I don’t need to be scared. The flames don’t spread. This part of the veld has already been burned. There’s no dry grass to make the fire run.
I lie in the bramble bush long after the soldiers leave the next day. I want to get away from the bad smell. But I must wait until I know it’s safe. The sun is high in the sky when I walk slowly across the veld toward the camp. I dig in the ashes of the soldiers’ campfires and look closely at the ground, searching for scraps of food. All I find is a jar that I can see through. It has something in it. But it’s not water. I put it to my nose. It doesn’t smell good. I take a small drink. It burns all the way down my throat. I quickly take a sip of water from my water jar. I swish it around in my mouth, trying to get rid of the awful taste.
I walk away from the camp, looking for food. I dig in the ground until I find several uintjes. Even though they were buried in the dirt, they were burned by the flames that blackened the veld. I eat them anyway. I look for roots that hold water. I find a few. Most of them were burned, too.
So I live. Hiding. Walking. Sleeping. Scratching at the dirt to find food. And waiting for the rainy season to bring life to the veld.
RAIN
The sound of thunder wakes me. I think it’s a boom stick. I lie very, very still. I hear it again. A deep rumble that drums over the veld, echoing against the distant mountains. A flash of light cuts the sky. And the thunder rolls again. I look up into the early morning twilight. Dark clouds roll over each other as they race across the sky. I relax. There are no boom sticks. No soldiers. Just the rains.
I look around for a better hiding place. This spot is in a small valley. Even a little rain could flood it. Big drops of water hit my face as I run to some bushes growing where the ground rises. I stick out my tongue, trying to catch a few. I cover myself with the cow skin and crawl under the bushes.
Howling like a wild dog, the wind spits sand. The bushes dancing above me protect me from the sting. But their branches scratch against my face. I tuck my head under the skin and listen as the rain hits the earth. It splashes down hard. The sound of it beating against the dry ground makes me sleepy.
When I wake up, the rain has stopped. As I crawl out from under the bushes, they drop water on me. It feels good. I jump in a small puddle and laugh. I feel like a child again. My laughter stops when I remember Karemarama and my cousins splashing in the puddle on the mountaintop. I can hear Mama shouting at them to stop. The memory makes me sad.
I walk to the edge of the rise and look across the veld. A small river flows over the place where I slept last night. It’s good that I moved. I turn in a slow circle, looking for waterholes and people. I see a few waterholes. But there’s no sign of people. No tails of smoke curling into the sky. No clouds of dust racing across the earth. Nothing. I’m alone in the veld. I feel safe. And sad. Since I left the desert, I’ve seen too many Herero who are dead or dying. But I’ve met no one who’s living. There have to be others. I can’t be the only one.
I look up at the sky again. A big, dark cloud moves quickly over the earth. I watch it come toward me, waiting for its rain. As it gets closer, the cloud gets bigger and bigger, spreading its blackness across the sky. A loud humming thunders around me. It’s not a storm cloud. It’s a swarm of locusts!
I crouch by some rocks and pull the cow skin around me to protect me from the swarm. I watch as the locusts drop to the ground. Their silver wings – as long as my finger – shine in the sunlight. They’re beautiful. But terrible. Wherever they land, there will be no food.
As quickly as they came, the locusts take to the sky and move on. I look out across the veld again. The locusts have eaten everything that lived. I’ll have to go on to the next waterhole to find food. I plant in my head the path I’ll take. I walk to the little river in the valley and drink my fill of water for the first time in many days. Then I fill my jar and pouches.
I wish I didn’t have to leave. There’s plenty of water here. And I’m so tired and weak. If only I could find some food, then I could stay here for a few days. That way I could rest and build my strength. Maybe something survived the locusts. I set a few traps. There might not be any berries or uintjes. But maybe tomorrow I’ll have meat.
As soon as the sun wakes, I check my traps. The first two are empty. The last one has a rabbit. It’s a skinny rabbit. But it’s a rabbit. I use my cutting stone to sharpen a branch into a new little spear to kill the rabbit. I’m sorry I have to kill it. I’ve seen too much death. But I need its meat so I can live.
