I think about what the women by the fire told me. If what they said is true, my uncles, aunties, and cousins who joined Maharero are either dead or running toward the slow death of the desert. I wish I were with them. If I’m going to die, I want to die with my family. But if I die here, at least I will be with other Herero.
I watch the last stars fade as the first light of the new day pushes the darkness away. I can see many, many Herero lying on the ground. There are more than I thought. More than I’ve seen before, living or dead.
I look toward the soldiers’ camp. They’re still sleeping in their little cloth houses. I should run. But I’m too tired and too weak. I slowly pull a bramble bush over my body. Its thorns catch on the cow skin that covers me. I push the skin off. It’s getting too hot anyway. A horse whinnies in the soldiers’ kraal. I feel eyes watching me. I lie still.
All is quiet again. I slowly pull another branch up over my head. I turn my face so the thorns don’t scratch my eyes. Once I’m covered, I lie still. The soldiers are waking. I listen to their strange words as they take down their houses. I smell food cooking. My belly growls. It’s been many yesterdays since I’ve eaten.
I hear footsteps coming toward me. My heart beats fast. A soldier stands above me. I close my eyes so he won’t see the life in me. I lie still as death, even when I feel his pee trickling down on me. It makes me sick. I want to scream at him. But I’m quiet as his dirt spills on me.
When he’s done, he doesn’t go away. I peek through my eyelashes. I watch him bend down over the dead Herero woman next to me. He takes her chest bangles and puts them in his pants. He makes a strange noise. Like the wind blowing through the trees.
I hear several soldiers walking nearby. I see one take the headdress from another woman. Then he takes the bangles from her arms. One of the soldiers calls to the others. He bends over a young Herero woman. She still has life. He pulls down his pants and lies on her. He laughs as he jerks his body forward. His laughter sounds like a hyena screaming. The others make the same sound as they watch him. He stands and pulls up his pants. One by one, the other soldiers lie on the woman. When the last one is done, they smile at each other. One of them picks up his boom stick. It has a spear on it. He pushes the spear into the woman’s belly. The soldiers laugh as they go back to their camp.
I close my eyes and try not to breathe as they walk by me. I hear the horses in the distance. The other soldiers are getting ready to leave. I breathe slowly. I’m safe. But now there are other footsteps. Coming toward me. They stop at my side. A skinny soldier stands above me. The hair on his face is long and matted. His dark eyes stare at me. I know he sees me. I lie very, very still and keep my eyes almost shut. I want him to think I’m dead. He bends down and pushes something under the bramble branch. I see a snake wrapped around a tree branch on his shirt.
The soldier starts to stand up. He stops and slowly pulls a small boom stick from a pouch tied around his belly. He knows. I close my eyes tightly. And wait for death. My eyes blink open when I hear the thunder of the boom stick. That’s when I see it – a black mamba close to my hand. It falls backward and dies. The soldier must be a snake hunter. That’s why he wears a snake on his shirt. He protects the other soldiers from snakes. I’m glad he was here to protect me.
I’m no longer afraid of him. I stare up through the brambles into his dark eyes. They are kind but full of sadness. It’s as if he has lived too many yesterdays. But he’s not an old man. Not like Tjikuume was. He’s not even as old as Tate.
As the snake hunter turns from me, he whispers. I slowly look around to see who he’s talking to. No one’s there. His voice rises and falls like Tate’s when he talks to the ancestors at the holy fire. I open my ears to hear the soldier’s words as he walks away. I don’t know them, but they make me want to live. I wish the soldier would come back. That he would talk to me. And walk with me through the desert. That he would protect me from snakes. Even though he’s a soldier and a white man, I know I’d be safe with him.
But he’s gone. And I’m lying here alone among the dead, waiting for the soldiers to leave this place. I hear the crack of whips and the drivers shouting at the oxen as the wagons move out. They roll over the bodies of the Herero. I listen until the wagons sound like thunder rumbling in the distance. I lie there longer until the only sound is the buzzing of a fly and the flapping of vulture wings. I slowly lift the brambles off me. I sit up and rub sand all over my body. I want to clean the first soldier’s dirt from me.
