Mama Namibia: Based on True Events

by Mari Serebrov

  We milk the cows and finish watering the animals before lying down in a bit of shade. Ramata says he will take the first watch.

  Knowing that we’re near the end of our trek makes it hard to sleep, especially in the late summer heat. I roll over on the stony ground, trying to hide my eyes from the bright light of the sun. But there’s no hiding. And the rocks push against my side. I sit up and look around. Everyone but Ramata is sleeping. I wish I could sleep. I quietly sweep the rocks from the ground so I have a smooth place. Exhausted, I lie down again. This time, my eyes close.

  It seems like I’ve just gone to sleep when Mama wakes me. It’s time to eat.

  “I don’t want to get up,” I say. “I’m still tired.”

  “Everyone else has been awake for a while,” Mama says. “You’ve got to get up.”

  We eat and rest a little longer before setting out again. The sun is low in the sky, making it cooler. I want to run so I can get there faster. I’m tired of all the walking. But Tate sets the same slow pace we’ve traveled the past few nights. I know it’s so everyone can keep together. Still, the sooner we get to the path, the sooner I can sleep again.

  We keep walking long after the sun is gone from the sky. Tate leads us to where the mountain rises slowly from the veld. It’s like a huge dark shadow that hides the moon. Tate’s been here many times. He knows the easiest way to the top. But the path is hard to find in the dark. Finally, he tells us to rest while he looks for the path.

  I sit on the ground with my back against a rock. Tuaekua Ehi wants to talk. I’m too tired. Her voice becomes a soft hum as my eyes close.

  I’m in that place between sleep and wake when Tate returns. I hear him say we can stay here until morning. He has found the path. It’s close by. Tuaekua Ehi gently shakes me. “Jahohora,” she says, “you need to lie down so you can sleep better.”

  I open my eyes and stretch. I almost hit Tuaekua Ehi. “Sorry,” I say sleepily. I kneel and look for a place without rocks.

  “Over here.” Tuaekua Ehi leads me to a spot close to where Vijanda lies with the baby. She lies down. “There’s room for you here. It’s a good place to sleep.”

  I curl up on the ground and sleep.

  The next morning, we are all rested and ready to begin the climb up the mountain. Tate tells us it will be a harder walk today, but we must keep going. We have to reach the top before dark.

  Tate leads out, and the women and children follow. Ramata, Vijanda, Uncle Kozondanda, and the other men walk behind, herding the animals. Once again, I walk with Tuaekua Ehi and Mama Uajoroka so I can help with Karikuta. Tate quickly finds what he says is the path. It’s not really a path. It’s just one of the many places the water runs down from the mountain after a rain. But today, it’s dry.

  At first, the ground rises gently so walking is easy. It’s a good thing. The sun is already hot and uncomfortable. Especially since we’re used to walking in the coolness of the night. Tate stops a few times so the aunties can rest. He teases them about not being able to keep up. “This is the easy part,” he says. “Just wait till we get to where the mountain really rises. By then, you’ll be walking with your hands and feet.”

  “Not me,” Mama Uajoroka says. “If it gets that steep, you’ll have to carry me up the mountain, Mutihu.” Mama and the other aunties laugh.

  “You’d break my back,” Tate says. “You’ll have to get your own husband to carry you.”

  Uncle Kozondanda grabs his back as if it’s broken. He makes a funny face. We all laugh again.

  Tate grins and picks up his pack. “Now you keep up, Uajoroka,” he says as he starts walking.

  The path slowly becomes steeper. I watch my feet so I can step over the many rocks that washed down with the rains. I hear Mama Uajoroka breathing heavily behind me. I look back at her. She is using her hands to balance herself and grab onto the nearby bushes. “You need a walking stick,” I tell her.

  She doesn’t have the breath to answer.

  The sun is high in the sky when we come to a small grassy valley. Tate says we will stay here until it’s cooler. I stretch out in the grass. My feet are happy to have a rest. Tate talks quietly with his brothers and Ramata. I hear him telling them that we must leave the cattle here. This is the last grass before the rocks of the mountains begin, and the cattle won’t be able to make the steep climb. Ramata and one of the uncles will stay with them while the rest of us go on. Tate and Vijanda will come back once we’re all settled. Then the men will take turns staying with the cattle.

