Mama Namibia: Based on True Events

by Mari Serebrov

  Mama pulls me away from the opening. “They don’t want a sheep,” she says. “They want you.”

  “Me? I don’t want to live with one of Uncle’s sheep.”

  Mama laughs again. “They’re asking for you to be Uapiruka’s bride.”

  My eyes get big. I swallow. “Why don’t they just say that instead of asking about sheep?” My face feels hot, but happiness fills me.

  “They’re men,” Mama says. “They have to play their games.”

  “So what did Tate’s answer mean?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  I must look sad, because Mama says, “That’s the way they play the game. He can’t say yes the first time.”

  Tate calls to Mama and me to bring food for our visitors. The men sit around the holy fire as we serve them. I feel their eyes watching me as I give meat to Uncle Horere. Uncle smiles at me. The others laugh.

  The men talk by the fire until late in the night. Mama sends Karemarama and me to bed.

  “Are they staying here all night?” I ask.

  “They’ll sleep behind the hut,” she tells me. “But they’ll be gone before you get up in the morning.”

  She’s right. When I go to milk the cows in the morning, I look toward the veld behind the hut. There’s no sign of Uncle Horere and the others.

  The next few days Karemarama teases me. “J’hora’s a sheep,” he says. “An’ she’s going to live with sheep.”

  “Mama, make him stop,” I say.

  Mama just smiles.

  “Baa-aa-aa,” Karemarama teases.

  “That’s enough,” Mama finally tells him. But she’s still smiling. It’s good to see her smile again.

  When Ramata comes home from tending the cattle, Karemarama is the first to tell him about Uncle Horere’s visit. I wait for Ramata to tease me, too. But he doesn’t.

  “Uapiruka?” he asks. “I like him. And he will be a good husband. He’s the eldest son of the eldest uncle – and he has a lot of uncles to inherit from. He will be a good father for all my nephews.”

  “What if I have daughters?” I ask.

  “You must have sons to inherit all my wealth,” Ramata teases. “But you’ll also need to have lots of daughters to marry the sons Karemarama and I will have.”

  “I’m not getting married,” Karemarama says.

  Ramata and I laugh. “That’s not your choice,” Ramata tells him.

  Our days follow their old routine, except Tate goes to see the chief again. With Tate gone so much, Ramata has to spend more time with the cattle in the fields. Tate used to share the work with him.

  “When will Uncle Horere come again?” I ask Mama more than once. “Do you think Tate scared him away?”

  She laughs. “Give him time,” she says. “He’ll want to make sure Tate is going to be home.”

  Sure enough, a few evenings after Tate returns, I see a small group of men approaching the back of our hut. Once again, they drop to their knees as the sun goes to sleep behind the mountains. And once again, Tate sends me inside the house with Mama.

  I stand close to the doorway so I can hear them talk. This time Uncle Horere asks for one of Tate’s female goats to live with his goat. Great. Now I’m a goat.

  “Baa-aa-aa,” Karemarama says as he crawls toward me with his head down as if he’s going to ram me.

  Mama laughs and hushes him. We don’t hear Tate’s answer.

  I’m sleeping when Tate comes in late that night, but I wake up when I hear Mama’s voice.

  “What did you tell my brother?” she asks.

  “I said, ‘I heard you.’”

  Mama laughs softly. “You’re making him come back again?”

  “Jahohora is my only daughter,” Tate says. “She’s worth coming back for. And I want to have my fun.”

  Mama is silent for a long time. I think she and Tate have gone to sleep. I’m thinking about being Uapiruka’s wife when I hear Mama’s voice again. “Do you think this is the right time to promise her? We don’t know what’s going to happen.” Once again, the happiness is gone from Mama’s voice. Instead, there’s fear. But what is she afraid of?

  “From the time the Germans first came to Hereroland until now, we have not known what tomorrow will bring,” Tate says. His words come slowly and quietly, like he’s trying to calm Mama. “All we know for sure is that the sun will rise in the morning. And the ancestors will be here with us. We must live as we always have. But we must be ready for tomorrow. We can sleep better knowing our daughter is promised to a good man who will take care of her. The ancestors are smiling on her.”

