“What will you do when the dung is gone?” I ask her as she fills the holes in her house.
Her eyes come back from a faraway place. “I will use something else,” she says.
When I go to get more dung, I see Tate and Ramata coming across the veld. “Tate is back!” I shout. I run to meet him. Tate looks tired. And his smile is gone. I follow him back to Tjikuu’s house where Tjikuu and Mama are waiting for him. He tells them that Tjikuume and uncles are moving their cattle into the mountains away from the other cattle.
“The milk cows?” Tjikuu looks at the empty kraal.
“Some of them had the sickness, so we had to put all of them down,” Tate says. “The cattle in the fields were still eating. If they go into the mountains, they might not get sick, and the Germans won’t find them.”
Tjikuu nods and goes into her house.
As we walk home, I ask Ramata what happened to Tjikuume’s milk cows.
“We had to kill them,” he says.
“That’s lots of meat. What will they do with it? Will they have a feast?” I wait for Ramata to say something mean.
He doesn’t. “The cows were sick, so the meat is bad. No one can eat it,” he tells me.
“Where are the cows? I didn’t see their skins or horns.”
“We took them away from the village. The white people said they had to be burned to keep the sickness from spreading. Tate started a fire that burned everything. Even the skins and horns. The fire smelled bad. It was hard to breathe.” Ramata is quiet.
I think about the awful smell from last night and the orange light across the veld. I am quiet, too.
As soon as we get home, Tate goes to the kraal. He checks our milk cows and looks at their dung. “They don’t look sick, but we must watch them. If they get sick, they won’t eat. So make sure they’re eating,” he says. “Keep strange cows and other animals away from them. They can get the sickness from eland, kudu – even the Germans’ horses.”
When the sun sleeps, Tate sits at the holy fire. Some uncles and aunties join him. “Where were you when the cattle of the Herero became sick?” Tate asks the ancestors. He tells them about Tjikuume’s cattle and says he’s sorry for having to kill so many cows. He asks them to keep the sickness from our cattle.
Mama and I bring omaere for the ancestors, Tate, Ramata, and the others. Then I eat omaere. But my belly isn’t happy. I think about Tjikuu and Tjikuume. What will they do without milk cows?
“Can we take yellow cow to Tjikuu?” I ask. “She needs a cow to milk.”
“You can take omaere,” Tate says. “But you can’t take a cow. The Germans would kill it. They say even the dirt in Tjikuume’s kraal would make cows sick.”
Tate talks with his brothers about the cattle sickness. The ancestors told him to move our cattle from the field into the mountains, far from the other herds.
Mama and I put food in a bundle for Tate and Ramata. They will be gone for many days. Uncle Kozondanda will stay in the village while the other uncles help Tate move the cattle. Tate takes Mama and me into his secret healing garden to show us a special plant that is medicine for the milk cows.
“Look at the shape of the leaves,” he says. He makes me feel the stalk. “See the color? When these plants are gone, you can find more growing in the veld, but you must get the right plant.”
He takes us into the veld to find the plant. I look and look. “Is this the plant for cow medicine?” I bend down to pull a plant from the earth.
“No, Jahohora. Don’t touch that.” Tate pulls me back. “That is a bad plant. If you touch it, you will get sores all over your body. It could make you very sick.” He shows me the medicine plant again. “See the difference?”
I look hard at the two plants. Then I hunt again for the medicine plant. “Here’s one, Tate!” I shout.
Tate looks at it. “Very good, Jahohora.” He smiles at me. “Now don’t forget what it looks like.”
We pull several plants from the earth and take them back to the village. Tate shows Mama and me how to prepare the roots of the plant to make medicine. “Mix this in the food for cows so they don’t get sick. But just a little. Like this.” He shows us how much medicine plant root to put with grass for the milk cows. “Don’t let the cows eat the whole plant. It will make their belly hurt,” he says. “Then they won’t eat or give milk.”
While Tate and Ramata are gone, I watch the milk cows. When the sun wakes each morning, I go to the kraal. I check my cow first. I look at her mouth, eyes, and nose. Just like Tate did. “You don’t have the sickness, do you?” I ask yellow cow.
