I Am Not Your Slave

by Tupa Tjipombo

  But it was the contacts that particularly worried my father because that issue brought everything back to one person: Angel. He did not like or trust Angel, and the idea of doing business with him did not sit well at all. Like many Himba, my father was uneasy around Ovambo people and regarded them as part of the privileged government elite who tended to look down on Namibia’s other tribes with disdain. But everything depended on Angel’s contacts in Angola, so there was nothing he could do.

  Once the final decision had been made, it all came down to logistics. My father needed help driving a large herd of cattle across the Kunene River into Angola. Uncle Gerson could not leave Opuwo due to his job and other responsibilities, so my father enlisted my brothers for assistance. He also wanted my mother to join them since she was from the Angolan side and they might be near her home area, though it was difficult to say because Angel would not tell them exactly where they were going once they crossed the border.

  Finally, and at the very last minute, my father informed me that I would have to go too. I could make myself useful by driving the cattle during the day and helping my mother with the cooking and other chores in the evenings. I begged him to reconsider, arguing that I was from Opuwo now and would be useless in the bush. I would also miss school and everything that was important to me. I asked him to choose any one of my cousins, all of whom still lived in the bush and were much better suited for the job. But my protests only angered him. “Are you ashamed of being Himba?” he demanded to know. “Would you be like the men who are killing us?” I knew better than to even attempt to answer. Besides, I was fifteen—still a girl—and I had to do my father’s bidding.

  3

  IN JANUARY 2007, my parents, my two brothers, and I crossed the Kunene River into Angola. We were driving more than 150 cows, 30 goats, and 30 sheep ahead of us, a substantial part of our own family savings and that of at least seven other families from our area. The crossing itself was relatively uneventful; the drought had left the Kunene unusually shallow in parts, and though it was January, which typically marks the beginning of the wet season, it still had not rained. As our procession moved slowly north across the desiccated land, choking clouds of dust hovered above us and coated everything with a fine brown film.

  While in Namibia, we stayed close to the mountains during the day so that, come evening, we were never too far from a natural spring. Springs were few and far between, usually tucked away in small valleys and narrow gorges, which made them impossible to find unless, like my father, you had at least some knowledge of the area. We planned our daily treks in order to be within a mile or two of a known spring in the afternoons, at which point we drove our exhausted and unwilling herd into the high country to access what amounted to tiny trickles of water that collected in ankle-deep puddles of brown muck. Yet even these unassuming specks of water were like a magnet for all living things; people and animals consolidated around them from miles around. We were often forced to wait in line with local herders or others who, like us, were also passing through with their livestock. Sometimes animals were scattered about for a kilometer or more around a single spring. We always tried to move as quickly and efficiently as possible because the locals did not like outsiders accessing their waterholes. Leopards were also a risk near mountain springs, and there was always the threat that one would kill a stray goat or calf, especially at night. And the drought hung over everything, amplifying both the stress and the risk.

  Once we crossed the Kunene River into Angola, we were in unfamiliar territory. Beyond the river, my father had no idea where the natural springs were and did not know where the Angolans drilled their boreholes or if they even had working pumps. According to the rumors, most boreholes in this part of Angola were broken, and locals were not likely to grant access to those that still worked. It was said that they defended their water sources with AK-47s and other weapons left over from the war. On top of everything else, we were now facing the additional threats of minefields and cattle thieves. From what my father and grandfather told me, I knew there were few towns or cities of any significance in southern Angola, just scattered villages where most people struggled to survive. It was difficult to believe that the area was such a critical link for the flow of goods pouring into the capital city of Luanda, where politicians and their friends got rich on oil and diamonds—or so said the amazing stories we heard.

  Once we crossed the river, the original plan was to meet Angel at a prearranged location, but he was nowhere to be found. So my father returned to a spot by the river to ensure there was at least enough water for the animals. But as the days wore on, he grew increasingly agitated. He often yelled at my brothers to keep the herd together, and he posted me near the riverbank to keep an eye out for crocodiles and hippos. Finally, on the fourth day, Angel’s distinctive Toyota Hilux emerged from the bush, blaring hip-hop music and carrying an entourage of drunken ladies in the back.

