The Second Coming of Mavala Shikongo

by Peter Orner

  97

  ANTOINETTE AND OBADIAH

  Those times when a real catastrophe reached us at Goas, Antoinette would accuse the dead of gossiping. Sister Ursula at the clinic in Usakos called the principal to say that one of our boys, a Standard Four named Nicholas Kombumbi—coming back from a weekend with his parents in Windhoek—was killed when the bakkie he was riding in the back of flipped over on the C-32.

  Antoinette dropped to the sand, held her hands to her ears, and begged them to stop. Enough, mongers! Enough!

  There was a great sense of order in her world of scouring, of washing, of lining the boys up, of feeding them, of punishing them. Any threat to this universe caused her temporarily to abdicate, to leave us. Obadiah and I helped her up. He tried to be kind to her when she broke down on account of other people’s misfortunes. It took the focus away from her own misfortunes, for which he, Obadiah, was responsible. When she was calm again, the three of us sat on the bench by the garden fence and watched the commotion in front of the principal’s office. The principal was standing in his doorway holding the phone. He was now publicly—with great ceremony, but not without genuine sorrow—calling the parents of the dead boy. At one point, however, for all his love of ritual and formality, the principal sat down heavily on the step that led up into his office and slumped against the door frame. He took the receiver away from his ear. Seeing this sent Antoinette back to cursing the dead and all their cheap, nasty, behind-the-back talk. Obadiah got angry then, tired of it.

  “We are doomed,” he said. “Superstition will be death of this country. Something went wrong. Perhaps the driver was drunk. Or perhaps he was from Windhoek, unaccustomed to driving on our treacherous gravel roads. There is a rational explanation why that boy is dead. A peace officer will investigate the true cause and create a public report.”

  Antoinette, still looking at the principal, who had not yet responded to the wailing we could practically hear, stooped and picked up a rock at her feet. Without saying anything, she caressed it for a while. I wondered if she was going to smash Obadiah’s face with it. Instead, she went down to her knees again and began to beat the ground with the rock. Slowly, methodically, one thud after another. Obadiah just sat there, stiff, not watching her, only hearing her, as he stared helplessly at the now completely silent crowd in front of the principal’s office.

  98

  GOAS

  Our fences, unlike Krieger’s gleaming razor wire (talk that he went out there and barbed it himself when he wasn’t busy running down children), were mostly patchworks made up of hubcaps, sheet metal, plywood, car parts, bedsprings, hammered barrel lids, plastic crates, bricks, goatskins, crushed cans, assorted broken furniture, and in spite of Theofilus’s constant repairs, they didn’t do much but lean away from the wind. Although the cows mostly stayed on the farm, any and all predators—jackals, baboons, hyenas, Kalahari foxes, our friends the dwarfed hedgehogs, leopards, carnivorous bush rabbits, warthogs, neighboring thieving farmhands—all were absolutely welcome at Goas. Our saddest fences, though, were the ones that didn’t even try. Those sections of fence line where the land dipped into dry tributaries and the fence couldn’t follow suit were called “flying fences,” the most useless man-made things in the universe. A bit of cordoned-off void, winging across nothing, the only true mascot of Goas.

  99

  VILHO

  Outside Goas church. After the funeral for Nicholas Kombumbi, Vilho and I sit across from each other on the benches that used to be part of the stolen picnic table. The table must have been a monster to lift. It was a solid slab of concrete. We imagine it is out in the veld somewhere, although nobody has come up with a satisfactory motive for taking it, other than to prove that if it’s stealable, Pohamba’s Standard Sevens will light the way. Vilho and I shuffle our best shoes in the sand. We’ve stopped trying to talk about it. The boy Nicholas was his. Not his best learner, but not his worst either, so he didn’t know him very well. Now he feels he failed the boy. The boy’s mediocrity was a mask that prevented Vilho from seeing an individual soul. Now he goes to his final reward unknown by the people entrusted to remember him. I have given up trying to talk him out of this. So here we sit. We watch the priest lock the door of the church. He greets us with a slow, solemn nod and disappears behind the tall rectory gate. A pair of goats wander by, their ribs protruding. Vilho is trying to remember a single thing about this boy. His body has already left for Karibib, followed by cars and bakkies loaded with relatives and friends. There’s a whistle in the late-afternoon wind. Vilho stops shuffling his feet and looks as though something has occurred to him. I watch his face tighten. Grief is useless without memory, yet he might be making progress. Everybody else has gone to sleep, or to Obadiah’s for a nip, then sleep.

  100

  GOAS CHRISTMAS

  Hot gray light, Christmas afternoon. Those who could have gone somewhere have. Antoinette and Obadiah to their kids in Windhoek. Festus and Dikeledi to her family in Gobabis. The principal and Miss Tuyeni to the north. By car, by lorry, by bakkie, by donkey cart—foot—people have fled. The farm is beyond quiet without the stampede. At night, with the boys asleep, all their breathing still made the place feel alive. Now we are walking around listening to the churn of our own feet in the sand. The wind’s relented. There’s no service. The priest has gone to say Mass at Otjimbingwe. We who’ve been left behind go on our own to church and sit in the silence, listening to the echoes of our own respectful coughs. Mavala chants softly: I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. Whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.