She moos and rubs her head against me. I scratch her ears and give her food with the medicine plant. She eats. I check the other cows. They don’t look sick either. I make sure they eat.
Every day, Tuaekua Ehi and I go into the veld to get more cow medicine. I show my cousin what the medicine plant looks like. When she finds some, I make sure it’s the right plant. We put the medicine plant outside the kraal so the cows won’t eat it.
One morning, yellow cow won’t eat. I look at her mouth, her eyes, and her nose. She looks all right. I check her dung. There’s no blood. I try and try to get her to eat. She hangs her head. “Please eat,” I tell her. “I don’t want you to die.”
But yellow cow won’t eat.
“Mama!” I shout as I run toward our hut. “Mama! Yellowcowwonteat!” I’m crying, so my words fall together.
Mama comes out. “What’s the matter?” she asks.
“Yellowcowwon’teat. Shecan’thavethesickness. Igavehermedicineeveryday.” I talk too fast.
Mama doesn’t understand. “Slowly,” she says.
I take a deep breath. “Yellow … cow … won’t … eat.”
“Did you give her the medicine plant?”
“Every day. But not today. She won’t eat it today.”
Mama goes to the kraal with me. She looks at yellow cow’s mouth and eyes. She tries to feed the cow. But yellow cow hangs her head. “I don’t see anything wrong with her. Maybe she’s not hungry today,” Mama says.
Uncle Kozondanda comes over to the kraal. He checks yellow cow, too. Then he looks at the dung in the kraal. “Where is the medicine plant?” he asks me.
I show him where Tuaekua Ehi and I put it next to the kraal. It’s all gone. “Where did it go?” I ask.
Uncle smiles. “I think it’s in yellow cow’s belly. That’s why she isn’t eating.” He tells Mama to put yellow cow by herself for a few days. Until we know she doesn’t have the sickness.
A few days later, the chief’s headmen and two white men ride into our village on horses. They want Tate. Uncle Kozondanda tells them to keep their horses far away from our kraal. They take their horses into the veld and let them graze. The men walk toward Mama and Uncle Kozondanda. The headmen ask for Tate again.
“He’s not here,” Uncle Kozondanda says.
“Where is he?”
Uncle shrugs.
“When will he be back?” the headmen ask.
“I don’t know,” Uncle says. “Maybe in a few days.”
The headmen say the white people are angry because Tate told Tjikuume and uncles to move their cattle. Moving cattle won’t stop the sickness, they say. Only killing cattle will end the sickness.
The white men point at the milk cows in the kraal. They make strange words with the headmen. “Why haven’t they been killed?” one headman asks Mama and Uncle Kozondanda.
“They’re not sick,” Mama says quietly. “Why should we kill cows that aren’t sick?”
The white men check the cows. They see yellow cow. The headmen ask Mama why yellow cow is by herself.
“She ate too much medicine plant, so her belly hurt,” Mama says. “But she’s better now. She’s eating.”
The white men make more strange words with the headmen. One reaches for a small boom stick in a pouch strapped to his belly. The headmen tell Mama the white men want to kill yellow cow so they can make medicine for the white people’s cattl
e.
“No, that’s my cow,” I shout.
The headmen look up at the sky. They look down at the ground. They look across the veld. But they don’t look at me.
Mama pulls me to her. “They can only make medicine from sick cows,” she says. “Yellow cow isn’t sick.”
The headmen make strange words with the white men again. One of them points at Mama. I hear the headmen say Tate’s name. The white man puts the boom stick back in his pouch. Anger covers his face.
The headmen turn back to Mama. When Tate returns, they say, he must come to see the chief.
Tate comes home many days later. Ramata and uncles are staying in the mountains with the cattle. Mama tells Tate about the headmen. He sighs. “I will go to see the chief tomorrow,” he says.
Tate wakes up before the sun and goes out to the holy fire. Yesterday touches tomorrow in early morning and when the sun goes to sleep. That’s when the ancestors are close. So that’s when Tate talks to them. I put wood on the fire to keep it burning. I hear Tate telling the ancestors about the headmen’s visit and his journey to see the chief. He asks the ancestors to help him. Tate looks very tired.
