representation of Portugal’s use of force to suppress independence movements, and the start of war. Mary Kaldor identifies different strategies in war; one aims to ‘win the hearts and minds’ of citizens, while the other is not interested in ideological indoctrination, seeking to impose authority and claim victory through fear and might.[20] Applied to this context, this theory can help us to understand the growing desperation of the Portuguese regime. It has moved away from its ‘civilising’ mission and Lusotropicalist ideals, instead seeking to impose the control that is slipping from its grasp in any way possible. Gamboa’s film does not deal directly with Angola’s war of independence, but in the implications of these scenes there is a foreshadowing of brutal events to come.

Despite colonial tensions, it is a rivalry of a different nature which brings an end to Joãozhino’s hedonistic days in Lisbon. Having upset both Carmo and his new girlfriend Lola, a Spanish burlesque dancer, with his prolific womanising, he finds himself caught in a trap of his own making, provoking a desire for revenge from the women. Carmo puts an end to his promising basketball career by knocking him down in her car and breaking his leg, thereby removing one of the strong reasons he had to remain in Portugal, and Lola gives him up to the PIDE in an act of betrayal. Nobody is blameless at this point in the film, and it is these personal rivalries which take precedence over the national or political. It is a way for Gamboa to underscore the amorality of both the Portuguese and the Angolan elite and, in doing so, sets up the state of affairs which will influence the second part of the film, which is set in Angola.

The Lusotropical Myth

With Joãozinho repatriated to Angola, the spectator has their first insight into life in the Portuguese colony, and once again Gamboa plays with audience expectations, posing fresh questions about the colonial relationship. For all that was implied in the first half of the film, here we are presented with a vision of colonial life in which Angolans seem barely oppressed by their colonisers. Joãozinho’s parents, for example, live a comfortable, middle-class life, and his father has a position of some seniority within the Ministry of Finance. He is mortified that Joãozinho has been sent home in disgrace from Portugal, appearing to value, above all else, a harmonious coexistence with the colonisers. As with some of the scenes earlier in the film, here Gamboa cleverly reconstructs the Lusotropical myth.

This myth taps into present-day fantasies Portugal still holds about itself as a colonial power. In its struggle for identity after decolonisation, Portugal strove to justify its colonial past, clinging onto Lusotropicalism. Boaventura de Sousa Santos, while accepting some of the faults of Portuguese colonisation, claims that Portugal’s ‘informal colonialism […] saved large sectors of the colonised peoples’. He goes on to say, ‘they were often allowed to negotiate the administration of the territories […] almost on an equal footing’.[21] It is this idea that Gamboa briefly presents in this section of the film, before he once again sets about deconstructing the myth. That the colonised, assimilated Angolans, such as Joãozinho’s father, were ‘allowed to negotiate’, ‘almost on an equal footing’ the administration of their own country, rather than a positive feature, is perhaps the most damning indictment and damaging characteristic of colonialism. This is no happy coexistence of equal peoples; it is a systemised disempowerment and dehumanisation of one group by another. We see this more clearly when Joãozinho’s father goes to his boss, begging him to give Joãozinho a job. His body language is submissive, his words overly respectful and polite. Memmi notes the aspirations of the colonised to become like the coloniser – there is envy of, and desire for, the benefits, power, and privileged lifestyle the colonisers exhibit, but in their attempts to achieve acceptance into that rank of society the colonised must deny their own identity, destroying themselves in the struggle for something which cannot be. Under these conditions, it is possible to see how, under the guise of an idealised, Lusotropical coexistence, rivalries begin to emerge. As Memmi says: ‘the candidate for assimilation […] comes to tire of the exorbitant price which he must pay and which he never finishes owing’.[22] In the film, this becomes apparent when Joãozinho catches his father late at night, listening in secret to radio broadcasts from the MPLA (People’s Movement for the Liberation of Angola). At some point, the colonised, realising the impossible situation of assimilation, will be driven to rebellion against the coloniser.