  I whisper, “Isn’t that what you say when someone dies? It’s Christmas.”

  “Someone didn’t die?” She whispers back. “What about Vilho’s learner? What was his name?”

  “Kombumbi.”

  “Yes, Kombumbi. And others, so many others.” She leans forward and sinks her face in her hands.

  And that was it, just Mavala, Tomo, me, Auntie, and Pohamba, who only went to church because the priest wasn’t there, and some boys who for whatever reason couldn’t make it home.

  *

  The church cool in the shadows in spite of the heat outside. A cement cavern with a roof that is also used to store feed and diesel-engine parts. A dusty gold cloth draped over the altar. There was no vestry, just that one room. A velvet robe hung on a nail. Nothing on the walls but a one-legged crucifixion dangling precariously above the altar. Occasionally Christ fell and Theofilus had to nail him back up. The strange thing was that it had been built to be a church. It wasn’t converted from something else, which would have given it some excuse. A piece of plastic covering a broken window flapped now and then in the feeble breeze.

  Mavala didn’t play the organ. She only sang a little. Then she left early. Stood up, crossed herself, and walked out. She had to go to the dining hall to cook for the few boys who remained.

  Pohamba and I made some spaghetti and sauce. Pohamba talked into the night about Christmas in Otavi, with his enormous family. He said there was sometimes so much family they had to rent a hall. Cold spaghetti is Christmas? How is it possible? I wondered why he hadn’t gone this year. The house up the road empty of the principal. I could feel my not going to her in my stomach, and his not wanting to be alone, practically demanding it, talking on about Christmas in Otavi, how this could not be Christmas. Music, dancing, roasted pigs, and beer.

  “And liver, we always have liver on Christmas in Otavi.”

  “Liver?”

  “Why don’t you go to her?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “She’s alone on Christmas.”

  “No, she’s got Tomo. It’s fine.”

  Us by the fire late, until the heat gave out and the chill woke us up.

  Part Three

  AN ORDINARY DROUGHT

  101

  GRAVES

  I’m a diversion,” I said.

  “Did I say t
hat?”

  “A weigh station.”

  “No.”

  “A break in your action.”

  “I said no.”

  “An oasis.”

  “Fine—you’re an oasis.”

  “A pillow to lay your weary head.”

  “Yes.”

  “No, I’m a grave.”

  “Grieta’s?”

  “Yes, Grieta’s.”

  “What did she die of?”

  “Living here.”

  “Yes!”

  “And she starved.”

  “Whites don’t starve.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “Name a white that’s starved.”

  “The Irish. Jews. Russians. Poles when they weren’t killing Jews. Some Mormons. I am pretty sure some Mormons starved.”

  “A round for Kaplansk! Whites suffer too! What else did she die of?”

  “Spinsterhood.”

  “She died of not having a man? That’s stupid.”

  “There’s been documented cases. Look at your sister.”

  “Having a man is her problem.”

  “Right, that’s true. But all he does is sweat over you.”

  “What man doesn’t sweat over me?”

  “Vilho.”

  “Vilho doesn’t count.”

  “Festus.”

  “You think Festus would refuse me?”

  “You’d sleep with Festus?”

  “For ten thousand rand.”

  “For ten thousand rand, I’d sleep with both of them.”

  “Both who?”

  “Dikeledi and Festus.”

  “That’s because all you want is Dikeledi. To get her, you’d take Festus.”

  “Festus would take up the whole bed. Anyway, forget Dikeledi. There’s only you. You.”

  “Only me.”

  102

  WALLS

  Morning meeting slowly rising, and Pohamba pounds.

  “I remembered something in my sleep,” he says.

  “Can’t you tell it tomorrow?”

  I listen to him turn over. I can see him cupping his head in his hands, talking to the ceiling, happily wrecking other people’s sleep.

  “You asked me to tell you about independence. I was at the Dolphin the day of the election. The radio was on. You know the matron? Tangeni’s wife?”

  “The drunk one?”

  “Yes, except it was strange. That day she wasn’t drunk. It was noisy outside in the street, everybody was already celebrating, but in the bar it was quiet, only myself and the matron. A report came on and gave the lead to DTA. It was only in the south, because the polls closed down earlier there. Fewer people, fewer votes to count. But the only thing anybody heard was DTA wins, SWAPO loses. DTA wins, SWAPO loses. And do you know what happened? I saw it all from my stool in the Dolphin. People didn’t shout or curse. Not a word. They sat down in the road. Taxis stopped, and the men who were driving them and the women who were passengers got out and did the same thing. They all sat down in the road. And Tangeni’s wife laughed so hard at them she gagged. I can still hear her.”

  Of course, it all turned out to be wrong. The hundreds of thousands of votes in the north got counted. SWAPO won in a landslide. And since it was wrong, and since it ended up not meaning anything, Pohamba wants to know, demands to know, through the wall at five in the morning, “Why am I seeing those people in the road right now? In my pig bed at pig Goas? Tell me —”

  I don’t answer.

  From his silent room, Vilho doesn’t either.

