In her book History and Fiction: Writers, Their Research, Worlds and Stories (2020), the historian Gillian Polack states that “Writers create fiction from narratives they know. When they bring a strong sense of history into their stories, they draw from the narratives of others” (2020, 7). The notion that literary writing establishes an intrinsic relationship with the historical object, which may be an event or a series of events or a set of characters (Le Goff 1997, 169), seems to be uncontested by historians, meta-historians and writers of fiction. In fact, even though it may not thematise historical facts, literary writing fictionalises forms of historicity, nowadays blurring the boundaries between history and literature (fiction, in the case under scrutiny, but also poetry and drama, as in the case of Conceição Lima, particularly with her portentous epic poem “Canto obscuro às raízes” and “Um Confronto Imaginado e uma Profecia”, respectively, as literary critics and meta-historians agree. For Linda Hutcheon, for example:This suggests that it is legitimate to reinterpret historical objects in the light of new interests (values and preoccupations)—“their chosen genre frameworks” (Polack 2020, 137)—making it possible to attribute new meanings to them, to recover from the shadows events and subjects omitted from the official narratives, and to explain and give meaning to the present or the ideological failures of the discourses that support them. Historical narrative fictions, Gillian Polack tells us, explain the past, allowing us to discover paths that are sometimes inaccessible to us (2020, 10). Like oceans, those immense currents generate interpretative dynamics, generating and influencing other systems of human relations, exposing the depressions, the reliefs and layers of History, according to their geographical and spatial-temporal latitudes. In effect:Here it strikes me as pertinent to refer to the relationship (sometimes conflictive) between literature as a political activity, and peripheral discursivities, whether external (official, hegemonic narratives) or internal (the vision of silenced groups by postcolonial power). And because “narrative is no more innocent in historiography than it is in fiction” (Burke 2001, 330), I believe it is in fiction, because of the possibilities offered by the narrative mode, that we see most clearly the appetite for questioning categories of exclusion and criticism in the political modus operandi that has fed the nationalist ideology, anticipating the assumption of “thinking difference” (ideological and political, but also identity), through the negotiation of different identities, both group (ideology and class) and segmental (ethnic, racial and cultural) or individual (gender and sexual orientation). This has been done through the evocation of the past, both remote and recent, and through micro-histories, like that of Júlio Pereira (Piricas) and Sarangerel who, in O Planalto e a Estepe (2009), live the story of a love blocked by the hypocrisy of an ideology, the same one that, in the end, placed them in contact—international socialism; or that of a whole community, metonymised in Carlos Eduardo (Kalitas), a character in O Vento que Desorienta o Caçador (2007) by Arnaldo Santos. Amid twists and turns in the international arena, Kalitas tries to understand the bellicosity that followed the multi-party elections of 1992 and the abandonment of his country after the elections by the ineffable international community, the same one that had taken it towards a multi-party system. What ensued was turmoil in the diamond sector and the emergence of the diamond trafficking business, and the naturalisation of war as an everyday reality. In the case of contemporary Angolan literature, this historical and cultural work involves questioning the canonising paradigm of the anticolonial tradition that conditioned and constrained the different kinds of diversity that (non) literature records, both from the political and culturalist and literary-critical points of view.