Mama Namibia: Based on True Events

by Mari Serebrov

  I shake my head. “It’s too late to chase the white cattle from the holy fire,” I say, remembering Tjikuu’s praise song. “They are too many.”

  The hut grows darker. I look up. Tate is standing in the opening, blocking the sunlight. He asks Mama to cook some food for the headmen. It’s been a long time since they’ve eaten, and they have many other villages to visit.

  It’s almost twilight when the headmen leave. Tate calls all the uncles and aunties to the holy fire. We have important things to discuss with the ancestors, he says. Like always, Tate takes water in his mouth and spits on the youngest children. He doesn’t spit on me. I’m old enough now to drink from the gourd myself.

  After naming everyone who’s at the fire, Tate tells the ancestors the words the headmen brought. Our chief and his counselors keep promising peace to the Germans. The chief even wrote a letter to the German governor. But more soldiers have come to the chief’s village. They built a fort in the mission compound and filled it with the big guns that make lightning and thunder. White settlers from the farms have gone to the fort, seeking safety. They bring stories of Herero murdering women and children. The chief tells the missionaries the stories aren’t true.

  But the German soldiers and settlers don’t listen. They’re afraid of the Herero, so they’re getting ready for war.

  A few Herero stole some cattle and broke into a trader’s store. The chief made them give everything back to the white people, Tate says. Then a Herero who didn’t listen to the chief killed an English trader. The chief sent his men to bring the man to Otjimbingwe for trial. But the Germans still didn’t trust the chief. Now a German boat has come to Swakopmund. The soldiers from the boat are making war on the Herero. They put chains around the necks of many Herero. Even the women and children. And the tjikuumes and tjikuus. They send them to live in a big boat that got stuck on the sands of Swakopmund, far from their homes in Hereroland. They’re not allowed to leave the boat. Many of them get sick and die.

  The news gets worse. When the soldiers from the boat came to Karibib, they beat some Herero and forced them to tell lies about how their friends and family killed German settlers. The soldiers tied ropes around the necks of the men who had been accused of murder. They tied the other end of the ropes to tree branches spreading high above the earth. They left the men hanging from the trees as food for the vultures. Then the soldiers began killing everyone who lived in Karibib. One boy escaped and ran all the way to Otjimbingwe to warn the chief that the soldiers were coming to his village. The soldiers are coming now. And in every village along the way, the soldiers are killing Herero. Young and old, men and women.

  Tate shakes his head sadly. “This is not the way to make war,” he says. “When the Witboois make war on the Herero, they take our cattle and shoot only our warriors who fight against them. Once they have what they want, they go home.”

  “The Germans will never go home,” Uncle Kozondanda says. “They want the land itself.”

  Tate nods. “It’s not safe for us to stay here. If the soldiers come, they won’t care that we are peaceful.” Tate turns to the holy fire and asks the ancestors what we should do. He pauses, listening to their answer. Then he faces us again.

  “The ancestors say we must leave this village and go to the Okavaka Mountains,” he tells us. “We will be safe there until this ends. We will be far from the Germans, so they won’t mistake us for warriors.”

  Some uncles don’t want to hide. “We’re not old men who can’t defend themselves,” they say. “Hiding is for women and children. If the Germans bring war to us, we must fight like Herero warriors.”

  Tate nods. But he’s sad. “The ancestors said some of you would join Maharero.” He’s quiet while he thinks. “You must take some of the family cattle. When the Germans and Maharero put down their weapons, you will bring the cattle back to the village.”

  The uncles talk about who will join Maharero and who will go with Tate to the Okavaka. Tate says the soldiers are two days’ journey from our village. We must all leave the next night when there will be no moon. The moonless sky will help hide us.

  What about Tjikuu? I wonder. And Tuaekua Ehi? And Uapiruka? Where will they go? Mama Uajoroka asks the question for me. She is Tuaekua Ehi’s mama.

  Tate says we will stop in their village on our way to the mountains.

  The next day, Tate and Ramata go with uncles to divide the cattle and goats. Mama and I pack food for our journey. Mama tries to smile. She tells Karemarama that we’re going on a big adventure. It will be like when we go with Tate to take the cattle to the high country. But we’ll go even higher into the Okavaka this time.