“Can I come with you to the chief’s house?” I ask when Tate is done talking with the ancestors.
“Not today,” he says. “But you can get more medicine plant for the cows. I will give it to the chief.”
I smile. Getting medicine plant for the chief is important work. I go into the veld and pick lots of medicine plant. I like helping Tate.
PEOPLE SICKNESS
Many seasons pass before the cattle sickness ends. Ramata and the uncles finally bring our cattle home. “The ancestors were good to us,” Tate says. “None of our cattle got the sickness. But the Herero who live near Germans had to kill all their cattle. Even if they weren’t sick.”
Tate is sitting by the holy fire. I hear him talking with his brothers. “They forgot the ancestors,” Tate says, shaking his head. “They followed the way of the white people. Now they have no cattle.”
“I think more trouble is coming,” Uncle Kozondanda says. He has just come from the chief’s village. “Many Herero chiefs lost their cattle. Now they are selling more and more Herero land to white people so they can buy new cattle.”
“But land is a gift from Njambi Karunga,” Tate says. “It’s not theirs to sell.”
Uncle Kozondanda nods. “The white people don’t know that. They think a paper signed by a chief gives them the land. So the chiefs take their money. When Herero cattle become many again, they will graze on the land as our cattle always have done.”
Tate frowns. “The Germans will never let that happen. Once they take something, they hold it tightly to their chest. Even if they don’t need it.”
After the cattle sickness ends, the people sickness comes. Tate heals many people. But many die. And some Herero refuse to see him. They want the medicine of the white people. “Germans brought the sickness,” Tate says. “How can they heal it?”
“How did they bring the people sickness?” I ask Tate as he sits by the holy fire.
“Germans brought many cattle from other lands. Sick cattle. And when the sickness spread to the Herero cattle, the Germans made the Herero kill them – even the cattle of the ancestors. Taking care of the ancestors’ cattle is a sacred duty for the Herero. By killing their cattle, the Herero made the ancestors angry. Now, many Herero have no food. Without omaere, they get weak and die,” he says.
“Can we give them food?”
Tate smiles, but he looks sad. “We have given omaere to your mama’s clan and the chief. We do not have enough to feed all the Herero.”
Mama asks me to help her tan a goat skin. She lays it out near the holy fire. I take fat from a jar and rub it deep into the skin. I work hard as the sun shines down on me. The sun makes me too hot. I have to sit down. My belly hurts. It pushes up toward my throat and spills out of my mouth.
“I hurt,” I tell Tate. “Do I have the sickness? I don’t want to die.” I hold my belly.
Tate touches my belly and then my head. He looks at my skin. He shakes his head. “It’s not the sickness. Your body is just cleaning itself.”
A few days later, Mama’s brothers come to Tate. Tjikuume is very sick, they say. He needs a healer. Tate must hurry, or it will be too late. Tate goes into his secret garden and wraps many herbs in a skin. Mama, Ramata, Karemarama, and I go with Tate to Tjikuume’s village.
When we get there, Tjikuu cries and hugs Mama. Tjikuume has already gone to the ancestors, she tells us. We look at Tjikuume lying on a cow skin. Big sores cover his body. His eyes are closed. He looks like he’s sleeping.
“Mama, wake Tjikuume,” Karemarama says. “I want to talk to him.”
Mama is crying. “We can’t wake him,” she says softly. “He’s sleeping his final sleep.”
“Why?” I ask. “We gave Tjikuume omaere. He had food.”
“Tjikuume had seen many, many seasons,” Mama says. “He was growing weak. Then his soul got sick when he had to kill his milk cows and the cows of the ancestors.”
“Tate helped kill the cows,” I remind her. “Is his soul sick?”
“Tate is a strong man. He has many seasons before him.”
I play with my cousins while Mama, Tjikuu, Mama Vitjitua and the other women take care of Tjikuume. I race with Uapiruka. He slows down so I can catch up with him. I like Uapiruka. He is Ramata’s age mate, but he doesn’t tease me like Ramata does.