After I skin the animal, there’s little meat left. The rabbit was as skinny as I am. I want to cook the meat. But even though I didn’t see anyone in the veld, I’m afraid to make a fire. Someone could see it. So I chew the raw meat until nothing is left but bones. With my belly almost full, I rest awhile. And then set the traps again.
For the next few days, I feel like I’m feasting. I drink lots of water and eat several skinny rabbits and birds. When I’m not eating and drinking, I sleep. I stay in the valley until the dry ground swallows the river. Then I begin walking toward the next waterhole where the sun sleeps at night.
More rains come. The black veld turns green. Bright flowers grow among the long yellow grass. White flowers cover the thorn bushes. Long-stemmed yellow and purple flowers cling to the tall trees. I breathe deeply, smelling the spring sweetness. It’s easy to find berries and uintjes and roots again. There are lots and lots of rabbits and birds. And the waterholes are filled with fresh water. I have everything I need. Except my family. When I get lonely, I talk to myself. I tell the stories Mama and Tjikuu told me. I must remember them. Someday I will tell them to my children. I think about Uapiruka. What if I can’t find him? Who will be the tate of my children then?
I want to go home to see if any of my family is there. But I’m afraid to go back. What if the white people have taken our land? I feel safe in this part of the veld. No white people live here. It’s too close to the desert. Since I have enough food and water, I stay several days near each waterhole before I walk to the next one. Every time I stop, I build a small hut of branches. I make it look like it’s part of the bushes. In the day, I check my traps and gather berries, uintjes, and roots. When I walk at night, I go slowly, using the moon to light my path. I don’t want to step on Herero bones hidden in the grass. There’s new life in the veld, but it’s growing over the dead.
The sun is waking when I come to the next waterhole. Even though I’ve seen no one for a long, long time, I always stop before I reach a new waterhole. This time, I quietly climb a tree so I can look over the area. I see a small tail of smoke. My heart beats loudly. I hear voices. They’re using Herero words! I look closely. A Herero man and woman sit by the fire. Don’t they know how dangerous that is? Even when I know I’m alone in the veld, I eat my meat raw. A fire would show soldiers where I am.
I slowly climb down from the tree and walk toward the fire. The man and woman don’t see me until I’m almost by them. The man looks up first. He picks up his kirri. We stare at each other. Both of them are so skinny they look almost like the bones I’ve seen lying on the ground. They are cooking a bird on the fire. It smells good.
The woman calls to me. She asks who I am.
“I’m Jahohora, daughter of Mutihu and Tutejuva of the Omukuatjivi clan.”
“Of the big house or the small house?” the man asks.
“The big house,” I say. “Do you know my family?”
They shake their heads and tell me their names and clan. “Have you seen our son?” the woman asks. She seems very sad. “We lost him when we went into the Omaheke with Maharero.”
“I’ve seen many dead Herero,” I say. “I haven’t met anyone living until now.” I tell them what happened on the mountain. “Since then I’ve been alone. I walked to the Omaheke to find my family. But the soldiers were already there.”
We sit in silence. When the bird is cooked, the woman gives me a piece.
I shake my head. The bird is small. And the man and woman
look like they need the food more than I do. I’ve been eating well since the rains came. I open one of my pouches and give them some berries and uintjes. They eat them quickly. I wish I had something more I could give them.
After they’ve eaten, the man and woman tell me how the soldiers pushed them deeper and deeper into the desert. To a place where there were no waterholes. They were the lucky ones. Many, many Herero died. And many more were taken by the soldiers. The prisoners were treated badly. The soldiers gave them little food or water and forced the women and girls to lie with them.
One day, the big German chief made all the soldiers line up. He dragged the Herero prisoners out in front of them. The chief slowly rode his horse between the soldiers and the Herero. Then he turned toward the prisoners and told them that Hereroland now belonged to the white people. And because the Herero murdered and stole from the white people and because they cut off the ears and noses of wounded soldiers, all the Herero people must leave German land.
