The translation of Cuentos Negreros, by Marcelino Freire by Armando Escobar Gómez is a great pretext to Mexicanize a landscape like the Brazilian from language, bringing it a little closer to the Mexican hermeneutics of space and towards an understanding of its hidden blackness. A blackness denied completely in a country also racist but from another aspect, because indigenous roots have been revalued in Mexico after the independence of Spain for a market in need of materials, territory and erotic options, in a more paternalistic way. In Brazil, these roots were exposed to the consumption of a dark and abusive market since the time of slavery.

Escobar G. occupies the brief accounts of Freire in an ironic coordinate, as it is almost everything in Mexican letters. With the color black an ethnic group is named, which also means reducing something complex to the external ... "denying" someone is subordinating him in a sadomasochism that can be economic, sexual, social or cultural.

A human group that was dyed black (because black has nothing of the skin of Afro-descendants) perhaps to polarize and put in an unattainable and unnameable end, a musical language of pain and aberration, because the language of Boiling Africa was sodomized to get the best juices and preciousness in order to quench the thirst for exoticism. The exoticism that has only been translated by a few lovers and meticulous observers of the destruction of a continent placed at the service of the West. Africa, the beginning of the world, has almost no hope of turning back the great vituperio, the human mine for creative gold.

Marcelino Freire, in 16 stories, fifteen of them a high-pitched scream from the horizon of Yemanyá and only one claiming the indigenous world (because it is of another color), squeezes a gastric tube with the most painful and poisonous hue of reality. This reality seems, in his texts, the psychoanalytic landscapes of a nation that reproduces that almost silent and melodious violence against the weakest, but which, from its unconsciousness and innocence before the great Judeo-Christian banality, cleanses with the sensual rhythm of ancient anthropological fluidity He refuses to settle on his origins and his own divinity.

Freire impresses me when he builds in his images, with lasciviousness and violence, the weaving of the social ordeal of a country that has put the meat in the shop window, molded it in the best way to be seen and bought, and filled with content The terrible iniquities of inequality and the social, economic and cultural imbalance of a vast land that gutted between tamers and tamed.