Feeling a little cleaner, I look around for what the snake hunter left. I find a small jar. It is square. And I can see through it – like the jar Tate told me about. I open it and smell. It’s filled with water. I take a few slow sips and close it. The snake hunter also left a little bundle. I pick it up and look at it closely. I have never seen anything like it. It’s tied, but not with a piece of skin or tree bark or even grass. And the wrapping is smooth and white. It tears easily when I open it. Inside are pieces of meat and flat bread. I eat a little of the meat. I smell the bread. Then I take a few small bites. It doesn’t taste like anything I’ve eaten before. But it’s food. And it’s more than I’ve seen for many, many days. It’s almost like a feast. And it will keep me alive.
My belly isn’t full. I want to eat all the food. But I bundle up most of it. I must keep it for tomorrow and the next tomorrow. I don’t know when I’ll find more food. I tie the skin string from one of my pouches to the bottle and hang it from my neck. I pretend it’s like Mama’s chest bangles.
I usually sleep in the day, but I can’t sleep today. Too many thoughts fill my head. I think about the snake hunter who gave me the food. About what the tjikuus told me by the fire last night. About my family. Maybe some of them are here among the dead. I get up and look at the faces of the bodies that cover the ground. I look and look and look. I see babies and children. Mamas and tates. Tjikuumes and tjikuus. But no one I know.
The sun is high in the sky. It makes the desert very hot. I start to drink from the jar. I remember the water the tjikuus gave me last night. There is a waterhole here. And maybe the soldiers left some food. I walk slowly to the place of the soldiers’ camp. Thin tails of smoke still rise from their fires. I find the waterhole. It’s dry. The soldiers and their horses and oxen have taken it all. I dig a new hole close by. A little water bubbles up. I drink some and put what I can in the jar and one of my pouches.
I hunt for food in the empty camp. I find a few pieces of meat and flat bread scattered on the ground. I pick them up and brush the sand away. They will feed me for a few more days. I put them with the food the snake hunter gave me. I also find a soldier’s shirt. It doesn’t smell good, but it will help keep me warm at night.
At the edge of the camp, I see the fire where I sat with the tjikuus last night. The fire still smokes. The two women lie beside it. They no longer wait for death. It has found them. I want to bury them. But I’m not strong enough to dig a hole and put their bodies in it. Instead, I find several brambles to pull over them. The thorns cut into my fingers. I don’t care. This is something I must do.
Darkness comes. I’m too tired to walk. I haven’t slept in two days. I think about staying here in the camp. The soldiers won’t be back. But the hyenas will feast tonight, now that the fires have burned out. No, I must walk. It isn’t safe to sleep at night with the dead.
The darkness brings the cold. I put on the soldier’s shirt. It’s big enough for three more Jahohoras. I wrap it around me and tie it in place. Then I put the cow skin around me like a cape. I’m a little warmer.
I stand at the edge of the soldiers’ camp, thinking about which way to go. The desert and death are all that wait for me if I follow the soldiers chasing after Maharero. But if I go back the way I came, there might be more soldiers. I look up at the night sky. I find the Otjikoroise Tjovaeve. I make a line from the top star to the bottom star. I will go that way.
As I leave the camp, I think about all the Herero who died here. There’s no one to
bury them. To mourn for them. To tell their ancestors where they are. There’s no one who knows their names. I shake my head. I’m very sad. But there’s nothing I can do for them. If I don’t want to become food for the vultures and hyenas, I must leave this place.
I walk through the night. Shivering in the cold wind that stings my face. Stumbling with sleepiness. Thinking about home with no family. My eyes close. I feel myself falling. But it’s like I’m falling in a dream.
I wake up with my face in the dirt. What am I doing here? I remember the soldiers’ camp. The tjikuus sitting by the fire. The snake hunter saving my life. But I don’t remember where I am or how I got here. I stand and look at the sky. There’s my star. I walk toward it. I stumble again. I make myself keep walking. Walking. Walking. I quietly sing the praise songs Tjikuu and Mama taught me. Singing helps me stay awake. But it makes me sad. It makes me think of Tjikuu and Mama. I wonder where they are. I wonder if I’ll ever see them again.
