So engrossed was I in the children’s show of freedom, I had not noticed a man directly to my left. Now I noticed he was a short, middle-aged man with a large mustache and a gleaming bald head. He held his hat in his hands and looked up at me in an apologetic way. I turned to him with questions on my face. He dressed akin to David, which told me he was a missionary, hunter, or explorer of some kind.
“Hello,” I tried.
“Good afternoon, Miss,” he said timidly. “I was just visiting with our mutual friend Mrs. Livingstone. She sent me to you.”
“Oh!” I replied in surprise. “How can I help you, sir?”
He looked down and shuffled his feet in response. It was clear he was embarrassed, although I could not fathom why.
“Mrs. Livingstone sent me here to see if,” he paused and took a deep breath, “if you had an extra spelling book I could possibly purchase.”
My emotions caught in my throat. I had never met a grown man who could not read. I instantly bolted into the classroom without a word and snatched up my copy of the threadbare spelling book. I returned outside to see him even more uncomfortable. Had he supposed I would refuse him?
I thrust the copy into his line of sight, which was still to the ground. He shook his head.
“I wish to purchase it,” he insisted, refusing to take it and unwilling to look up.
“You may want to inspect the quality of the product, sir,” I responded with a bit of a laugh.
He slowly took the manuscript from my hands and inspected it, turning the frail pages as if he were turning plates of gold.
“I know how much this is worth,” he said as he handed me the book to hold. He turned on his heel and walked toward the side of the schoolhouse. I took a few steps and peeked around the corner. I knew instantly that everything he owned was in the small wagon that was parked there. It was a simple wagon bed with no covering, holding an assortment of blankets, buckets, and some oddities. The whole of it was pulled by an ancient looking mule. Now I could guess at his profession! He was a trader. Looking more closely, I could see several small items that would be of great worth in this area. Unused pots and pans, several small mirrors, and even a few little handmade dolls. He was digging through his many small belongings for what he thought would be a suitable trade for the spelling book. I was prepared for an episode of bargaining with the man, considering this is how he survived and made a living. I knew he would be proficient in getting as much as he could for as little as possible. But I had been willing to give him the book for free, so I watched with curiosity.
He returned with two large metal tins and set them at my feet. Before I could inquire what was inside, he returned to the cart again and came back with a clutch of beautiful little beads. I thought instantly how the little girls would adore such beads, but I could not utter a word before he returned to his cart a third time. This time he carried a living thing! A full-grown mother goat was lounging idly in his arms, which he deposited onto the ground and then placed the rope in my hand.
And now I could not speak. One would have thought, with my experiences thus far, that I would have understood the value of things that used to be inconsequential to me. This booklet would not be exchanged for a farthing in London, but here it was of such great worth that it could be traded for all the precious ware now laying at my feet. How could I barter with him now? I could not try to convince him that these thin pages in my hands were not valuable enough for what he offered. To him, knowledge was the most valuable item of all.
Too stunned to speak, I simply handed him the book. He received it with both hands, and looked up at my face as if I had just handed him a king’s ransom.
“Thank you,” he spoke softly and sincerely. Then with nothing further he returned to his cart.
I admit I struggled to return home with the precious load I had received. Luckily, the goat was calm and obedient. She would simply follow wherever the rope pulled. However, the two metal tins were heavy enough to make my arms ache by the time I reached the bottom of the hill. I wondered if there was any way I could lighten the load, and I was also curious as to its contents. Stooping down, I removed the lid from each tin in turn and discovered they were full of milk, the top three inches, at least, being thick cream. I guessed this was his store of milk from the goat he had just given away. Looking at the thick liquid, I fell to my knees, sobs jerking my chest up and down.
I was thinking of Robert and Agnes’s thirst the last few nights, the desperate plea in their tiny little voices asking for moisture. I was grateful beyond expression that I could be the means by which they would receive a glass of milk. The weight of it sank me down to the ground,, and I stared at the life giving moisture in awe for several long minutes. When I could finally regain my composure I carried the tins home. I did not care that my arms were screaming for relief.
David saw me coming from afar off, returning from his work with the men of the tribe, and trotted over to me to help with my load. It was embarrassing how easily he handled the two tins after I had struggled so much. I thanked him profusely, but he stopped me.
“Are these milk?” he asked in wonder. I nodded. This gave him pause. Slowly he turned to face me, his eyes so full of suspicion and dread that he suddenly had my full attention as to what he was thinking.
“Did you steal these?”
Even worn as I was, his question made me laugh until my sides hurt. He watched me for a moment and then laughed too. However, he kept that fearful look until I told him all that had happened. He was not as amazed as I. He told me in the past Mary had been obligated to hide the spelling books because the adults would come in the night to study and learn from the scrap pieces of paper.
“So you believe I got a good price for the book?” I asked, now hoping I had not sold something that ought not to be sold.
“Yes,” he answered. “It would appear you met an honest trader, something that is not as common as you would hope.”