Just before the sun says goodnight to the day, we sit at the holy fire. Tate doesn’t sit with Mama and us because he keeps his own fire. Uncle Horere – Mama’s oldest brother and Uapiruka’s tate – tells the ancestors who is there. He names the ancestors and reports that Tjikuume has joined them. He puts out the holy fire of Tjikuume. Uncle Horere will start a new fire. He is now the keeper of the omuriro omurangere for the Omukuatjivi clan.
Tjikuume’s favorite ox, the black one with brown stripes, comes in from the field, calling softly. He knows Tjikuume has gone. Now it is his time.
Tate helps uncles take the life from black ox with brown stripes. They cannot use a knife. No blood must spill when we’re mourning. But once the ox is dead, they use a knife to cut the skin away from the meat and bone. Tjikuume was an important man, so some uncles say many oxen must be killed for his feast. Uncle Horere says too many cattle died during the sickness. There aren’t enough cattle for a huge feast. Uncles agree to kill four more oxen.
Uncles wrap Tjikuume in the skin of the black ox and lift him to their shoulders. Tate asks Tjikuume where he wants to be buried. Uncles wait for an answer. If he isn’t buried right, the family will be cursed.
“There,” Uncle Horere points toward a thorn tree growing by the kraal. Uncles dig a big hole under the tree. They put Tjikuume in the hole and cover his body with dirt. They put the horns of the slaughtered oxen on the tree that marks Tjikuume’s grave.
Tate goes home with Ramata and Karemarama. But Mama and I stay with Tjikuu for many days. Mama says women are at birth and at death. It is our part in the circle of life.
Lots of people come to tell Tjikuu stories about Tjikuume. They tell about good things and bad things Tjikuume did. I ask Mama why.
“It gives balance to his life,” she says. “And it helps clean our sadness.”
Mama Uiiue, the sister of Tjikuume, tells a story about when her brother was a boy like Ramata. “He was teasing me,” she says. “Our tjikuu told him if he didn’t stop, she would beat him with a switch. He didn’t believe her, so he kept teasing me. ‘I told you,’ Tjikuu said quietly.” Mama Uiiue talks like her tjikuu.
We laugh.
“When Tjikuu went to get a switch, my brother ran away so he wouldn’t get beaten. He ran and ran and ran until he could run no more. Then he walked and walked and walked. He stopped only when he thought Tjikuu would never come that far,” Mama Uiiue says. “But Tjikuu was a strong, stubborn woman. She walked half the day, switch in hand, until she caught up with him. Without
saying a word, she beat him. Then she went home. After the beating, brother was too tired to run. He was even too tired to walk so he spent the night out on the veld with all the wild animals. He came home the next day. And he never disobeyed Tjikuu again.”
I laugh again with Mama and the others. It’s hard to think of Tjikuume as a boy. He was always an old man to me.
When the mourning time ends, our family goes to the tree by Tjikuume’s grave. Uncle Horere sprinkles us with water and uses a tree leaf to wash the sadness from us.
Mama says we are ready to go home. We will not take sadness with us.
TUAEKUA EHI
I am playing storyteller with some cousins when I see Tuaekua Ehi and ask her to play. She is the best storyteller in the village. “I can’t,” she says. “I must go with Tjikuu.”
Later, I ask Mama why Tuaekua Ehi went away.
“It’s time for her to become a woman,” she tells me. “Her tjikuu is teaching her the way of being a grown woman.”
“What are they doing?”
Mama smiles. “You will learn when it’s your time.”
Three days later, a strange young woman walks into our village. She wears a long skindress, a headdress, many bangles, and ankle and wrist cuffs.
“What clan do you belong to?” I ask her.
“You don’t recognize me?” The young woman laughs shyly.
I look very closely. The voice is Tuaekua Ehi. But this is a woman, not a girl. Is this some kind of trick? “Who are you?” I ask.
“It’s me. Tuaekua Ehi.”
“You sound like Tuaekua Ehi. But you don’t look like her,” I say.
She laughs again. “It’s just the clothes, Jahohora.”
“No,” I say. “You’re not Tuaekua Ehi.”
“Yes, I am. I’ve just grown up.”
“In three days?”
Ramata and the other cousins come over. They tease Tuaekua Ehi. Then they ask her to race. She is very fast. The boys always try to beat her. But they can’t.
Mama Namibia: Based on True Events Page 3