  Mama smiles more the next few days. But her eyes don’t smile. They are sad, even though Tate stays at home. I catch her looking off into the distance as if she’s waiting for something or someone to come across the veld. I think she’s waiting for Uncle Horere. Maybe she’s sad because he hasn’t come back yet.

  A few days later, Uncle Horere returns for the third time. From inside the house, I hear him once again asking for a female goat.

  Tate nods. “You can return home. I will let you know when it’s time for Okukomba,” he says.

  I see a big smile spread across Uncle Horere’s face as he sits by the fire with Tate.

  “Okukomba? What does cleaning have to do with marriage?” I whisper to Mama as we stand close to the doorway.

  Mama spreads her hands. “It’s part of the game,” she says. “It means the marriage is almost arranged. But for now, we’ve got hungry men to feed.”

  * * * * *

  The sun beats down on me, making beads of sweat shine on my arms. I work hard as I tan a new goat skin. I stretch and look up at the sky to see if I have time to finish the skin before the sun sleeps. The sun is already beginning its day-end ritual. I bend over the skin again. I should be able to get it done before dark. I am so busy with my work that I don’t notice the people coming across the veld until Mama says something to Tate. I look up to see Uapiruka’s tate and mama coming toward us on their knees. Several other people, including some of my aunties, are with them.

  “Go in the house, Jahohora,” Tate tells me.

  I wait for Mama to join me. But this time, she stays outside with him.

  Again, I hear Uncle Horere ask for a female goat to live with his goats.

  “It is fine,” Tate says. Uncle and Auntie stand up. They smile big smiles.

  “We will tell you when the wedding will be,” Tate says.

  Uncle Horere and the other men sit with Tate. I help the women cook a small feast. As I give Uncle Horere food, I realize that soon I will be living in his village. The thought makes me sad. I will have to leave Tate and Mama. And Ramata and Karemarama. But I’m also happy. Tjikuu lives in Uncle’s village. Tuaekua Ehi lives there, too. And so does Uapiruka.

  Our visitors sleep behind our house that night. They will leave before the sun greets the morning. But I don’t think about tomorrow. I’m enjoying tonight. It is a clear night. The full moon and the stars make it almost as light as day. As I look up at the sky, I’m reminded of what Tjikuu said about the stars shining down on my children. They will be the children of Uapiruka and me. I smile. And thank the ancestors.

  I sing as I help Mama milk the cows the next morning.

  “You sound happy,” she says.

  I nod. “When will the marriage be?” I ask her.

  “It wasn’t that long ago that you said you never wanted to leave Tate and me,” she says, “but now you’re in a hurry to go.”

  “No, Mama. That’s not what I mean.”

  “I know.” She smiles sadly. “The marriage will come after you become a woman.”

  “When will that be?” I ask.

  “It’s different for every girl.” She looks at me from the tips of my feet to the top of my head. Her eyes focus on my bare breasts that are starting to stick out a little. “It will probably be a few more seasons.”

  We finish with the cows and the mixing of the omaere. “I’m glad you’re going to marry someone you like
,” Mama tells me. “You and Uapiruka will balance each other. Just like Tate and I do. Uapiruka is a good man. He’s slow to anger. That will be important tomorrow.”

  “What do you mean, Mama? What are you so worried about?” I ask.

  Mama sighs deeply and walks back toward our hut without answering me.

  STORM CLOUDS

  The wind wakes me up. It whistles as it swirls around our hut. And then I hear the thunder. Echoing through the veld, getting louder as it approaches our village. The rain, when it comes, crashes against the ground. I snuggle against my cow skin, happy that I’m inside where I’m dry and protected from the wind. Then I remember the holy fire. It’s not rainy season, so we didn’t think to protect the fire. If it goes out, we can’t start it again. Only Tate can do that. And he’s with the chief. The ancestors will think we’ve forgotten them.

  I hurry out into the darkness. I see no light from the fire. The wind and rain beat against my body as I hurry to the fire circle. Lightning crackles across the sky. In the bright flash, I think I see a thin whisper of smoke swirling away with the wind. It’s too late to weave branches into a protecting shield. But maybe the fire is alive enough to carry into the house.

