After every uncle, auntie, and cousin drinks and spits, Tate tells the ancestors who is at the fire. He starts with Mama. He says her name, “Tutejuva of the Omukuatjivi clan. Tutejuva of Koroe. Koroe of Hiruku. Hiruku of….”
Tate names all Mama’s ancestors. Back to Mukuru and Kamangarunga. I try to sit still, but it’s hard. Naming Mama’s ancestors takes a long time. When he’s done with Mama’s ancestors, Tate looks at my brother. “Ramata Eliphas Mutihu, son of Mutihu and Tutejuva,” he says. Mutihu is Tate’s name.
I sit tall. I’m next. I don’t want the ancestors to think I’m not listening.
“Jahohora, daughter of Mutihu and Tutejuva.” Tate smiles at me. Then he takes the baby from Mama and holds him up so the ancestors can see him. “Karemarama, the newest son of Mutihu and Tutejuva,” Tate tells the ancestors. He names the ancestors of all the others sitting around the fire.
When the food is gone and the sun sleeps, everyone goes home. I look up at the big round moon. It seems close enough to touch. I remember Tjikuu saying Njambi Karunga made only round things. I look at the stars glowing with the colors of fire. They’re round, too. I yawn and follow Mama into our round house.
I’m tired. But I can’t sleep. I hear the baby cry. Mama picks him up to feed him. I crawl next to Mama. She pats my head. “Do you like your baby brother?” she asks me.
I nod. I touch his little bare foot. “Tjikuume gave him a funny name,” I say.
Mama smiles.
I think about my name. Jahohora means “our home is getting weaker.”
“I don’t like my name,” I tell Mama. “It’s sad.”
“My name is sad, too,” Mama says. “Tutejuva means ‘we die day by day.’”
“Why do we have sad names?” I ask her.
“Our names tell about the days when we were born. I was born when the Witboois were fighting the Herero. Many people died.”
“What about my name?”
Mama is quiet. Her eyes close. I think she’s sleeping. But then she opens her eyes and speaks. “Your name is like Tuaekua Ehi’s name. When she was born, the white people began taking more and more Herero land. Her name means ‘our land was taken away.’ And when you were born, white people took the land where our cattle grazed. And they dug up the graves of our ancestors to plant maize and calabashes.” Mama’s eyes look to a faraway place.
The baby kicks his legs out. Mama laughs quietly. Her sadness is gone.
“He does have long legs,” she says.
* * * * *
The baby’s loud cries hurt my head. I put my hands on my ears, but I still hear him. Tate has a big smile. He holds a special knife in one hand and a piece of baby’s skin in the other. “Now Karemarama is a true Herero boy,” he says.
Mama wipes the blood from the part that makes Karemarama a boy.
“Why did Tate cut the baby?” I ask.
“It’s a Herero tradition,” Mama says. “It’s what makes Herero men different from all other men.”
“I’m glad I’m a girl. I don’t want Tate to cut me.”
Mama laughs. “It doesn’t hurt much,” she says. “See? Karemarama is already playing.”
I watch as Mama cleans the baby. He makes baby noises. And plays with his feet. Mama puts her finger on the baby’s chin. He smiles at her. “Look. He has his first tooth,” she says. “It won’t be long before he is truly a man.”
I go outside to play with Ramata. “Let’s race,” he says. I like running. I don’t like losing. We run and run and run. He wins every time. But not by much.
“You’re getting faster,” he says. “But you’ll never beat me.”
We lie on the ground, looking up at the blue sky. The sun warms my skin. I think about Tate cutting the baby. “Does it hurt where Tate cut you?” I ask Ramata.
“Of course not. That was when I was a baby,” he says. “I’m nearly a man now.” He puffs his chest out.
I laugh at him. “You’re still just a boy.” I stand up and run. “I’m going to beat you this time.”
“No fair! You started first.”
I run as fast as I can until I reach our house. I breathe hard and look back. Ramata is a long way from the house. He’s walking.
“I won!” I shout when he gets close.
“No, you didn’t,” he says.
“I got here first.”
“But I wasn’t racing.” He makes a face at me.
Before I go to sleep that night, I sit by Mama while she feeds the baby. “What makes Herero women different from other women?” I ask her.
