“Mama,” I tell the woman, “the life has left your baby.”
She doesn’t hear me. She continues to sit there, rocking her dead baby and singing to him.
There’s nothing I can do for her. I turn from the woman and go to the waterhole. The smell of death is so strong I pinch my nose closed. I look into the waterhole and vomit. The waterhole is filled with dead goats and cows and dogs. There’s no water to drink. I hear a cry from overhead. I look up. Hooded vultures circle high in the sky. They’ve found their next meal.
Forgetting my pain, I run from the waterhole. I must get as far from this place of death as I can. I run and run and run. I run until I can run no farther. But everywhere I see death. The dead horses of soldiers. Dead oxen and goats. And dead Herero surrounded by everything they had in life – clothing, gourds, and kirris.
I drop to the ground, too tired to move. My eyes close. I see Mama and Tate lying on the ground. Their blood flows together, making a tiny river that runs across the veld. I see Tuaekua Ehi holding Karikuta to her empty breast. He cries no more. I see Tjikuu and Karemarama and Ramata staring up at the sun with eyes that do not blink.
The heat of the sun wakes me. I crouch and look around. I see no path in the tall yellow grass. No sign of lions or other animals. It’s good, I think. No white people will find me here. I lie back in the grass. I try to forget all the bodies I’ve seen. But there’s nothing else to think about – except the emptiness of my belly and the dryness of my mouth. Keeping low in the grass, I open my pouches and eat the last few smashed berries. I chew on a root. It’s too dry to give me water. My belly is still hungry. My mouth still thirsty. I lie back down, hoping to find sleep. It’s my only escape.
THE KUDU
I lie still, my eyes closed, listening for the sound that woke me. There it is again. A low humming – like a man trying to sing a song without words. What if it’s a soldier? I open my ears and listen hard. A smile spreads on my face. That’s no man. It’s a kudu! I crouch like an animal and look across the veld toward the brush. I see nothing but trees and bushes. Then the kudu moves his dark head. I see his long twisted horns. He’s standing in the brush at the edge of the grassland.
I crawl slowly toward him so I don’t scare him. He watches me as he chews a mouthful of grass. When I get close, the kudu turns and walks into the brush. I stand up and follow him. It’s almost evening. He’ll be looking for food and water.
The kudu hums as he walks. He stops every little bit to graze on grass or leaves. After grazing, he turns to look at me, to make sure I’m still here. Then he hums and moves on. He stops again and raises his horned head to smell the leaves of a fat bush. He turns and grunts at me. He’s found a berry bush. Keeping out of the way of his horns, I pick my share of berries, eating as I pick and then filling a pouch. When we’ve both had enough, the kudu moves on. This time he leads me to a small waterhole. I crouch in some brush as he drinks. Now it’s my turn. I make myself drink the water slowly, lapping it from my hands. My thirst gone, I fill the rest of my pouches with water.
The kudu grunts. I look up. He’s watching me from the brush. He lowers his head and paws at the earth. He looks up at me one more time. Then he turns around and disappears into the gray twilight. I run to where I last saw him and stare into the dense brush. I can see no kudu. But I hear him running through the trees. He is a long way off.
I sit down on the ground. I look at the kudu’s hoof prints in the dirt. The tips of uintjes push up where he had pawed. I dig and dig until I have several of the wild onions to add to the berries in my pouch. I smile. I know the kudu was a gift from the ancestors.
The sun sleeps. I must start walking. I look up to find the stars that will guide me to Maharero and my family. I move cautiously through the brush, watching for animals that might think I’d make a good meal. I talk quietly to myself. I hope my voice is loud enough to scare off the animals but soft enough not to be heard by any soldiers who might be nearby. I hear the wild dogs bark in the distance. I bark back. I hear the hyenas cry. I try to make the same sound. I laugh at myself. It keeps me from being lonely.