  “How much farther is it?” Mama asks as Tate lies down beside her.

  “We have a big walk yet,” he answers. “The hardest climb is ahead of us.”

  “How will we milk the cows if they’re down here and we’re all the way up there?” Mama looks up toward the top of the mountain.

  “You don’t want to come down here and milk them every day?” Tate laughs. “Are you getting lazy?”

  Mama gives Tate her stop-joking look. “I guess you men could learn to milk them.”

  “We’ll have to let them go dry.” Tate isn’t teasing now. “Even if we milked them, it would be too hard to carry the omaere to the top.”

  We start walking again. The path quickly rises to a steep climb. Rocks fall down on me as the people in front push forward. I slow down, putting more space between us. I try not to kick rocks down on the people behind me. I glance back. Mama Uajoroka is crawling on her hands and knees. Tate is right. We couldn’t carry jars of omaere up this path every day.

  The climb is hard. We have to stop often to rest. I look up. The top of the mountain doesn’t seem to be getting any closer. “We must go faster,” Tate says. “We have to reach the top before the sun sleeps. There’s no other place to camp.”

  Mama Uajoroka moans. But she doesn’t argue. No one wants to be on this path in the dark. It’s too steep and rocky. And at night, it would be a good resting place for snakes. We try to walk faster, but Mama Uajoroka and some of the children can’t keep up. And Tuaekua Ehi is having trouble carrying the baby. “Let me take him,” Vijanda says. Tuaekua Ehi nods. She looks very tired.

  “Hurry,” Tate says. “We must race the sun.”

  The sun almost wins. The last rays of the day are sinking behind the earth as we reach the top of the mountain. It’s a broad rocky plain that looks out over the desert. Up here, there are few trees to block the wind that sweeps over us, chilling us as the darkness spreads. Tate finds a spot that’s a bit protected and calls us to him. This will be the holy fire.

  As he lays out the fire circle, I help my cousins gather a few pieces of wood and some of the scraggly grass that has managed to grow through the rock of the mountaintop. We put it in the fire circle, along with the charred wood Tate brought from the holy fire back in the village. He lays the sacred branch of the omumborombonga tree nearby. Using Mama’s firestones and a hollow tube with dry grasses, Tate sparks the fire. We crouch around so the wind doesn’t kill the sparks before they light the grasses and then the wood.

  The wood is dry, so it catches quickly. I am happy for its heat. I warm my front and then turn around so the flames can warm my back. I sit down next to Mama. Tate drinks from his waterskin and spits on Karikuta. Everyone else is big enough to drink from the skin. Tate calls to the ancestors and names everyone sitting around the fire. “We have done as you told us to,” he says. “We thank you for our safe journey.” He then tells the ancestors where they can find the rest of the family. He asks them to bring all of us good luck.

  Tonight, we lie on the ground of our new home, huddling close to the fire and each other to keep warm. No dreams come to me. I’m too tired for dreams.

  In the morning, we begin building our new village around the holy fire. Tate, Vijanda, and the uncles explore the area, looking for water, food, and places to hide. The rest of us scramble over the mountaintop, gathering branches and stripping the bark from trees. We use the bark to tie the branches into temporary round houses, like the ones our ancestor
s used when they moved their great herds of cattle across the veld. The huts will not keep out all the wind, but they will be better than nothing. And they will give us some protection from the rain and the heat of the sun.

  It takes us most of the day to make the houses. By time we’re through, my belly is growling with hunger. But there’s no omaere, no grain, nothing. “What are we going to eat?” I ask Mama.

  Tate laughs. “All you ever think about is food,” he says. “Well, you’re not going to starve up here.” He points to the cooking fire. Mama Uajoroka is roasting a few plucked birds.

  I smile. “Where did those come from?” I ask.

  “The men hunted while the rest of you made the houses. We will have lots to eat here. There are plenty of uintjes, wild berries, birds, and animals. The ancestors are good to us,” Tate says.

  “What about water?” Mama asks. “I don’t see any waterholes.”

  Tate nods. “The nearest ones are at the base of the mountain. But this is the rainy season. We will use our calabashes to catch water. And the ground itself will hold water for us.” He points to several dark spots in the rocks where rain collects.