“Lots of things,” Mama says. “Our skin skirts. Our pointed headdresses. The red ochre we put on our bodies. The way we take care of the cattle. How we remember the ancestors.” Mama looks down at me. “There are other things you’ll learn when you become a woman.”
“When will that be?” I ask sleepily.
“When you’re ready.”
I close my eyes. Mama sings to the baby and me about a special cow.
WHITE PEOPLE
Tate frowns. He says too many white people come to Hereroland. They are all called German. But they have other names, too – Missionary, Trader, Farmer, and Soldier. Tate says they are bad for the Herero. They make the Herero forget their ancestors.
Tate is an omundu uonduko, a healer. He brings peace to Herero families. But German Missionary says Tate is evil because he talks to the ancestors. That bad spirits make him trick the Herero. Tate laughs. But his face isn’t happy. “Missionary doesn’t know the ancestors, so Missionary medicine poisons the Herero soul,” Tate says. Some Herero believe Missionary. They put out their holy fires and forget the ancestors. Even our chief listens to Missionary.
Tate is surprised when the chief sends headmen to him. They say the chief wants to see him. It’s important. We all go with Tate to Otjimbingwe, the chief’s village. It’s a long, long walk. Karemarama wants to walk with Ramata. But he gets tired and sits down. We have to take turns carrying him. We reach the chief’s village after the sun sleeps. We stay at the house of Tate’s cousin.
The next day while Tate meets with the chief, I walk by Missionary’s square house. It is the biggest house I’ve seen until now. It’s bigger than the brick house of the chief. Missionary must have lots of wives and children to need such a big house. But why do wives want to live in the same house? I shake my head.
I stop when I see Missionary daughter digging in the dirt. She must be hungry if she’s digging for uintjes there. I am sorry for her because her family is very poor. They have few cows in their kraal. And no holy fire. No ancestors. They don’t know who they are.
I stare at the girl. She’s not white. Her face is red. Like a baboon’s bottom. And she has lots and lots of yellow hair. Like the grass in dry season. She’s covered in cloths. She looks very hot. Maybe she’s sick. “Uri naua?” I call to her, asking her if she feels all right.
She looks up at me. Her mouth falls open as wide as a lion’s when it yawns. I tell her to close her mouth before she eats a fly. But she opens it wider. And screams. The wall of the house opens. Missionary wife runs out to her daughter. The girl talks in her mama’s ear. She points at me. Missionary wife looks at me. I stare back. She’s not white either. She has a yellow face and yellow hair. And she’s fat with many cloth skirts. She has no beads or bangles. Missionary wife shoos me away. She hurries her daughter into the house. Maybe she isn’t Missionary wife. She runs like a servant. She doesn’t walk tall like an important wife.
I find Mama and put my head on her legs. I watch Karemarama play in the dirt. The hot sun makes me sleepy. My eyes close, but I see Missionary girl with the yellow hair. She shouts at me with the sound of thunder. She chases me across the veld. I run faster than I’ve run until now. I run until I can’t run anymore. Then I fall to the ground. It hurts to breathe. My mouth needs water. I look around. There’s no water. I’m alone. And I don’t know where I am. “Mama! Mama!” I cry.
“Jahohora.” I hear Mama calling me. I run to her v
oice, but I can’t find her. “Mama!” I cry again. Something shakes me. I wake up. Mama’s face fills my eyes. I smile. I am safe.
We wait a long time for Tate. Mama walks with Karemarama and me so we can see more of the chief’s village. It’s a big village with many big houses. They are all square. Even the houses of the Herero. The village has lots of white people. They stare at us and point their fingers. Some laugh. They sound like hyenas howling.
“Why are they laughing?” I ask Mama.
“They don’t know better,” she says. She lifts her head higher and walks slowly. She pushes my back. “Is your mama dead?” she asks. “Walk tall. You are Herero.”
I stand straighter. I try not to look at the white people faces. I smile when I see Herero women. But my smile goes away. They don’t look like Herero. They don’t wear skins. Or beads. Or headdresses. They are covered in cloth like white people. Mama sees me looking at them.