  103

  DROUGHT STORIES

  The Namibian had already been at it for months, quoting experts, statistics. The isohyets for mean annual rainfall have been falling dangerously … atmospheric and ocean circulation patterns consistent with… climatic change and variability remain constant . . . water surface catchment areas are shrinking throughout the central . . .

  But drought being a negation, an unhappening, it doesn’t make for interesting copy.

  We skipped those articles. It came every year. It was only a question of which region would get it worse. No drought was news. Extreme drought was news. Anything else was page 6, after sports. What emergency on earth is duller?

  104

  CLASSROOM

  I, the great general of the German troops, send this letter to the Herero people. The Herero are no longer German subjects. They have murdered and stolen; they have cut off the noses, ears, and other bodily parts of wounded soldiers. And now, because of cowardice, they will fight no more… All Herero must leave the land. If people do not do this, I will force them to do it with the great guns. Any Herero found within German borders, with or without a gun, with or without cattle, will be shot. I shall no longer receive any women or children, I will drive them back to their people or I will shoot them. This is my decision for the Herero people.

  THE GREAT GENERAL OF THE MIGHTY EMPEROR, LOTHAR VON TROTHA, 1904

  I await the arrival of the new history text from the Ministry of Education. There’s been a delay. The word is, they’re still rewriting.

  Among other things I have taught my learners, out of the old text, is that the Roman Empire brought civilized society to the countries of western Europe—to Britain, Holland, Germany, and so on. So, when the fathers of South Africa settled at the Cape, they brought all these beautiful elements of civilization with them.

  Even the feeblest teacher has to draw a line in the sand with his toe. Despite my general ineptitude, I somehow hit upon what I now know to be a time-honored way of killing an hour in the classroom. Strategic use of a guest lecturer. I bring in the big gun to teach Waterberg.

  “Scholars, I introduce you to a man who needs no introduction. This man doesn’t teach history, he endures it. When history has a question, it comes to this man to find out what happened, who massacred whom, who cheated whom out of what… Boys, I give you your former Standard Three master, Head Teacher Obadiah Horaseb.” Cheers for Obadiah, who struts in a pith helmet.

  “Please, I’m only a man, corrupt blood in my veins. Sit. Sit. Now, boys, I understand you are to learn about Waterberg. Let me first say that prior to colonialism this was not a land of angels. This was as brutal a place as any other. And yet when the white devils came—pardon, Teacher Kaplansk—things did become, in a number of ways, worse. This is especially true, given that these adventurers, merchants, missionaries, claimed to come to us in the name of God. Now, skipping ahead to today’s lesson, if I may. May I?”

  “Yes, Head Teacher.”

  “It’s 1901, and the Herero people—how many Hereros here today?—seven, no eight, good. Yes, the Herero people, after decades of brutality, slavery, impoverishment, one day rose up to challenge the greatest military force known to man. The German army. What made them do it that day? This is a question not answerable by a man with such poor faculties as myself. It is a questions for scholars. Suffice it to say that there always comes a day when a flogged man accepts the last lash. And when, after fighting bravely for years, the Hereros found themselves trapped atop Waterberg Mountain—not only soldiers, but thousands of women and children and cattle as well—surrounded on all sides but one, what did they do? I ask you, sons of the sons of the sons of those valiants, what did they do?”

  A hand slowly rises. It’s Magnus Axahoes.

  “Child, you aren’t a Herero, are you?”

  “No, Teacher.”

  “A Damara?”

  “Yes, Teacher.”

  “A Damara knows the answer! No tribalism here at Goas. Prime Minister Geingob would be proud. We know each other’s histories on this farm. What’s the answer, child?”

  “They went to the desert, Teacher.”

  And Obadiah goes to Magnus and kneels and whispers something no one can hear.

  Then he stands before the boys, lanky in his tweed coat. His arms at his sides, his hands limp. Obadiah once told me he did not believe in the power of hands to convey meaning. If your voice can’t do it, don’t think
you can overcome its defects with your sorry hands.

  “Yes, they went to the desert. The sea does not part for the Hereros. There is no sea. Only Kalahari sand. Welcome to the Twentieth Century of Apocalypse. And the people die, by the thousands, by the tens of thousands, the people die. But understand, my futures, my hopes, understand that they knew it. The moment the Hereros began to head for the desert, they knew the only answer was death. And so might we consider their choice a heroic one?”

  105

  GRAVES

  She’s bored, and she’s got one of those little school scissors, the kind with the rubber handles. She thinks it’s absurd they make them for lefties.

  “Why wouldn’t they?”

  She looks at me the way she does. Mavala’s eyebrows. Even when her face does nothing to make them, they have a way of seeming arched. Then she points the little scissors at my head. “Talk.”

  “About what?”

  “Anything. Speak.”

  “I have nothing, zero.”

  “What sort of name is Larry?”

  “French, I think.”

  “You’re French?”

  “No.”

  “Say something else.”

  “School?”

  “Even that.”

  “Obadiah came to my fifth hour and taught about Waterberg.”

  “What did the guru say?”

  “That it was heroic.”

  “What was?”

  “For the Hereros to go to the desert rather than get shot by Germans.”