As a political rivalry, built upon personal injustices, begins to develop in Angola, so too does Joãozinho’s manipulation of it, demonstrated by the money-laundering enterprise he starts up in his job at the bank, as a way to fund a millionaire lifestyle complete with a luxury house, fast cars, and weekend plane rides. He becomes almost a caricature of a corrupt African leader, and again, in this sense, Gamboa is providing a vision of things to come. At the same time, he is drawing upon the theme of utopia, emphasising the feelings of optimism and hope for the future of the nation, which gripped Angola at the time of independence. José Carlos Venâncio demonstrates an enthusiasm for ‘angolanidade’ – the construction of an Angolan society, one which was not oppressed by colonial rule.[23]  With his carefree manner and aspirational lifestyle, Joãozinho is both the embodiment of this utopian ideal, and of the corruption which would lead to its disintegration. In many ways, he is mimicking an idealised Western lifestyle, placing himself, at least superficially, in a position that his father’s years of attempts at assimilation could not achieve. Bhabha describes the subversive nature of mimicry within the colonial relationship, demonstrating that, through mimicry, the original becomes distorted and ‘deauthorise[d]’.[24] This can be understood in terms of the father’s public assimilation and private rebellion, yet for Joãozinho, his mimicry itself is an example of distortion and corruption. As Bhabha suggests, his actions ‘deauthorise’ Portuguese colonial power by negating its perceived superiority, yet, as Fanon warned, this lifestyle also symbolises the danger of a physical, material decolonisation without first achieving an intellectual decolonisation, in which case fundamental societal shifts will not happen. Reflecting this warning, Joãozinho’s eventual incarceration and subsequent release from prison is laced with irony. He is declared a hero of the revolution just after the ousting of colonial rule, his money-laundering viewed as an act of political rebellion against the regime. For the characters, it is a moment filled with hope and visions of utopia. For the spectator, however, it is deliberately jarring, and, while allowing for positive reflections on the end of colonialism, is heavy with omens for the future, in which national leaders will simply pick up where colonialism left off, and will set about, in Fanon’s words, ‘nationalising the robbery of the nation’.[25] Joãozinho, the corrupt, selfish and apolitical revolutionary hero, seems perfectly positioned to do just that.


O Grande Kilapy represents an ambitious undertaking, which, beneath a glossy surface, interrogates both the Portuguese-Angolan colonial relationship and the corruption in Angola following independence. There is some value in the criticism around this film emphasising its departure, in its apparently nostalgic elegance, from Gamboa’s previous work: it is important above all not to judge African films on their level of social responsibility alone, which examining it through the lens of Third Cinema Theory sometimes leads to. Angolan cinema, and African cinema more widely, is evolving, and filmmakers are increasingly trying new styles and themes, engaging with the future as well as the past. However, within the context of the relatively low cinematic output of Angola and the deep traumas that the country is still navigating, O Grande Kilapy does fulfil a social role too, by encouraging audiences throughout the Lusophone world to question discourses of colonialism and to recognise the culpability of all parties in the twenty-seven years long civil war. A tense postcolonial relationship still exists between Angola and Portugal today, with Angola’s rapidly increasing wealth, leading some in Portugal to fear a type of economic colonisation by the former colony, as has been discussed by Gatinois.[26] Questions of the success of coexistence for Angolans living in Portugal, furthermore, are continually raised, as highlighted by Bernd Reiter and Martin Eaton.[27] Films like O Grande Kilapy, with its multinational cast and powerful, but not directly confrontational, criticisms of the colonial relationship, provide a way to begin to open up discourse about these issues, and to work towards a future of genuine coexistence, whether in trade or migration, of two independent and equal nations.