The next few days, I follow the rhythm of the animals. Walking at night. Sleeping in the day. I set my own pace. Stopping when I need to rest. Eating a few berries and uintjes when I’m hungry. And sipping a little water when I’m thirsty. I search for fresh food and water just before the sun wakes and right after it sleeps. I watch the giraffes run across the veld, their long necks swaying to give them balance. I see a baboon sitting on a log. His black eyes stare at me as if he’s trying to figure out what I am. I see the wildebeest grazing in the grasslands. The kudu hiding in the brush. But I see no man. Not even a sign of one. It’s just me and the animals. I feel like I’m the only person in Hereroland.
It’s early morning when I come to a village. Or what’s left of it. The huts look like the blackened bones of a cow that’s been stripped of its hide and meat. The smell of dead fire fills my nose. I go to where the holy fire once burned. Its ashes are cold. I glance around and see an old man and woman leaning on each other in death. Dried blood covers what’s left of their heads. Vultures peck at them, each one claiming a part of their bodies.
Once again, I’m sick. But I don’t run away this time. I pick up a burnt piece of wood and wave it at the vultures. “Shoo!” I scream at them. A few of them fly into the low branches of a nearby acacia tree. The others continue their feast.
“Shoo! Shoo!” I scream again. This time I hit the birds with the wood. Not hard. Just enough to make them fly into the trees.
“Mama! Mama!” they cry at me.
I shake the wood at them and then gather branches to cover the bodies of the old man and woman. It’s not much of a grave. But it should protect them from the vultures.
The sun rises in the sky. I need a safe place to sleep. I could stay by the village. The soldiers won’t come back. They’ve already burned it. What do they have to come back for? I find a soft spot under an acacia tree and lie down. Sleep doesn’t come quickly. I have too many questions. I wonder where the ancestors of the village have gone. Their fire is out. The old man was probably the keeper of the fire. With him dead, how will the ancestors know where to find the rest of the clan?
And what about my ancestors? They sent me the kudu, but I didn’t thank them. I had no holy fire. Will they think I’ve forgotten them? I don’t need any more bad luck. And how will they know where to find me tomorrow and the next tomorrow? They knew I was on the mountain with Tate and the others. But if Tate didn’t come back to the fire, he couldn’t tell them what had happened. I feel very, very sad. I’ve lost my family and my ancestors. I don’t want to lose who I am.
The sun is low in the sky when I wake up. I shiver in the winter cold and reach for my water pouch. It’s frozen. I can’t drink until it thaws. I glance at the burned huts. Maybe not everything is ashes. I go into a hut that’s not burned as badly as the others. I dig in the ashes, looking for anything I can use. I find a sharp cutting stone and two fire-starting rocks. I put the fire rocks in my half-empty berry pouch. I carry the cutting stone outside where there’s more light. Using the sharp stone, I shape one end of a branch into a sharp point. When I’ve finished with it, I put the cutting stone in the pouch with the fire rocks.
I pick up my new spear and set off. Maybe I will have meat tonight. The thought makes my belly growl. I haven’t eaten anything but berries and uintjes since Uncle Kozondanda and Ramata trapped the rabbits on the mountain. That was many yesterdays ago.
INTO THE DESERT
I go from one village to the next, finding nothing but bones and ashes. The nights are colder and the water scarcer. I shiver as I walk in the darkness. I wish I could start a fire so I could get warm. And to cook the small birds and rabbits I kill with my little spear. But a fire might bring the soldiers. I’ve seen what they do to Herero. I’ve followed their path from one burned-out village to the next. I can’t let them bring death to me. I must find the rest of my family like
Tate said. So I shiver in the cold. And I eat my meat uncooked.
I don’t like the cold. But I’d rather freeze than be thirsty. Yet I’m thirsty all the time. As the veld turns to desert, the waterholes become fewer and fewer. Most of the ones I find are dry. And the others are filled with carcasses. I try digging new holes. I find a little water. It’s not enough. So I look for roots.
But soon, there are no roots. No waterholes. No villages. No veld. Just the desert. The sand gets deeper, making it harder to walk. The air stinks of smoke and rotting cow dung and death. All along the way are the ashes of campfires, pieces of clothing, skins, feathers, bangles, even a few headdresses. And the bodies of oxen, goats, and Herero. I pick up a tanned cow skin and drag it behind me. It will keep me warm at night.