“But it’s our land!” I say. “It’s the land of our ancestors. It’s the land Njambi Karunga gave to us. The white people took it from us. And they killed many, many Herero.”
The man nods his head. “The white people have big guns, so they are stronger than the Herero. They can take what they want. Some Herero had boom sticks, but most of us only had our kirris.” He looks at his club. “They aren’t any good against an enemy who’s afraid to fight you hand to hand.”
His wife tells the rest of the story. “The big chief told the prisoners that if the Herero did not leave this land, he would force them out with the big gun that makes the ground shake and the thunder boom. Every Herero found in the German land – with or without a gun, with or without cattle – would be shot. The soldiers would take no more prisoners. Not even women and children. They would all be forced back into the desert or they would be shot.” The woman pauses.
“What happened to the prisoners, Mama?” I ask.
She looks like she hurts. “When the sun woke the next day, the soldiers took all the men prisoners and tied ropes around their necks and hung them. They made the others watch. Then they told the women and children they must run to Maharero and tell him what the big chief had said. The soldiers shot their boom sticks into the air to make the Herero run.”
I shake my head. I can’t believe anyone would do those things.
“Only a few of the women made it to where Maharero and the rest of us were camped,” the man says. “The others died in the desert.”
“What did Maharero do?” I ask.
“He didn’t want to leave the land of his fathers. But there weren’t enough of us to fight the soldiers. He said he would try to cross the desert into Bechuanaland. The Germans haven’t taken that land. Those who were strong enough said they would go with him. I don’t know if they made it to Bechuanaland.” He looks at his wife. “We knew we couldn’t walk that far with no water.”
“How did you get past the soldiers?” I ask. “It was easy for me. I was behind them. But they were between you and the veld.”
The man smiles sadly. “The Omaheke is a big place. Too big for even the German soldiers.”
“Did others come back?” I ask. I think about my family. Maybe some of them are walking toward the veld.
The woman pats my hand. “If we came out of the desert, I’m sure others will make it, too.”
The sun is high in the sky. I need to sleep if I’m going to walk tonight. I fill my water jar and pouches. And then I tell the man and woman goodbye. They ask me to stay. I’d like to. It’s nice to talk to someone. To not be alone. But I remember Tate saying we must run and hide alone. It’s easier for the soldiers to find groups of people than it is for them to find one young Herero girl.
“I must go on alone.” I smile at the man and woman as I leave. I walk toward the next waterhole, looking for a hiding place so I can sleep.
SURVIVORS
As I walk that night, I think about turning around and going back. Not to where the man and woman were. But toward the desert. Maybe I’ll meet more Herero coming out of the Omaheke. Maybe I’ll find Uncle Horere and Uapiruka and the rest of my family. The thought makes me smile. Then I think about what the man said. The Omaheke is a big place. The path I took is not the only way out. They could come on many other paths. No, I will go on to the next waterhole. Maybe I will meet more Herero there. Maybe they will know where my family is.
I reach the waterhole before the sun wakes. But I don’t go to it. I want to make sure it’s safe. I lie back in the tall grass and stare up at the sky. I watch the stars blink out and the darkness turn gray. I see the first pink light of the sun stretching across the sky. I sit up slowly and look toward the waterhole. No one is there. I walk to the hole. It has lots of water. I look at the ground around the hole. No one has been here for many days. I glance all around. I see several trees on a small hill a way from the waterhole. That’s where I’ll stay.
After I rest, I make my camp, weaving branches together into a small hut under the trees. I lay my cow skin on the dirt floor. I smile. It’s almost like home. I go back to the waterhole and look up toward the trees. I can’t see the hut. That’s good.
The next few days, I explore my new home. I find the best berry bushes and look for roots and uintjes. I see good places to set many traps. Soon, I have plenty of food. But I keep gathering more. I’ll need it. The rainy season is over. When I’m not hunting for food, I sit in my hut and watch to see if anyone is coming toward the waterhole.