  He’s excited. “Will we see lions? And leopards?” he asks.

  “I hope not,” Mama says.

  That afternoon, Mama makes us lie down to sleep.

  “But I’m not tired,” I say.

  “You must sleep,” Mama says. “We will walk all night tonight, so you need to rest now.” She lies down too.

  I try and try to sleep, but my eyes aren’t heavy. I’m too excited, and worried, about going to the mountains. Walking at night across the veld can be dangerous. Even without soldiers. There are snakes. And hungry animals. And what about tomorrow? What happens then?

  Just as my eyes close, Mama wakes us up. Tate and Ramata are back. We must get ready to leave. We eat a quick meal. As the sun sinks toward the distant mountains, we meet all the uncles and aunties by the holy fire. Tate tells the ancestors where each of us is going so they’ll know where to find us. Then he takes a piece of charred wood from the fire. He will use it to start a new holy fire when we get to the mountains. Tate also picks up the branch of the sacred omumborombonga tree and puts it in his pack. He turns away from the holy fire.

  “Aren’t you going to put it out?” I ask.

  “It must die on its own,” he says. “We cannot put out what we don’t start.”

  The last light of the sun is fading when we’re ready to leave. Aunties and cousins cry as they say goodbye. Uncles quietly herd the cattle and goats. Most of the clan is going to join Maharero in the land where the sun wakes the day. They go first, driving the cattle before them. The rest of us watch silently as they disappear into the veld.

  When our small group leaves the village, I turn to look back. Darkness grows about the empty huts and kraal. The only sign of life is the tail of smoke that rises from the holy fire. It’s as if the ancestors are waving us on our way. It makes me want to cry. Mama sees me looking back. She puts her arm around my shoulders and pulls me close. “It’s all right,” she says. “We’ll all be back together soon.”

  We walk quietly across the veld. I walk with Tate, who leads the way. “How do you know which way to go?” I ask. “There’s no sun to guide you.”

  Tate points to five stars shining brightly in the white sky path we call the omukuangu. “The Otjikoroise Tjovaeve shows us the way at night,” he says.

  I look up at the stars. Four of them are very bright. But the reddish one is much smaller and dimmer. “How do you read them?”

  Tate uses his finger to draw a line between the top and bottom stars. “Wherever the Otjikoroise Tjovaeve is in the sky, those two stars will always point toward home,” he says. His finger moves to the bright star just above the small red one. “That star points to where the sun wakes.”

  There’s no moon tonight. Tate says that’s good because it makes it easier to follow the stars. They don’t have to fight with the light of the moon.

  As we walk, I’m frightened by the many noises that fill the night. I can make out the growl of the brown hyena, the whistle of the duiker, the bark of wild dogs. These are all sounds I heard in the distance in the village. But out here on the veld, they’re much closer. I remind myself that Tate and Uncle Kozondanda will keep us safe. I shut my ears to the wild sounds, listening instead to the gentle, familiar lowing of the cattle. It calms me.

  We finally come to Tjikuu’s village. It seems much farther at night. When we g
et near the village, Tate calls like a bird, so we won’t surprise anyone. It’s a sign mama’s brothers recognize. One of them calls back and comes out to meet us. He talks quietly with Tate. They have heard about the soldiers. Some uncles and cousins have already joined Maharero. The few who remain gather in the center of the village. Tjikuu is there. And Tuaekua Ehi and Vijanda with Karikuta, their baby boy.

  I hold my arms out to Karikuta. He kicks his feet and laughs as Tuaekua Ehi hands him to me. “Where is Uapiruka?” I whisper to Tuaekua Ehi.

  “His family is joining Maharero,” she tells me.

  Tate says we can’t stay long. We must get to the mountains as soon as possible. Tuaekua Ehi and Vijanda want to come with us. A few of the others do, too. They quickly gather whatever they can carry.

  Mama asks Tjikuu to come. But Tjikuu shakes her head. “I’m too old for the mountains,” she says. “I will stay here in the village with my sisters.”