Arenas, Fernando, Utopias of Otherness: Nationhood and Subjectivity in Portugal and Brazil. (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2003), 1-21

––––––, Lusophone Africa: Beyond Independence (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2011)

Bhabha, Homi, The Location of Culture (London; New York: Routledge, 1994), 86-112

Bidault, Marie Françoise, ‘La recherche de l’identité individuelle et l’identité nationale dans  les manuels scolaires’ in Fundação Calouste Gulbenkian (ed.), Les Littératures  africaines de Langue portugaise: A la recherche de l’identité individuelle et         nationale (Paris: Fondation Calouste Gulbenkian, 1985), 349-361

Da Costa Pinto, Alberto, ‘Gilberto Freyre e a intelligentsia salazarista em defesa do Império Colonial Português (1951 – 1974)’, História, 28 (2009), 445

De Sousa Santos, Boaventura, ‘Between Prospero and Caliban: Colonialism, Postcolonialism, and Interidentity’, Review, 29 (2006), 143-166

Diawara, Manthia, African Cinema: Politics and Culture (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1999), 88-103

Eaton, Martin, ‘Foreign Residents and Illegal Immigrants in Portugal’, International Journal of Intercultural Relations, 22 (1998), 49-66

Fanon, Frantz, The Wretched of the Earth. Translated by Constance Farrington, 2nd edn. (London: Penguin, 1990)

Freyre, Gilberto, Nôvo mundo nos trópicos (São Paulo: Companhia Editora Nacional, 1971)

Gabriel, Teshome H., ‘Towards a Critical Theory of Third World Films’ in Jim Pines and Paul Willemen (eds), Questions of Third Cinema (London: British Film Institute, 1989), 30-52

Gamboa, Zézé, O Herói (David & Golias, 2004)

––––––, O Grande Kilapy (David & Golias, 2012)

Gatinois, Claire, ‘Portugal Indebted to Angola after Economic Reversal of Fortune’, The Guardian (2014) <; [accessed 10 January 2015]

Hermsdorff, Renato, ‘Criticas Adoro Cinema: O Grande Kilapy’, AdoroCinema (2014)
<; [accessed 8 January 2015]

Memmi, Albert, The Colonizer and the Colonized. Translated by Howard Greenfield (New York: The Orion Press, 1965)

Kaldor, Mary, New War and Old War, 2nd edn (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2001), 1-14

Reiter, Bernd, ‘Portugal: National Pride and Imperial Neuroses’, Race and Class, 47 (2005), 79-91

Small, Audrey, ‘Reversals of Exile: Williams Sassine’s Wirriyamu and Tierno Monenembo’s Pelourinho’, African Studies Review, 57 (2014), 41-54

Venâncio, José Carlos, Literatura e poder na África Lusófona. (Lisbon: Ministério da Educação. Instituto de Cultura e Língua Portuguesa, 1992)

Vieira, Else R.P., ‘The Adaptation of Mia Couto’s Terra Sonâmbula/Sleepwalking Land to the Screen: An Interview with Teresa Prata’, Hispanic Research Journal, 14 (2013), 94-101

Whitehead, Anne, Trauma Fiction (Edinburgh: University of Edinburgh Press, 2004), 3-11

Willemen, Paul, ‘The Third Cinema Question: Notes and Reflections’ in Jim Pines and Paul Willemen (eds), Questions of Third Cinema (London: British Film Institute, 1989), 1-29


[1] Zézé Gamboa, O Grande Kilapy (David & Golias, 2012). ‘Kilapy’ is a Kimbundu word meaning ‘swindle’ or ‘scam’ – therefore a loose translation is: ‘The Big Swindle’.

[2] Fernando Arenas, Lusophone Africa: Beyond Independence (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2011), p. 167.

[3] Audrey Small, ‘Reversals of Exile: Williams Sassine’s Wirriyamu and Tierno Monenembo’s Pelourinho’, African Studies Review, 57 (2014), pp. 41-54 (p. 42).

[4] Else P. Vieira, ‘The Adaptation of Mia Couto’s Terra Sonâmbula/Sleepwalking Land to the Screen: An Interview with Teresa Prata’, Hispanic Research Journal, 14 (2013), pp. 94-101 (p. 102).