At last, the sun wakes. I can sleep safely. I find a good hiding place. If soldiers come by here, they won’t see me. But the vultures might come. I gather a few thorny branches and then sit under a ledge while I drink a little water and eat a small piece of meat. At last, I sleep. A sleep without dreams.
It’s dark when I wake. I’m cold and still very tired. But I must walk. I try not to think about how cold I am. Or how hungry and thirsty. Instead, I think about what I should do. I must stay far, far away from the soldiers. I also must stay away from the farms and villages of the white people. If they find me, they might give me to the soldiers. And somehow, I must get back to my home.
I don’t think about what I’ll do when I get there.
SURVIVAL
I sit down to rest. I want to sleep, but I must leave the desert before my food and water are gone. There’ll be plenty of food in the veld. But there’s little in the desert. I do find a few waterholes. They’re very far apart. And they’re all dry. I see the holes that others have dug around them. They’re dry. I don’t try to dig new holes. They would be dry, too. And I’m too weak and tired to dig for nothing.
Instead, I look for food. I make a trap for mice, but I don’t catch any. I look at the cows and goats that have died along the way. The vultures, hyenas, and wild dogs have already feasted on them. All that’s left is bones and hide. I cut the skin from a big goat using the sharp stone I found many yesterdays ago in the burned hut. I scrape little pieces of meat from the hide. It’s old and stringy. I chew and chew. It’s like chewing on skin. But it’s food.
I hold the water pouch to my lips. I need something to help me swallow the tough meat. The pouch is empty. I was sure there was still water in it. I look at it closely. I see a small hole. I drop it on the ground and take a small sip of water from the jar tied around my neck. I will need another pouch. This jar is too small to hold much water. I use the cutting stone to turn part of the goat skin into a pouch. It takes me all day. I’m so tired, I have to rest a lot. But at last, the pouch is done. It’s very stiff. But it will have to do. I tie it with a long, skinny piece of skin and put it around my neck.
After working all day, I’m too tired to walk tonight. I hurt all over. Especially my hands. I hold them up to my face. They’re covered with cuts and blood. They also are very skinny. I hadn’t seen that before. They look like skin stretched over bone. And my fingers are like the thinnest branches on a bramble bush. Am I that skinny all over? I put my hands around my belly. My fingers almost touch. I sit down and stretch out my legs. They are just as skinny. I need to fatten up. I’ve got to find food.
Over the next few days, I get weaker and weaker. Too weak to walk very far. So I walk as long as I can. Then I rest. It takes me longer to reach the veld than I thought it would. By eating only a little food and drinking a few sips of water each day, I make what I have last until I come to the edge of the grassland.
I’m very sad when I look out over the veld. I thought it would be easy to find berries and roots and rabbits. But there’s no tall yellow grass. No green bushes. No birds flying in the sky.
Instead, the veld is black from fire. There will be few berries and uintjes. And even fewer birds and rabbits. I keep walking. At least the veld will have more waterholes than the desert.
But I soon find many of the waterholes are dry. I see wagon marks in the dirt and the ground pawed bare by hundreds of animals. Soldiers came this way. The waterholes had enough water for some Herero. They didn’t have enough for all the Herero and the soldiers and all their horses and oxen.
Other waterholes have been poisoned with death. I shrug my shoulders and walk to the next hole. I’ve had very little to eat or drink for so many yesterdays that I don’t feel hungry or thirsty anymore. But I know I must find food and water. I look up at the sky. I see no clouds. There will be more food and water when the rainy season comes. If I can live that long.
I walk alongside the ruts made by the soldiers’ wagons. They dig deep into the earth. I follow them to where the soldiers camped. I look for scraps of food. I dig in the ashes of the campfires and find a few bones with a bit of old meat. I’m surprised the wild dogs or hyenas haven’t picked them clean. Then I remember. They have plenty to eat. They don’t need to gnaw on dry old bones. I chew the meat off the bones and look for more food. I pick up a small piece of bread. It’s hard. Like a rock. I try to eat it. But it’s too hard to chew. I try to suck on it to soften it. My mouth is too dry. I put the bread in my pouch. Maybe I can eat it when I find water.