“They follow the Missionary,” she says. “They have forgotten what it is to be Herero.”
Mama suddenly stops walking. I bump into her. She picks up Karemarama and puts his head against her shoulder so he can’t see. She looks across the path. Many people stand there. More people than I’ve ever seen. Two white men are pulling the clothes from a Herero man. They push him down and tie his hands and feet to a wood bench. One white man hits the Herero with a stick made from skin. The other white man calls out a strange word: “Eyns!”
Mama pulls me against her with her free arm so I can’t see either. But I hear the skin stick slap the man’s back again. “Tsvy!” the white man says as the Herero man screams. I cover my ears with my hands. I can still hear him screaming.
Mama turns around, pushing me toward cousin’s house. The man’s screams – and the shouting of the white man – follow us. Mama talks with cousin’s wife. “Why are they beating Hijatjikenga?” she asks.
Cousin’s wife shakes her head. “He paid Trader,” she says, “but Trader wanted more money. Hijatjikenga said no, he had paid what he owed.”
“So they beat him?” Mama looks like she doesn’t believe cousin’s wife.
“White people beat Herero for no reason,” cousin’s wife tells her quietly. “It happens too often. Sometimes they beat Herero until they die.”
“I thought white people promised to protect the Herero,” Mama says. “They made a treaty.”
Cousin’s wife laughs. Her laugh isn’t happy. “They never protect the Herero. When the Witboois take our cattle, the German soldiers watch them and then drink tea with them.”
“But what about the treaty?” Mama asks.
“The Germans use it to make the chiefs do what they want. And to take our land,” cousin’s wife says. “If the chiefs don’t do what the Germans tell them, the soldiers kill them with thunder sticks.”
Mama sees me listening. She tells me to play with Karemarama.
Tate joins us after the sun wakes the next day. He looks tired. And sad. Tate is quiet for many steps after we leave the village. Then he talks. “We must go to the house of your tate,” he tells Mama.
“Is something wrong?” she asks.
“The chief wants me to talk to him. Sick oxen pulling a trader’s wagon passed through your family’s village. Someone said one of the cows in the village got the sickness. By now, more cattle could be sick,” Tate says. “The Germans said they must kill all the cattle so the sickness doesn’t spread.”
“Even the ancestors’ cattle?” Mama stops walking. So we all stop.
“Yes, even the ancestors’ cattle,” Tate says quietly.
“Tate would never do that,” Mama whispers.
Tate sighs. “The chief is afraid that if he doesn’t, the Germans will kill all Herero cattle. They are looking for a reason to kill our cattle so they can make medicine for theirs. And they think if we don’t have cattle, we will give up our land and work for them. It’s what the Germans want – to make us their servants and to take more of our land.”
“What are you going to do?” Mama asks.
“I told the chief I would talk to your tate. We will do what we have to do.” Tate looks across the veld. “But that may not be what the Germans think should be done.” He begins walking again. We follow him.
THE SICKNESS
When we get to Tjikuume’s house, we see him sitting by the holy fire. Tate goes to his kraal. Tjikuume joins him. “I hear your ancestors’ red cow has the sickness,” Tate says.
“She isn’t eating. But that doesn’t mean she’s sick. Maybe she’s not hungry,” Tjikuume tells him.
Tate nods. He looks at red cow. Her bones stick out. And her eyes sink deep into her head. “How long has she not been eating?” Tate asks.
Tjikuume shrugs. “A few days.”
Tate checks red cow’s mouth and nose. She stumbles backward and lifts her tail. Instead of dung, sticky black blood comes out. “She has the sickness,” Tate says.
Tjikuume looks at the ground. He is very sad. “I will talk to the ancestors. Then I’ll put red cow down. But I won’t kill the other cattle.” He shakes his head. “Our cattle never had sickness until the white people came,” he says softly.
Uncles come out of their huts. When they hear Tate and Tjikuume, they say it is Kahamemua’s curse. Mama takes Karemarama and me to Tjikuu’s house. Tjikuu looks worried when Mama tells her about the cows.
“Who is Kahamemua?” I ask Mama.
“He was a Herero chief,” she answers.
“Why did he curse Tjikuume?”