  Tate’s answer doesn’t make Mama happy. “What happens when the rains end?” she asks.

  Tate laughs and shakes his head. “You’re always one to worry, Tutejuva. We’ll be back home by then.”

  “And if we’re not...?”

  Tate pats her back. “If we’re not, we will go down the mountain to get more water when we need it.”

  Mama says nothing more. It is time to eat the birds Mama Uajoroka has roasted.

  Our days quickly take on a new rhythm. In many ways, it’s like being back home in the village. Except there are fewer of us. And Tate doesn’t go visit the chief. Instead, he takes turns watching the cattle with Ramata, Vijanda, Uncle Kozondanda, and the other uncles. The men also hunt, using their knives, sharpened sticks, and stones to kill small animals and birds. I help Mama and the women gather berries and dig for uintjes.

  When I’m not working, I help take care of Karikuta or play with Karemarama and the younger cousins. I teach them how to play stone echo and to build little houses of stones. And we race. All over the mountaintop. Mama Uajoroka keeps reminding us to watch out for snakes. I see their tracks, but I don’t see them.

  In the evenings, we play storyteller. Mama, Tuaekua Ehi, and aunties often join in, telling us stories about when they were children or about our ancestors. When Tate isn’t with the cattle, he tells stories too. I like his stories the best. They’re always funny. He tells about jokes he played on Uncle Kozondanda when they were boys.

  “My brother Kozondanda is a brave man,” Tate says with a big grin. “The only thing he’s afraid of is snakes. It doesn’t matter if it’s poisonous like an adder or a black mamba or if it’s a harmless house snake.” Tate hisses like a snake. “If it’s a snake, Kozondanda will run from it, screaming like a little girl.”

  Mama Uajoroka nods her head. “He makes me check the house for snakes every night,” she says.

  Tate laughs. “You can blame me for that. When Kozondanda was a little boy, I made a pile of leaves and dung and convinced him that it was a very poisonous snake. I told him the snake liked to play dead until it could trick someone into stepping on it. It was a very patient snake. It could lie there motionless, just waiting for him to come near. It could wait until he was a grown man, if it had to. But if he ever got close enough, the snake would rise up and sink its huge fangs into his leg.”

  Tate makes his fingers like fangs and pushes them into Karemarama’s leg. Karemarama screams. The other cousins laugh.

  Tate continues his story. “I told Kozondanda he would fall to the ground dead before he felt the pain of the bite, because the snake was so poisonous.”

  “Did Uncle Kozondanda believe you?” Karemarama asks.

  “Yes, he did,” Tate says. “He wouldn’t go anywhere near that pile of leaves and dung. Then one day, Mama asked him to bring her something that was by the pile. ‘No,’ he said, ‘the snake will kill me.’ ‘What snake?’ Mama demanded.”

  We all laugh as Tate makes funny voices for his mama and Uncle Kozondanda.

  “‘That snake right there.’ Kozondanda pointed at the leaves. ‘What are you talking about?’ Mama asked. She walked right over to the pile of leaves.

  “‘Mama, don’t!’ Kozondanda shouted. ‘The snake will get you!’ Mama jumped on the pile of leaves as hard as she could. Kozondanda screamed and covered his eyes as dirt and leaves flew all over the place. ‘See,’ Mama said, ‘there’s no snake.’”

  Tate pauses. But no one interrupts. We want to hear the rest of his story. “By this time, Kozondanda is shaking and crying like a baby. He looked so funny that I started laughing. I couldn’t help myself. Mama turned around and looked at me. ‘What did you tell your brother?’ she asked me. ‘Nothing,’ I said. But I was never very good at lying to Mama. ‘Mutihu,’ she said, ‘I want the truth.’ So I told her what I had done.”

  “Did she spank you?” Karemarama asks.

  Tate shakes his head. “My mama was a gentle person. She never hit us. She scolded me though. But all the while she was scolding me, I saw laughter in her eyes. And ever since then, Kozondanda has been scared of anything that looks like a snake.”

  The next morning, the clouds roll in, threatening us with rain. We quickly weave branches together to shield the holy fire. We finish just as the winds blow across the mountain. Our huts shake in the wind as if they want to fly away. Then the rains come, pouring through the branches of the hut and getting us all wet. Just as suddenly as the storm came, it lifts off the mountain and spreads out over the valley.