I check the waterhole at the camp. It looks dry. I drop a small rock into the hole and listen. There’s no splash. Just a thud when the rock hits the bottom. I scratch at the dirt with my fingers, trying to make a new hole. The sun beats down on me. I feel like I’m on fire. Every part of me burns. My head hurts – like someone is using it for a drum.
I hear someone breathing very loudly. I’m too tired and weak to be scared. I look around. No one is here but me. I close my mouth. The breathing stops. I open my mouth. The loud breathing starts again. It’s my breath that’s loud. I try to laugh. But no laughter comes out.
I want to lie down. Right here. With the sun burning me. But I know I can’t. Not yet. If I do, I may never wake up. I have to get water before it’s too late. I find a stick and use it to help me dig. I dig and dig and dig. No water fills the hole. I dig some more. I’m about to give up when I see the dirt at the bottom of the hole is darker. I dig a little deeper. At last, a trickle of water covers the dirt. I cup it to my mouth, drinking more dirt than water. I dig again. I find enough water to fill the jar the snake hunter gave me.
I hear a noise in the distance. I look up. A cloud of dust rises on the veld. Riders! Coming toward me. I run to a clump of trees. But it’s too close to the waterhole. And the riders will stop to drink. Water is hard to find right now. The thunder of the riders comes closer. It sounds like wagons. Lots of them. I have to get farther away. I run as fast as I can, keeping low to the ground. There is no grass to hide me. It’s all been burned.
I hear the wagons stop. I lie on the ground, listening to the soldiers shouting strange words at each other. I see a bramble bush in front of me. I slither toward it like a snake. I cover my face and body with the cow skin so the thorns don’t cut me as I crawl into the bush. A very bad smell hits my nose. It makes me sick. I peek out from under the skin. Something that looks a little like a body is in the bush. Most of the skin has rotted away, leaving mostly bones. I want to scream. To run away. To wake up from this bad dream. Instead, I cover my eyes and lie down next to the body.
I lie there all night. I watch the smoke from the soldiers’ campfires and listen to the clang of pots as they cook. But the stink of the rotting body is all I can smell. My belly rises to my mouth. And my head pounds. I close my eyes. Maybe sleep will chase the stink away.
I’m back on the mountain. My pouches are filled with berries for Tuaekua Ehi, Mama Uajoroka and all the others. I’m happy that they will have food. Tuaekua Ehi will get stronger. And she’l
l have more milk, so Karikuta won’t cry. I take the berries to the little clearing between the huts. I turn in slow circles, looking for my auntie, brother, and cousins. But no one is there. “Mama Uajoroka!” I call out.
My voice echoes back at me. “Tuaekua Ehi! Karemarama!” I shout.
Again, echoes are my only answer. I sit by the holy fire and watch the thin tail of smoke climb toward the sky. The smoke bends toward me. It splits in two and circles me. I hear voices calling to me from far, far away. They’re the voices of Mama and Tate. Of Tjikuu and Ramata and Karemarama. Of all my uncles and aunties and cousins.
“Where are you?” I ask them.
“We’re with the ancestors,” Mama tells me.
I have to listen hard to hear her words. “Wait for me. I’ll come with you,” I say.
“No,” Tate tells me. “You can’t. You must build our house again. Or we’ll all be forgotten.”
“But I miss you. And I don’t want to be alone.”
“You’re not alone, Jahohora,” he says. “You’ll never be alone.”
The voices fade. The smoke disappears. The holy fire is just a heap of cold ashes. I look around the clearing again. I see what remains of a body. I look closer. It’s Tuaekua Ehi. Her face has been pecked by the vultures. In her arms are the bones of Karikuta. I scream and run away. The berries spill all over the ground.
I wake up, shivering in the cold. Hoping I didn’t scream out loud. The noise of a boom stick cracks in the darkness. I hear soldiers shouting. A few walk into the veld. They wave branches of fire. I lie very, very still as two come toward me.
“Puh!” one of them says. I don’t understand the rest of his words. But I think the smell of the rotting body is making him sick. The soldiers start to turn away. One of them stops to touch his torch to the ground. I’m scared. They’re trying to burn the place. I don’t want to get trapped by a fire.
Mama Namibia: Based on True Events Page 20