  “But you will have no one to protect you,” Mama says. “All the men are leaving.”

  “We will be safe,” Tjikuu tells her. “The white people have no reason to fear a few harmless old women.”

  Mama nods and smiles. But I know she is worried about Tjikuu. “Please come with us, Tjikuu,” I say.

  “Climbing mountains is for the young.” She gives me a long hug. “When we meet next, you’ll be a grown woman.”

  I laugh, but her words make me sad. Tears wet my eyes.

  At last, we’re ready to go again. I walk with Tuaekua Ehi and her mama, Uajoroka. We take turns carrying the baby, being careful not to stumble on rocks or shrubs. The night grows long, and I’m very tired. I want to lie down and sleep, but I keep walking. Except for the soft jingle of the women’s beads and bangles, we move silently over the earth – as our ancestors did before us. It’s the old way of the Herero – to move from place to place so our cattle have fresh grazing. But since the white people took our land, we have had to stay mostly in one place.

  The darkness lightens as the sun prepares for a new day. Tate leads us to a waterhole. I hadn’t realized how thirsty I was until the cool water runs down my throat. We water the animals and fill our waterskins for later in the day. Mama Uajoroka lies down on the ground. “This is a good place to rest,” she says.

  “We must go a little further before we can stop for the day,” Tate tells her. “We can’t stay by the waterhole. It would be too dangerous. The soldiers may come here to drink and water their horses.”

  Mama Uajoroka sighs as she gets slowly to her feet. We fall in line again, following Tate as he leads us closer to the mountains, to a place white people don’t come. Here, we will sleep for the day, hidden by the tall grass of the veld and protected by the shade of a few trees.

  I’m so tired I don’t mind the prickliness of the grass or the unevenness of the ground. I just want to lie down. Then I see Mama set off toward the milk cows with a gourd. The cows don’t care that we’ve been walking all night. They want to be milked. I know Mama is just as tired as I am. I look down at the ground and yawn. I want only to sleep right now. But Mama needs my help. She smiles wearily when I join her. Aunties also help. The milking goes much faster since we don’t have as many cows. But we still have enough milk to make omaere for everyone.

  The milking done, I lie down near Mama. Sleep comes instantly. But in my dreams, I’m still walking. It’s a journey with no end. The sun beats down on me, setting me on fire with its heat. I raise my hand against its brightness. There’s no blocking it. I stumble as I move forward, forcing myself to take another step. And then another. And another. I realize I’m alone. I look for Mama and Tate. For Ramata, Karemarama, and Tuaekua Ehi. They are nowhere. But I’m not afraid. I feel nothing. I’m too tired and too hot to feel. I can only walk, even though my legs are like heavy rocks. I stir in my sleep and begin another dream. Again, I’m walking. And I’m alone. The dream repeats itself as I slip in and out of sleep, tossing in the heat of the afternoon sun.

  A fly buzzes in my ear, breaking the stream of my dreams. I open my eyes, shielding them from the sun with my hand. Tuaekua Ehi is feeding Karikuta. A few others are moving about quietly. But most of the group are still sleeping. I see Ramata sitting on the edge of our makeshift camp. He looks out across the veld. I walk over to him, being careful not to step on Mama or Karemarama.

  “What are you doing here, Ramata?” I whisper from behind him. “Can’t you sleep?”

  He spins around and looks at me. “Don’t come up behind me like that. You startled me.”

  “Why are you sitting here?” I ask again. “Have you slept at all?”

  He yawns. “It’s my turn to watch,” he says. “I slept while Tate and the others watched.”

  “What are you watching?” I look out over the veld. Other than our cattle and goats grazing nearby, I don’t see anything except a herd of wildebeest and some dark clouds rolling together where the mountains touch the sky.

  “I’m making sure no white people come. Especially soldiers,” he says.

  “What would you do if you saw a soldier? You have no boom stick.” I laugh softly.

  “Neither does Tate. And he watches.”

  “But what would you do if soldiers were coming?” I ask.

  “I’d wake everyone up so we could hide.”

  “It would be hard to hide the cattle,” I say.