Taking the milk inside and hearing the children’s squeals of excitement healed my burning arms instantly. Mary still lay in bed, but when I brought in a tall glass of goat’s milk, her face brightened. We all gathered around Mary’s bed and drank our glasses of milk together. It was clear from the first sip that the milk was quite sour. This did not keep us from finishing our portions in quiet contentment. Already seeing a marked difference in Mary and the children, David proclaimed, “Another glass, I think!” and the children clapped and cheered. I thought my cheekbones would break from all the smiling I did in just one hour.
The children instantly took to our new goat and affectionately started calling her Banana, the reasons of which, are still unclear to me. We tied Banana to a post on the shady side of the house, and Robert and Agnes found it great fun to find dried grass (for there was no other type of grass to be had) for her to eat. She looked well nourished, as if she had had plenty of water to drink with her last owner. I worried about her future condition with little to no water to drink. By the look on David’s face, he had the same worry.
The bulk of my days in Kolobeng passed by in this manner. In my mother’s house in the glorious land of England, I began my days by receiving callers, immaculate in dress, to speak of frivolous topics of the day. Now in the life I had chosen, deep in the heart of Africa, I began every day, for a full six months, by milking a goat while dressed in soiled rags. Sometimes I amused myself with imaging their reactions if they were to see me now, sitting in the dirt before the sun rose, milking a mother goat with my bare hands. David said I should learn, and perhaps learning how to milk a goat would be easier on my tiny hands than a full-grown cow. Although, even with our combined efforts, we could not even fill a quart. Still, we were grateful for every drop we could obtain.
David and I brought the milk together after we were finished. He was done with his ten cows before I was done with my one goat, but he waited for me patiently. We strained the milk through a thin cloth into a small container while David disclosed to me some news.
/> “There have been many animals that have gone missing during the nights these past few weeks. I’ve been in villages where women and children who went out at night alone were also picked up by lions. I told you how we suspected lions, but we could not be sure until this morning. Sechele himself saw their pride only a mile away from his home. There can be no doubt now that the lions are picking off our cows, goats, and sheep. We won’t let it go on so long that we start losing tribesmen.”
“What has changed to make them unafraid to come around man?” I asked him. “I thought lions were supposed to fear hunters.”
“Lions do fear hunters,” he confirmed, “but with the drought being what it is, they are as desperate as we are. They have nowhere else to go for food.”
I considered that.
“So what do we do about it?” I questioned.
“We wait,” he replied. “Wait and see if the situation becomes truly perilous, and then if need be, we will do some hunting.”
Hunting frightened me, so I excused myself.
None can tell what a precious thing water is but those who have been deprived of it. After that night’s evening sermon, the family and I sat in stillness—unwilling to move. The dry ache of my throat seemed to resonate to my ears and dry out my eyes. I held Agnes, her thin cheek resting against my collarbone. Though she did not move, I knew she did not sleep, her eyes wide open against the heat. My eyes blinked and I had difficulty opening them again, the dry air attempting to seal them shut. There was no moisture to spare, even to assist my sticky lids.
Mary did supply refreshment for the group, but now instead of water, bread, or jams, the only option was fried locusts. My eyes were as wide as they could be as I watched everyone politely take their handful of locusts. When it was my turn, I nodded politely to Mary and then took one locust. I closed my weary eyes and took a crunchy bite. It tasted like vegetable and was not altogether unsatisfying. It was the closest thing we had to meat in weeks and weeks.
At the house, I set Agnes on her bed and began to remove her shoes and day clothing. I mechanically moved to her trunk to retrieve a nightgown, forcing my arms to move. Mary came into the room, with Robert clinging to her leg. I looked up in question as Mary forcefully removed Robert. If there was any water left in his miserable little body, it would have been coming out his eyes. Where there was no tears to be had. He simply heaved and choked in his misery. He asked Mary for some water again and in response she simply shook her head. This brought on an all new level of emotion from Robert. He threw himself to the ground and beat his fists against the unfeeling floor.
I remember seeing a scene similar to this once in shop in London—it had been Whiteleys. A little girl had been denied a second pair of gloves and had thrown herself to the ground just as Robert did. I watched, unable to assist in my water-deprived stupor, as my mind compared the two scenarios.
The little London girl had shrilled her demands and easily articulated her distress, whereas Robert was so desperately dry, his cries came out rattled and incomprehensible. The girl had rained fresh tears and had soiled her pretty dress with them. Robert’s eyes gave forth nothing but bright red splotches and an insatiable itch that haunted us all. When the hysterics were over, the little girl daintily wiped her eyes with her perfect cream colored gloves. Robert rubbed his eyes viciously with dirty fingers, not to clean them or make them tidy, but to try and conjure some kind of moisture out of them. There was none to be had, and the light red color that surrounded his eyes now turned dark and welted.
The girl had received her gloves that day. But this boy received no water.