By day, I find no shade. 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. The ground burns my feet. I spread the skin out so I can lie down. I feel the hot sand even through the skin. My throat sticks together as if I had swallowed a termite wing. It hurts to breathe. Big flies get in my eyes, my nose, and my mouth. I can’t shoo them away. I have to pick them out. Sleep refuses to come. I lie motionless. Seeing nothing. Hearing nothing. Waiting for nightfall or death. Whichever finds me first.
In the twilight, I hunt for food. But there are few rabbits and birds in the desert. And no berries. I’m so hungry I become like a vulture, using my sharp stone to cut pieces of spoiled meat from the dead cows and goats along the path. And when there’s no meat on the carcasses, I chew on the bones. At least it feels like I’m eating something.
At night, I stumble as I move forward in the cold, forcing myself to take another step. And then another. And another. In the distance, I see the glow of fire. At first, I think it’s the soldiers. Then I look behind me. Bright stars blink at each other from the mountains. The soldiers are talking. They’re behind me. Somehow I got between them and Maharero. Yesterday, that would have made me happy. Today I feel nothing. I’m too tired to feel or to think. I can only walk. Even though my legs are like heavy rocks that I must drag slowly through the sand.
I trip over something. I put my hands down to break my fall. They touch a face with no life. Once, I would have screamed. Not now. I’ve seen too many bodies to be frightened by death. It is my life.
It’s day once again. I see a few bodies covered with brambles near a clump of bushes. As I walk by, I look down. Some are waiting for death. For others, the wait is over. I move toward the bushes, hoping for shade and maybe a little water. There’s a waterhole. But it’s almost dry. I take what I can get – about a handful of water – and sip it slowly. When it’s gone, I scoop up the wet sand at the bottom of the hole and squeeze what little water it holds into my mouth.
I want to lie down in the bushes. They will shade me from the sun. An old tjikuu is already lying there. I crawl in beside her.
“Child, save yourself,” she whispers in a dry, cracking voice. “Run as far from here as you can.”
“I have been running, Tjikuu. All night. But I must sleep now so I can run again tonight,” I tell her.
I lie beside her, feeling her breath on my neck. For the first time since I left the mountain, I’m not alone. I sleep well.
The night cold wakes me. I start to roll over to pull the cow skin up over me. Then I remember the tjikuu. I feel her bony arm next to my back, but there’s no breath on my neck. I sit up slowly. I don’t want to wake her. I turn to look down at her. She doesn’t move. She is sleeping her final sleep.
And so I move on. I walk past the stiff bodies of cattle, goats, and dogs. Their bellies are big with death. I walk around the bodies of many dead or dying Herero. They are so skinny they seem like shadows on the ground. The hyenas look up from their twilight meals to stare at me curiously before returning to their feast. Above me, the pink-faced vultures circle.
As I walk, the tjikuu’s words “save yourself” repeat over and over in my head. Why? I ask. My family is gone. My ancestors are lost. And my people are dying. Why should I save myself? Why should I live when everyone else is dying? I don’t want to be alone any more.
For the first time, I think about my death. I don’t want to die out in the open where the vultures and hyenas can feast on me. No. When I can’t walk any farther, I will gather brambles and dig a hole. Then I will climb into the hole and cover myself with the thorny branches. And wait for death.
That’s good, I tell myself. But what if death comes to me when I’m sleeping? I won’t be able to dig a hole. I think on that a little while. I’m very weak. I’ve had little food or water for many days. I could go to sleep and not wake up – just like the tjikuu. From now on, I must only sleep under a bush. Or cover myself with brambles before I sleep.
A fire glows in the darkness. I want to run to its warmth. My teeth chatter. And I shiver. But I walk slowly, hiding in the shadows. Even though the soldiers are talking with their star-lights behind me, some could be sitting around the fire. As I get closer, I hear voices. Women’s voices. Then words. Herero words. I walk faster, but I’m still careful.
I’m close enough now to see the faces of the voices. Two tjikuus huddle over the small flame. I know I should keep walking. The soldiers aren’t that far behind me. But I’m shivering with cold, and the fire promises warmth. “Tjikuu,” I call softly as I step out of the shadows.