Mama doesn’t answer my question. She pretends to be busy. I ask again.
Mama and Tjikuu look at each other. Mama shrugs. “He cursed all the Herero and their cattle.”
“Why did he curse his own people?” I ask.
“Because they let the white people kill him. They had no choice. Now no more questions,” Mama tells me.
Tjikuu shakes her head. “Watch out for white cattle that come to the village,” she sings quietly. “Then the homestead misses its fire.”
I laugh. “We don’t have white cows, Tjikuu. And what if a white cow comes? We can’t chase away cattle.”
“I know,” Tjikuu sighs. “That’s the problem. Ever since Missionary came to Hereroland, the white people take more and more. We can’t chase them away. Soon, all our holy fires will be gone.”
I tell Tjikuu about Missionary daughter with yellow hair like the grass and a face the color of a baboon’s bottom. “I don’t like Missionary,” I say.
“Why is that, little one?”
“Missionary says we don’t need the ancestors. Missionary says the ancestors are bad.”
“What do you think?” she asks me.
“I think the ancestors are good.”
“And why do you think that?”
“The ancestors give us life. They watch over us and guide us. Those are good things, aren’t they, Tjikuu?”
She pats my head. “Yes, they are.”
“So if Missionary says the ancestors are bad, then Missionary must be bad. Missionary tells us things that aren’t true.”
“Missionary thinks he’s telling the truth,” Tjikuu says. “But he doesn’t understand the ancestors because he has forgotten his own. We should feel sorry for Missionary. People without ancestors are people without yesterday or tomorrow.”
“How can we feel sorry for people who lie to us?” I ask.
“It is up to us to choose what is right. No one can make us eat a lie,” she answers.
I hear the cows crying. I want to go outside.
“No,” Mama says. “Let the men do what they must do.”
“But Ramata is out there. He’s not a man. He’s a boy.”
Mama doesn’t answer. She and Tjikuu sit quietly. They look sad. I play with Karemarama. He laughs. But even he can’t make Mama and Tjikuu happy.
The cows finally stop crying. We go outside to wait for Tate, but he doesn’t come. The sun is sleeping, so it’s too dark to see the cows. But we see an orange light far off in
the veld.
“Something stinks,” I say. I cover my nose. I can still smell the stink.
Mama looks over at Karemarama and me. “It’s time to sleep,” she says. “We will sleep in Tjikuu’s house tonight.”
We follow her and Tjikuu inside. Tjikuu spreads a skin for us to sleep on. She sprinkles herbs on it. The skin smells good.
When the sun wakes, I go out to help Tjikuu and Mama milk the cows. The kraal is empty. We look everywhere, but there are no cows. Tjikuu’s eyes are wet. She turns away from me so I can’t see her face.
My belly wants sour milk. Mama says no. “We will get omaere at home,” she tells me. “Tjikuu has no cows to milk. She must keep the omaere she already has so she and Tjikuume will have enough to eat and to give to the ancestors.”
We wait and wait for Tate to come back so we can go home. My belly growls with hunger. I tell it to be quiet, but it doesn’t listen. “I want to go home,” I tell Mama. “I’m hungry.” I watch Karemarama drinking milk from Mama.
Tjikuu gives me uintjes. But I want omaere. Mama tells me to hush and eat the wild onions.
Mama and Tjikuu talk softly. I open my ears, but I can’t hear their words. Tjikuu is very, very sad. She sees me looking at her. Her mouth smiles. But her eyes don’t. Something else is in her eyes. I don’t know what it is. It makes me want to cry.
Tjikuu stands up and claps her hands. “There’s work to be done,” she says. Her voice is too happy. “We should patch the house while we still have dung.”
She takes me outside to show me the holes in her hut. She sends me to the kraal to get cow dung so she can fill the holes. “Stay away from the dung of the sick cow,” she tells me.
I look at the ground and walk carefully. I don’t want to step in sick cow’s dung. I find good, dry dung and carry it to Tjikuu. I want to make her happy, so I walk like a Herero woman – tall and slow. Tjikuu’s eyes look at me, but they don’t see me. I go back to the kraal to get more dung for Tjikuu.
Mama Namibia: Based on True Events Page 2