  “I guess the soldiers would take them. And then they’d look for us.” Ramata slumps down.

  “Let’s hope they don’t come this way.” I look again across the veld. The clouds are piling on top of each other as they race toward us. “It’s going to storm,” I say. “We should wake the others so they can hide from the rain.”

  We get everyone up. They gather their things quickly. I help Tuaekua Ehi with the baby. We all move beneath a clump of trees. They’ll give us some protection from the wind and the rain the clouds will bring.

  As the clouds roll in, the wind hits first, stinging us with the sand it blows against us. Tuaekua Ehi and I bend over Karikuta, using our bodies to break the wind. The tall grass dances wildly, while the trees bow low, scratching us with their thorny branches. Then the rain comes, like a broad river rushing from the sky. The thirsty veld drinks what it can and lets the rest of the water run off into the river beds formed when our ancestors walked the earth.

  The rain ends as quickly as it began. Wet but not soaked through, we leave the shelter of the trees to let the sun dry us off. Karemarama runs to a nearby termite hill. “Mama!” he shouts. “We need a fire.”

  Mama turns to Tate. He looks out over the veld and then nods his head slowly. The young cousins chatter happily. We’re going to have roasted termites! It’s a rare treat we get only after a rain. Mama gets a calabash and the two flint stones she uses to start a fire. As she and I walk toward the termite hill, I keep my eyes on the ground, looking for a dry hollow branch. I find one and then pull handfuls of grass. Even though it’s just rained, the grass is already dry.

  Karemarama is closing off the holes of the tall termite hill.

  “Be careful,” Mama calls. “Look for snakes first.”

  He backs off and checks for snakes at the base of the hill. Snakes like termites as much as we do. Especially puff adders. They hide in the shade of the termite house. While most snakes usually slither away, adders will bite. And their bite can be deadly.

  “No snakes,” Karemarama says as we join him. I help him close off the rest of the holes, except the main opening at the bottom of the termite hill. I have to close the openings at the top. He isn’t tall enough to reach them without knocking down the hill.

  Mama takes the hollow branch I found and fills it with the dry grass. She puts it in front of the main opening. Then she strikes the flint stones against each other, causing a spark that lights the grass. As it begins to burn, Karemarama and I quickly get more grass to build the fire.

  We hold the big calabash close to the fire so we can catch the winged termites that try to escape the heat. They swar
m out all at once – right into our calabash. Mama covers the calabash with a skin so none of the termites can escape.

  By time we get back to the camp, the aunties have made a fire and are ready to roast the insects. Mama carefully releases the termites into a hot pan. As the termites roast, an auntie gently tosses them into the air so their thin wings fall off and float away. The now-wingless termites drop back into the pan. While termites taste good, their wings don’t. One time I ate a termite that still had its wings. They stuck to the top of my mouth. I had to pull hard to get them out.

  The cousins laugh while we eat the roasted termites. Even Tate and Mama are smiling. That evening as we wait for the sun to sleep, the aunties tell funny stories. This is a big adventure, I think happily as I play with Karikuta.

  THE OKAVAKA MOUNTAINS

  After a few nights of walking, we reach a waterhole near the base of the Okavaka just as the sun wakes up. The rock face of the mountain, glowing in the early light of the sun, seems to grow almost straight up out of the veld. I drink my fill of water and then put my head back so I can see the flat top of the mountain. My head is so far back it hurts my neck. How will we ever get up there? If we had wings like a bird, it would be easy. But we have cows and goats and babies and young children.

  Mama Uajoroka says out loud what I’m thinking.

  Tate grins. “You’re right,” he says. “We can’t go up this side. We will have to go around to where the mountain rises more slowly from the earth. It will be an easier path, but it can still be dangerous, especially now in the rainy season. We will have to climb it while the sun is awake.”

  Mama Uajoroka moans. “I won’t go any further until I get some sleep,” she says. “We’ve been walking all night.”

  Tate nods his head. “We’re all tired,” he says. “We’ll rest here most of today. This waterhole is not one the Germans will find. But just before the sun sets, we must find the path. We’ll camp there tonight.”