The women look up, startled. Their faces soften when I come closer. “You must warm yourself, child,” the oldest one says to me.
I rub my hands together over the fire. When my front is warmed, I turn my back. The heat spreads from my legs up to my shoulders. It almost burns me. But I’m still cold on the inside where the fire’s warmth can’t reach. I sit down next to the women.
“What are you doing out here by yourself?” the older one asks. She gives me a small gourd filled with water.
I drink before I answer her. “I’m looking for my family.”
“Who’s your family?”
“I’m Jahohora, daughter of Mutihu and Tutejuva of the Omukuatjivi clan.”
“Of the big house or the small house?”
“The big house,” I say. I tell them what happened on the mountain. “Now I must find the rest of my family like Tate said.”
“They were with Maharero?” the quiet one asks.
“Yes,” I say. “Have you seen them?”
The women are quiet as they look into the fire. The older one sighs. “You weren’t at the Waterberg?”
I shake my head.
She tells me the soldiers pushed all the Herero, and all their cattle and everything they had, into the valley beneath the Waterberg. “All night long, we saw the soldiers’ stars flashing from mountain to mountain,” she says. “Early the next morning, the boom sticks roared. And then came the lightning and boom of the big guns. Our men fought back – the ones who had boom sticks. They gave their lives to keep the soldiers from killing all of us in the Waterberg.” Her voice cracks. “As soon as darkness fell, we gathered our things and ran toward the morning sun. The soldiers have been chasing us until now.”
“Where are the others?” I ask.
“So many have died,” the younger one whispers.
“Maharero and those who live are still running – deep into the Omaheke. It’s what the soldiers want,” the first woman says. “Karikondua” – she nods her head toward the other woman – “and I can go no farther. We will die here.”
“If Maharero is in the Omaheke, that’s where I’ll go,” I say. “I must find my family.”
The older woman shakes her head. Her eyes, shining in the firelight, look into mine. “This is the Omaheke. The beginning of it. If you keep going, you won’t find your family. You’ll only chase ghosts – and a slow death. You must go back to Hereroland. You can’t live in the desert.”
“But the soldiers….”
“You can escape them. If you’re careful. And alone.”
I shake my head. I don’t want
to be alone anymore.
“Child, you must listen to me,” the old woman says. “You have to save yourself. For your family. And for our people. Someone must live to tell our story.”
The sound of horses and wagons echoes in the night. There are lots of them. “The soldiers,” Karikondua says quietly. “You must run, child. Quickly.”
“What about you, Tjikuu?”
“We’re too old to run any more. We’ll sit here by the fire and wait for death,” the older woman says. She sees the look on my face. “We have lived too many days. But you’re young. You must live. Hurry!”
The horses are getting closer. I run toward the desert. I stop when I hear the short thunder of a boom stick. I can’t run further. The soldiers might see me. I must hide. I look around, but all I see are shadows on the ground. Lots of them. The moon shines through the clouds. It shows me the shadows are bodies. Herero bodies. A few move. Most of them lie still. I wonder if any of them are Uncle Horere or Uapiruka. Even with the moonlight, it’s too dark to see faces.
There are no hiding places. So I lie among the bodies. If the soldiers come, maybe they’ll think I’m dead. I see the glow of the soldiers’ fires. I wish I could feel their heat. I pull the cow skin over my body. But my teeth still chatter in the cold. I move close to a mama, hoping she’ll help me get warm. But her body is cold. The smell of death fills my nose. I slowly move away from her. I turn over. I’m face to face with the cold body of a Herero man.
I roll onto my back and try to think of things so I won’t sleep. The fires from the soldiers’ camp will keep some of the wild animals away. But the smell of death may give them courage. I don’t want to become food for a hyena or wild dog while I’m sleeping. That would be a bad way to die.
I stare up at the stars. They make me think of Tjikuu. And the night she told me the stars would someday shine down on my children. She was so sure. It was the circle of life, she said. Now that circle is broken. I want to cry. But I have no tears.
Mama Namibia: Based on True Events Page 19