  More lightning streaks the sky. I see Mama standing in the opening of the hut. I think she’s calling to me, but I can’t hear her over the thunder and roaring wind.

  Using my short skin skirt to protect my hands, I grab a piece of wood from the fire. I feel the heat rising from it as I bend over it to protect it from the wind and rain. I carefully, but quickly, carry it into the hut and lay it on top of a few pieces of dry wood Mama has set in the middle of our hut. I lean down to blow on the wood, hoping the wood will fan into flames. Mama gently pulls me back.

  “The holy fire must start itself,” she tells me.

  “What if it doesn’t?” I ask. I think back over the seasons. As far back as I can remember. But I can’t think of one time the holy fire went out.

  “It’s a sign,” Mama says quietly.

  “Of what?”

  “It means something is wrong with the family.” Mama turns away from me. “Leave it be.”

  The next morning, I rise before the sun. Mama is sitting beside the wood in our hut, staring at the charred branch from the holy fire. There is no flame. No smoke. Just the faint smell of burnt wood. I step into the morning twilight, hoping that the fire outside is still burning. The rain has stopped, and the thirsty ground is already dry. I hold my hand low over the blackened branches and ashes. A few small coals still glow with a little heat. I lay small pieces of dry wood and grass on the coals. Maybe they will catch.

  I look up. Mama is standing behind me, watching the fire. “Let’s give it time to start,” she says. Her voice sounds funny. It’s flat. Without hope. I follow her as she heads toward the kraal to milk the cows.

  After the cows are milked, we walk slowly back toward the fire. I think I see a tail of smoke curling upwards. But there is nothing. The coals are black and gray. And the splinters of wood and grass I had placed on the embers are cold to the touch. I cry. It’s my job to keep the fire going. And I let it die. “I’m sorry, Mama.”

  “It’s not your fault,” she says. “Something is wrong.” She catches her breath and sits on the ground, shaking her head. Fear is in her voice.

  I remember her days of silence. The days without laughter or smiles. Of her hushed, worried talks with Tate. There’s something she’s not telling me. Maybe the bad luck is already here. I think of Tate. Of Ramata and Karemarama. Are they in danger? Or is it someone else in Tate’s clan?

  Mama is still sitting by the dead fire when Uncle Kozondanda walks by. He sees the fire is out and stops. “What happened?” he asks. I hear the worry in his voice.

  “The storm,” Mama says quietly.

  “It is not a good sign. Especially now.” He looks down at the ground. “When will Mutihu be home?” Tate is the only one who can start the fire again.

  “Soon, I hope.” Mama sighs.

  For the next several days, Mama keeps Karemarama and me close to her. I often see her looking across the veld. She’s waiting for Tate and Ramata. I know she’s afraid for them. Aunties and uncles also are afraid. The holy fire is for the whole family. When it goes out, it’s a bad sign for everyone.

  * * * * *

  I’m helping Mama cook when I see Tate coming across the veld. “Mama, it’s Tate!” I call.

  She looks up. She has no smile. But her face is lighter – as if a big load of rocks has been taken from her back.

  Tate raises his hand to greet us. He seems tired. As he reaches the clearing in front of our hut, he stops by the holy fire. His mouth drops open. He sits down quickly. “How?” he asks.

  “A thunderstorm put it out,” Mama says.

  “A storm? When?” He nods slowly when Mama tells him. “Is everyone all right?” Tate sounds worried.

  “Ramata and some of your brothers are still with the cattle. Everyone else is here.”

  “Good,” Tate says.

  As soon as the sun goes to sleep, Tate starts the holy fire again. He’s still talking with the ancestors and his brothers when I lie down for the night. I’m almost asleep when I hear him say the Germans have pushed Samuel Maharero into fighting them. Maharero is a Herero chief. The white people made him chief of all Herero. But Zeraua is still our chief.

  I yawn and close my eyes. Maharero lives far from here. What he does has nothing to do with us. I roll over on my side and go to sleep.

  Over the next few days, Tate and uncles talk about nothing except Maharero’s war. Even though the fighting is far from us, the news has traveled throughout Hereroland. The white people are scared that their Herero neighbors will attack them. Chief Zeraua has told the white people many times that he wants only peace, but they don’t believe him. Some of them are rounding up their Herero neighbors and putting them in fenced kraals, like cattle, to keep them from attacking. Other white people are killing Herero.