  I sit on a rock at the edge of the mountain, watching the shadows of the storm clouds dance over the veld below. Small streams of water rush down the steep mountainside, carving their way into the rock. They flow together at the bottom, flooding a dry riverbed with life.

  “Stop that!” I hear Mama shouting. I turn around. Karemarama and the other boys are splashing in a pool of water. “Get out of there right now,” Mama says. “That’s our drinking water.”

  The other boys hang their heads as they climb out of the pool. But Karemarama laughs as he drips water all over the rocks.

  “You’re just like your tate,” Mama says. I smile at the laughter in her voice. It’s a nice sound. Almost as nice as when she sings. But it’s been many yesterdays since I heard Mama sing.

  THE SURPRISE

  I help Mama tan a skin Tate brought up the mountain the last time he came home. One of the cows was attacked by a leopard. Tate and Vijanda chased the leopard away before it could drag the cow off. But the cow was so badly hurt they had to kill it. We now have fresh meat and a skin.

  Mama and I work all day to make the skin soft. While we work, I ask Mama when we’ll get to go home. “I miss Tjikuu,” I say. “And Uapiruka and all my other cousins.”

  “I miss everyone, too,” she says. “It shouldn’t be long now.”

  She sings softly. I look up, surprised. “I like it when you sing,” I tell her. “Especially the baby songs.”

  “You remember those?” she asks.

  I nod my head and tell her about the time I snuck across the veld to the baby house when Karemarama was born. “Even though I couldn’t see you, it made me happy to hear you sing.”

  Mama smiles. “I used to love to sing. But it’s not the same now.” She looks sad, like a cloud has covered her face. “Someday you’ll understand.”

  “I know ... when I’m a woman,” I say. “Why does everything have to wait until I’m a woman? I’m smart. Tate says so. I can understand just as much as Ramata. And everyone treats him like a man. I want to be treated like a woman.”

  “You’re right, Jahohora. You are very smart. I think you could survive in the desert on your own if you had to. But don’t be in a hurry to grow up. You don’t really want all those worries right now.”

  “What’s there to worry about, Mama? A few s
nakes? A leopard? Karemarama getting our drinking water dirty?”

  Mama smiles. And sighs. “You’ll understand when….”

  “I’m a woman.” I make a face.

  We work in silence. The sadness deepens in Mama’s face. I wish she were singing again. I wish I hadn’t said anything to make her sad.

  Mama shoos me away from the hut the next day. I know she has work to do, but she doesn’t want my help. She tells me to play with my cousins.

  “I’m not a child,” I tell her. “I don’t want to play with little kids.”

  “Then go talk to Tuaekua Ehi and help her with Karikuta,” Mama says.

  I walk slowly to the little house Tuaekua Ehi shares with Vijanda. I don’t want Mama to be angry with me. I want her to smile and sing again. But I don’t know how to make her happy.

  Tuaekua Ehi is sitting outside watching the baby crawl around on an old goat skin. “He’s getting big,” I say. “He’ll be walking soon.”

  Tuaekua Ehi smiles at me. “He’s growing too fast,” she says. “Sometimes I wish I were still a girl and could race with you and the other cousins. I know I could still beat you.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” I say. “I’ve gotten a lot faster.”

  We sit quietly, watching Karikuta play. There are so many questions I want to ask Tuaekua Ehi. Questions about being a woman. About being a wife and mother. I’m sure she would answer my questions, but I don’t know how to put them into words. “Is it hard being a woman?” I ask at last.

  “Hard?” Tuaekua Ehi laughs. “I wouldn’t say it’s hard. It’s just what we become when we grow up. But it’s not always as fun. And there’s more to worry about.”

  “That’s what Mama says.” I tell her about my talk with Mama and how I made her upset.

  “I don’t think your mama is angry with you, Jahohora. But I know she’s worried – about you and Karemarama and Ramata.”

  “Why? What does she have to worry about?”

  “All mamas worry about their children. It’s part of being a mother,” Tuaekua Ehi says. “We don’t want our children to get sick or hurt. We don’t want them to be sad. We want them to live long lives filled with happiness and children of their own.”