MidReal Story
Forgotten Valor: The Redemption of Zéca Diabo
Scenario: Adriano Pinto, que mais tarde veio a ser conhecido como "Zéca Diabo". abandonou a escola aos 14 anos, em 1974, para, junto de um movimentos de libertação, lutar pela independência de Angola. Foi obrigado a participar da guerra civil, que terminou em 2002. Hóje é um heroi esquecido. Em 1975 vivenciou a independência do seu país, mas quando pensava que poderia voltar para a escola, viu o país mergulhado em guerra entre irmãos. Foi obrigado a continuar a lutar . Vivenciou inúmeras coisas horríveis que o levaram ao delírio em 1991. Ficou internado no hospital Militar e depois psiquiátrico. Regressou as matas em 1998, te do sido desertado em 2002. Em 2024 é um homem desempregado e abandonado pela pátria a qual deu a sua juventude e tudo o que tinha.
Create my version of this story
João Torres
local journalist aiming to uncover Adriano's story, professional relationship with Adriano and Maria, sharp eyes and inquisitive expression, determined and curious.
Maria Silva
former nurse and current caregiver of Adriano, friend to Adriano, gentle features, compassionate and strong.
Adriano Pinto
forgotten hero, no direct relationships, rugged appearance, resilient and haunted.
I was fourteen when I first picked up a gun.
It was heavy in my hands, and the metal was cold against my skin.
The man who handed it to me had a rugged face, his eyes hard and unyielding.
He told me that with this weapon, I could change the world.
And so I did.
I fought for Angola’s independence, for freedom from the Portuguese colonizers who had oppressed us for centuries.
I fought for my people, for my country, and for justice.
Chapter 1
I remember the day I was handed a gun.
I was fourteen, and the man who gave it to me was stern, his eyes sharp as he looked me over.
He told me to take it, that with this weapon I could change the world.
I didn’t doubt him; I didn’t hesitate.
I knew what was being asked of me, and I was eager to do it.
I was thirsty for a cause, a mission, a purpose.
My whole life, I had been told of the greatness that lay ahead for my country, for my people.
I wanted to be part of that greatness, I wanted to make a difference.
I wanted to fight for my country, to give everything I had to the cause.
The man who handed me the gun needed boys like me—fearless and ready to fight against the Portuguese colonizers who had oppressed us for centuries.
The Portuguese had come to our country as traders, and they’d left as thieves.
They took everything from us: our land, our resources, our women, our children.
They treated us like slaves in our own country, like animals at their mercy.
They told us we were backward and uncivilized, that we needed to be saved from ourselves by the grace of their so-called civilization.
I knew better than that—I knew that we were strong and proud and deserving of our freedom.
And so I agreed to take up arms against the Portuguese oppressors.
He told me that with this weapon I could change the world.
So I did.
The man who handed me the gun had a rugged face, his eyes hard and unyielding.
He didn’t say anything else to me; he didn’t need to.
He knew what he was asking of me, what it would mean for my country and my people.
He needed boys like me: strong and fearless, willing to fight and die for Angola’s independence.
And so I took the gun from his hands and held it tight against my chest.
I remember the day I was handed a gun.
I was fourteen, and the man who gave it to me was stern, his eyes sharp as he looked me over.
He told me to take it, that with this weapon I could change the world.
I didn’t doubt him; I didn’t hesitate.
I knew what was being asked of me, and I was eager to do it.
I was thirsty for a cause, a mission, a purpose.
My whole life, I had been told of the greatness that lay ahead for my country, for my people.
I wanted to be part of that greatness, I wanted to make a difference.
I wanted to fight for my country, to give everything I had to the cause.
The man who handed me the gun needed boys like me—fearless and ready to fight against the Portuguese colonizers who had oppressed us for centuries.
The Portuguese had come to our country as traders, and they’d left as thieves.They took everything from us: our land, our resources, our women, our children.
They treated us like slaves in our own country, like animals at their mercy.
They told us we were backward and uncivilized, that we needed to be saved from ourselves by the grace of their so-called civilization.
I knew better than that—I knew that we were strong and proud and deserving of our freedom.
And so I agreed to take up arms against the Portuguese oppressors.
He told me that with this weapon I could change the world.
So I did.
The man who handed me the gun had a rugged face, his eyes hard and unyielding.He didn’t say anything else to me; he didn’t need to.
He knew what he was asking of me, what it would mean for my country and my people.
Chapter 2
But now those days are long gone; now I’m an old man, one of the last forgotten heroes left alive in Angola.a
The world has moved on, but I’ve been left behind.
I’m just another old man living out his days in poverty on the outskirts of Luanda—just another old man without hope or purpose or a future to look forward to.
Outside this small shack where I live alone, there is no sign that I ever existed—no marker or monument or tribute to honor my contribution to our country’s history.b
Here in this forgotten corner of the world, far from the bright lights and fanfare of the city center, there is no one left to remember what happened all those years ago—no one left who cares about what we fought for or why we fought at all.I have no family left alive; no wife or children or grandchildren to care for me in my final years.c
In my youth, I was a hero, applauded by crowds and showered with praise for my role in securing our country’s independence.
But now those days are long gone; now I’m an old man, one of the last forgotten heroes left alive in Angola.
The world has moved on, but I’ve been left behind.
I’m just another old man living out his days in poverty on the outskirts of Luanda—just another old man without hope or purpose or a future to look forward to.
Outside this small shack where I live alone, there is no sign that I ever existed—no marker or monument or tribute to honor my contribution to our country’s history.
Here in this forgotten corner of the world, far from the bright lights and fanfare of the city center, there is no one left to remember what happened all those years ago—no one left who cares about what we fought for or why we fought at all.
In my youth, I was a hero, applauded by crowds and showered with praise for my role in securing our country’s independence.
But now those days are long gone; now I’m an old man, one of the last forgotten heroes left alive in Angola.
The world has moved on, but I’ve been left behind.
I’m just another old man living out his days in poverty on the outskirts of Luanda—just another old man without hope or purpose or a future to look forward to.
Outside this small shack where I live alone, there is no sign that I ever existed—no marker or monument or tribute to honor my contribution to our country’s history.