  Although our chief has not joined the war and is asking his men to keep the peace, a few uncles want to join Maharero. “The white people will use this war to turn on all of us,” one uncle says to the others who just want their families and cattle to be safe.

  Tate tries to keep them calm. “Maharero has ordered that no Herero is to hurt German women and children. And he’s given his protection to the missionaries,” Tate says. “Surely the Germans will do the same. They will not harm our wives and children. And they know I am a peacemaker. If you, my brothers, show you will not make war, they will leave us alone.

  “No white people have settled near us, so we should be safe.” Tate looks at each of his brothers. “For now, we will keep the cattle close to our village. And we will all stay in the village, so the Germans don’t mistake us for Maharero’s men.”

  A few uncles and cousins go to the fields to get the cattle and the men who are watching them. I’m happy that Ramata is coming home. I would never tell him, but I miss his teasing. And ever since the storm put out the holy fire, I’ve been worried that I might not see him again.

  Kov

  PAPA

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Kov!” Christof hollers as he heads out into the wintry afternoon.

  “Kov, Kov,” Papa mimics when the door shuts behind my friend. He picks up one of the tin soldiers I’ve painted and examines it critically. “Your name is Yaakov. It’s a good name for a Jew. And it’s the name your Mama and I gave you.”

  “But Papa, I prefer Kov. I think it’s a better name for a German who happens to be Jewish.” I know better than to provoke Papa, but sometimes I can’t help myself.

  “We are Jews who happen to live in Germany,” he insists. “Be content with what God made you. You can’t be both a German and a Jew. They will never forget you’re a Jew.”

  “And you will never let me be a German,” I say, a bit too mockingly.

  He shakes his head sadly. “It’s not worth the price, Yaakov.”

  The faraway look in h
is eyes signals the conversation is over. I know that look. I know where he has gone. To that moment, back in 1819, when his grandfather was beaten to death by a peasant mob during the Hep Hep Riots in Frankfurt. It was long before Papa was born, but the telling of it is so etched in his mind he might as well have lived it. For Papa, it was a wrong never righted, a memory never to be forgotten. It is a moment, he says, that sums up both the German character and the essence of being a Jew in Germany.

  I look at Papa’s rigid, frail body, prematurely aged by a world he can’t forgive. And I promise myself that the tragic events that have defined my family’s past won’t dictate my future. But I have to admit Papa is right, at least partially. There are some Germans who passionately believe Jews don’t belong in Germany – even if our families have been here for nearly a thousand years.

  These notions have been around for generations. But ever since Fritsch published his manual on anti-Semitism a few years ago, the hate is growing – even here in Fürth, which has long been a refuge for Jews. I see it in the hooded stares at the market and hear it in the not-so-quiet whispers at school. I try to ignore them and focus instead on the Jews who have made a name for themselves as doctors, scientists, and even politicians. Papa says most of them are no longer Jews. Some of them might agree with him. But there are those who, even though they have converted, have not forgotten their roots.

  Why else would Ritter von Epenstein ask Papa to make a special toy for his godson’s birthday? With his wealth, he could have commissioned any of the famous Nüremburg spielwarenmachers to craft the little tin figures of the German officials who were the first to govern South West Africa. Instead, he came to Fürth to see Papa. Of course, Papa’s handmade toys are a work of art. And everyone knows it.

  Even though we can use the money, Papa isn’t happy about doing business with the Jewish doctor’s son who has bought himself a title and traded in his faith. Papa says you can’t trust people who turn their backs on who they are.

  I’ve heard stories – and whispers – about the ritter ever since he bought the ruins of Burg Veldenstein two years ago. But I’d never met him until he swept into our shop the other day. Physically, he’s not a tall man, but his presence overwhelmed the workspace, making it seem even smaller than it is. And when Papa hesitated to accept the commission, Epenstein insisted in a formal but charming manner. He’s obviously used to getting his way. He handed Papa some photographs of Reichskommissar Göring surrounded by African Herero for Papa to use as a guide.