[5] Anne Whitehead, Trauma Fiction (Edinburgh: University of Edinburgh Press, 2004), p. 5.

[6] Paul Willemen, ‘The Third Cinema Question: Notes and Reflections’, in Questions of Third Cinema, ed. by Jim Pines and Paul Willemen (London: British Film Institute, 1989), pp. 1-29 (pp. 17-22).

[7] Diawara, Manthia, African Cinema: Politics and Culture (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1999).

[8] Gabriel, Teshome H., ‘Towards a Critical Theory of Third World Films’ in Questions of Third Cinema, ed. by Jim Pines and Paul Willemen (London: British Film Institute, 1989), pp. 30-52 (p. 40).

[9] Renato Hermsdorff, ‘Criticas Adoro Cinema: O Grande Kilapy’, AdoroCinema, (2014) <; [accessed 8 Jan. 2015] (para. 4).

[10] Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, trans. by Constance Farrington, 2nd edn. (London: Penguin, 1961), p. 122.

[11] French original: ‘entraîne […] la perte de l’identité individuelle des assimilés’ (translation mine); Marie-Françoise Bidault, ‘La recherche de l’identité individuelle et l’identité nationale dans les manuels scolaires’, in Les Littératures africaines de Langue portugaise: A la recherche de l’identité individuelle et nationale, ed. by Fundação Calouste Gulbenkian (Paris: Fondation Calouste Gulbenkian, 1985), 349-361, (p. 351).

[12] João Tiago Sousa, ‘Eduardo Mondlane e a Luta pela Independência de Moçambique’ in Comunidades Imaginadas, ed. by Luís Reis Torgal, Fernando Tavares Pimenta, Julião Soares Sousa (Coimbra: University of Coimbra Press), 149-172 (p. 155).

[13] Albert Memmi, The Colonizer and the Colonized, trans. by Howard Greenfield (New York: The Orion Press, 1965), p. 102.

[14] Bernd Reiter, ‘Portugal: National Pride and Imperial Neuroses’, Race and Class, 47 (2005), pp.79-91; Fernando Arenas, Utopias of Otherness: Nationhood and Subjectivity in Portugal and Brazil (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2003), pp. 1-21.

[15] Memmi, p. 100.

[16] Reiter, p. 79.

[17] Portuguese original: ‘uma síntese ultra-racial: uma meta-raça. Uma além-raça’ (translation mine); Gilberto Freyre, Nôvo mundo nos trópicos (São Paulo: Companhia Editora Nacional, 1971), p. 324.

[18] Alberto da Costa Pinto, ‘Gilberto Freyre e a intelligentsia salazarista em defesa do Império Colonial Português (1951 – 1974)’, História, 28 (2009), 445-482, (p. 445).

[19] Memmi, p. 51.

[20] Mary Kaldor, New War and Old War, 2nd edn. (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2001), p. 5.

[21] Boaventura de Sousa Santos, ‘Between Prospero and Caliban: Colonialism, Postcolonialism, and Interidentity’, Luso-Brazilian Review, 39 (2002), 9-43, (p. 36).

[22] Memmi, p. 123.

[23] José Carlos Venâncio, Literatura e poder na África Lusófona (Lisbon: Ministério da Educação. Instituto de Cultura e Língua Portuguesa, 1992), p. 91.

[24] Homi Bhabha, The Location of Culture (London; New York: Routledge, 1994), p. 130.

[25] Fanon, p. 39.

[26] Claire Gatinois, ‘Portugal Indebted to Angola after Economic Reversal of Fortune’, Guardian (2014) <; [accessed 10 January 2015].

[27] Reiter, pp. 79-91; Martin Eaton, ‘Foreign Residents and Illegal Immigrants in Portugal’, International Journal of Intercultural Relations, 22 (1998) pp. 49-66.

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