But I’m not watching when they do come. I’ve been checking my traps and am on my way back to the little hut. I look down toward the waterhole. Three people are sitting there. I crouch in the tall grass, hoping they didn’t see me. I peep over the grass. I can’t tell who they are. I sit in the grass, waiting for them to leave. But they lie down to sleep. I crawl slowly to my hut. I worry about the people by the waterhole. Are they Herero? Or are they soldiers? It’s hard to know from this far away. I wait and wait for them to wake.
The sun is about to sleep when I see smoke rising. They’ve started a fire. I hear women’s voices. They’re speaking Herero. I feel safer now. But I’m careful as I walk toward the waterhole. I call out to the women as I get close. They look scared at first. But they relax when they see me. They are very skinny, just like the man and woman who had escaped the desert. And their eyes are deep in their face. It’s hard to look at them. But it’s hard not to. They look dead. But they’re still breathing. And moving. And talking.
I join them at the fire. I tell them my name and clan and ask if they’ve seen my family. They shake their heads. They’ve lost family, too. They ask if I’ve seen them. It’s my turn to shake my head.
I look at the fire. Nothing is cooking on it. “Have you eaten?” I ask.
They stare at me. Their eyes seem dead. They were in the desert too long.
“I’ll get you food,” I tell them. “But you should put the fire out. It isn’t safe. Soldiers might see it.”
Instead of getting food from my hut, I pick more berries and dig for uintjes. I don’t want anyone to see where I’m staying. It’s safer that way. I put the food in my skirt and carry it back to the waterhole. The fire is out. Two of the women are sleeping. The third one, Mama Uaporimana, is waiting for me. I give her some of the food. She grabs it out of my hand and puts it in her mouth. She is very hungry. I sit beside her while she eats. I look at her closely. Her skin is cracked and bleeding. Sores cover her mouth. She looks very old. But I don’t think she is.
When she’s done eating, Mama Uaporimana tries to smile at me. The sores on her mouth bleed. She begins to cry, but she has no tears.
“What’s wrong, Mama?” I ask. I don’t know what else to say or do.
She rocks back and forth. “My baby,” she says.
“Where’s your baby?” I glance around, looking for a child.
“I left him.”
“You left him? Where?”
“In the Waterberg,” she whispers
. She stares off into the distance.
I wait for Mama Uaporimana to tell me what happened. But she’s silent.
She’s still sitting there looking across the veld when the other women wake. After they eat, I take the strongest woman to the berry bushes so she can help me get more food. I ask her what happened to Mama Uaporimana’s baby.
“She was one of them – one of the mamas who gave milk to our warriors,” the woman says quietly.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“You weren’t at the Waterberg?” She stops picking berries and looks at me.
I shake my head.
“The ancestors were good to you.” She looks into the distance. There is much pain on her face. “Maharero and his men had stopped fighting. But the soldiers wouldn’t stop. They went from village to village, killing our people. We had to run. We took our cattle and went to the Waterberg with Maharero, hoping the soldiers would leave us alone. But there were too many of us. The waterholes went dry and there wasn’t enough food. We were slowly starving. Then the soldiers came after us. The only way out was toward the Omaheke.” The woman pauses to eat a handful of berries.
“To give the rest of us time to escape, Maharero and all the men with boom sticks prepared to fight,” she said. “But some of the men were too weak to fight. They had gone too long without food or water. To give them strength, several mothers with babies gave what milk they had to the men. Mama Uaporimana was one of them. She didn’t have enough milk then for her baby. He and the other babies died so the rest of us could live.”
I shake my head. I have no words to say what I feel.
Later, I help the women trap a rabbit. Even though it’s not cooked, they eat it quickly. I wonder if their bellies will ever be full again. If the pain will ever leave their faces.
The women stay by the waterhole a few more days. I know it’s not safe, but I stay with them. I like not being alone. When they get ready to leave, they ask me to come with them. They’re going back to their village near Hamakari. If any of their family escapes, that’s where they’ll go. I think about going with them. The soldiers have already taken what they want from Hamakari. They have no need to go back there, the women tell me. It will be safe.
Mama Namibia: Based on True Events Page 21