Mary snatched his hands to halt his attack on his eyes and restricted his arms across his chest. She moved him over to the children’s bed and held him on her lap as his thrashing and screaming slowed. She had no choice. If we drank water now, there would be none to be had in the heat of the day tomorrow. That kind of distress could kill a person. My mind knew this to be true, but my heart ached to help my little friend.
“Mary,” I said, my voice weak but pleading. “Let him have my water.”
“Hush!” Mary lashed out at me. “Stay silent, Anna. If anyone is going to give up their water for these children it will be me. You do not take that away from me. I have much experience in water deprivation and the children are not yet destitute. Let them be. They are mine.”
I turned from her, her reprimand hurting me deep inside. My chest constricted—not in physical pain—but emotional pain. Would Robert ever get his cool glass of water? Or would his body reject the heat and expire? Would we all?
I finished my assistance to Agnes and kissed her forehead with my cracked lips. Her eyes remained open. I moved to my bed and did not bother to undress. I simply laid atop my blankets and closed my parched eyes. Mary finally got Robert to sleep and laid him down gently. She then snuffed out our candle and retired to her bedroom in the dark.
The howling of a strong African wind rocked our small house. Amidst the sound, I thought I heard the cry of a tortured soul. The rise and fall of sound was almost identical to the pitch of the wind. I turned my ear in an attempt to discern the noise, but as soon as I thought I heard a distinct, mournful cry, it halted and blended into the breeze. All that remained was the deafening tone of silent bodies, unwilling to move until water, or morning, came.
No water came, but somehow morning did.
And it came with drums and guns.
Chapter 17
I bolted upright in bed to the sound of guns being fired. For a moment I panicked and knew not what to do. But soon enough I slipped my shoes on and stepped out the front door. David and Mary were already there. It seemed to me as if they had been there a long while.
“Did I hear shooting?” I asked, doubting myself.
“Yes, you did,” Mary answered. David did not speak. Then the drums began.
“What is this?” I was irritated I had to ask, they were so quiet.
“It’s the beginning of a funeral,” Mary said as she stood. “Let’s get the children up.”
I wondered if children should attend funerals, but I had learned my lesson last night to not question Mary’s parenting. I wanted to ask who had passed away, but they seemed to be purposefully avoiding the subject. My throat closed off at the thought and I suddenly dared not ask even if they had been willing.
“Here.” Mary handed me a large square piece of cloth. “Your head needs to be covered.”
I nodded mutely. I did not question her today.
With both the children up and dressed and given their meager sip of daily water, we headed toward the center of town. There were drummers everywhere. Men, women, and children sat in large circles beating on the drums in complicated rhythms. Mary answered my question without my having to ask.
“It is with the hope that the sound will put barimo, or spirits, to sleep.”
I nodded, understanding but a little. The melody was rather calming. As if hearing my thoughts, however, the drumming suddenly stopped and the wailing began. The sound of their cries was more piercing and heart-wrenching than I had ever heard. They threw themselves on the ground in agonized appeals to an absent being. Most were covered in dirt and sweat. Their eyes red and swollen from the heartache and lack of moisture. My chest was quite tight and I had trouble breathing.
“Mary,” I began to address her to ask the question I didn’t want to know the answer to, but I never got the chance. We had arrived at the kotla. A little girl was ready for burial, dressed neatly lying on a high bench for everyone to see. Her family surrounded her, with her mother in a special place right next to her, the mother’s head covered in blue, her face covered in grief.
The tears sprung to my eyes the moment I saw the little one. I could not remember her name, but she had been in my class. The flower I had stitched for her was clutched in her hand.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I had to escape. I turned toward home but was met by a small woman with wild eyes, red from crying. I had seen her w
ith the little girl before. She had taken her to the schoolroom once or twice. I felt the heat of her anger pressing on me.
“Baloi,” she hissed, quietly at first. She advanced toward me and I took a step back. Before I knew he was even present, Motsatsi stood in front of me. I tried to push him to the side, but he was adamant. There was a lot of yelling, mostly from the woman. She was soon joined by at least thirty mourners who rallied behind her.
“Baloi, baloi, baloi,” was the only word I knew. It was the word for “witch.” I needed no translator for the rest. They thought my coming had brought the drought and killed this precious girl. They held me responsible. I had been warned they were superstitious. Maybe they were right. My gut hurt from lack of water and lack of human sympathy. David suddenly came to my side and began to plead with the people in his fluent Sechuana, but it did not seem to be going well.
The woman, who I assumed was the mother, went to the body and roughly snatched the stitched flower from her dead hand, flinging it at my face. I picked it up from the hot dirt with an involuntary sob.
Then I did what I do best.
I ran away.
Back at the house I tried to cry, but with no tears inside me, it seemed almost pointless. I soon felt silly and tried to busy myself with washing dishes and dusting—there was forever dusting to be done. But the heartache physically pressed on my chest and I found myself having to sit often. When my family returned, they tried to convince me that after the passion of the funeral was over, things would go back to normal. Especially when it rained. Whenever it rained. If it rained.
In Spite of Lions Page 19