  A second man sat in the passenger seat, a large, brooding Angolan with burn scars down the left side of his face and around his neck. Angel introduced him as Bernardo and informed my father that he was the buyer. Bernardo was all business and immediately made everybody nervous, including Angel, it seemed, who obviously deferred to him. When Bernardo tossed his empty beer bottle in the bush and indicated with a cursory flick of the wrist that he wanted another, Angel quickly scurried back to the truck like a field mouse to fetch one. Bernardo dismissed my father’s complaints of being delayed for several days. “This is Africa,” he said in a heavily accented, rumbling English, repeating a common refrain for everything from tardiness to death. My father pressed him to confirm the price he and Angel had agreed upon in Namibia, but Bernardo refused to discuss any details about the transaction until they moved the herd six miles north to his farm, where he said they would find a borehole and plenty of grazing for the livestock. My father was reluctant to move deeper into Angola, but he had little choice. Bernardo whistled and a young boy climbed out of the truck to guide us to his farm.

  Throughout that initial meeting, I felt Bernardo’s eyes on me. At times, he seemed more interested in me than in the livestock he was about to purchase. He glanced at me repeatedly while speaking with my father, as if trying to hold a conversation while thinking about something else entirely. It made my skin crawl as I found myself staring back at the knotted scars on his face and neck, which gave him a twisted, menacing appearance. I had an overwhelming urge to get out of Angola as soon as possible.

  It took most of the following day to drive the herd to Bernardo’s farm. The six-mile trek was about the limit of what the cows could endure, and they made a wild dash to the borehole once they sensed that water was nearby. The borehole itself was little more than a rickety windmill connected to a simple pump mechanism that drew water from a pit directly beneath it. A diesel engine, propped up on a cement block inside a small locked cage, was connected to the pump. The only other structure in the vicinity was a small mud hut, which sat under a lone camel thorn tree a short distance away. A string of empty beer bottles marked the path between it and the borehole. Livestock had eaten everything in sight, leaving behind a large circular plain of dimpled sand pockmarked with cow patties. Scanning the immediate area, my father commented favorably on several dust devils whirling about. He said it was a sign that the wind was praying for the rain to come. Fortunately, the wind proved strong enough to turn the windmill and generate power, which was enough to fill the cement trough with plenty of water for our animals.

  Angel and Bernardo arrived the following morning. I sat under a tree on the edge of the clearing and watched the men negotiate. As the small group walked among the animals, they inspected different individuals carefully, prodding them with sticks. Occasionally, they ordered my brothers to drag a goat or calf over for a closer examination. After about an hour or so, I could see that something was wrong. Bernardo was doing all the talking, raising his voice and gesticulating wildly as my father stood silently and poked at the dirt with his walking sti
ck. At one point, Bernardo stopped talking and seemed to be waiting for a response, but my father remained silent and simply gazed out across the herd. Finally, Bernardo threw up his arms in frustration and walked back to his truck. Angel continued where Bernardo left off, and I watched as the field mouse spoke quietly to my father, leaning in closely and touching his shoulder now and then, clearly trying to persuade him of something. But after several minutes, he, too, gave up and returned to the truck. My father remained fixed in place as they drove off. I wished he was not so stubborn all the time.

  The next three days were quiet but increasingly tense. Bernardo and Angel had vanished without a trace, and there were few signs of life in the immediate area. The heat was relentless, and the wind, which had been sporadic at best when we first arrived, completely died out by noon on the second day, threatening to leave the herd and ourselves stranded in the middle of nowhere without a reliable source of water. The cows in particular showed signs of stress and dehydration. They would last only a few more days. Before leaving, Angel had promised us he would return with some diesel fuel for the engine. But when he never came back, there was no means by which to operate the pump. We could only pray for wind. As my father grew more agitated, he contemplated driving the herd back to the Kunene River, but that was extremely risky and becoming more so with each passing hour. On the afternoon of the third day, he sent my brothers out on a scouting mission to look for alternative sources of water.

  By the following morning, my brothers had not yet returned. To make matters worse, we discovered that four cows had somehow gone missing. My father was preparing to go out and search for my brothers when, as if on cue, Bernardo and Angel finally reappeared. Angel looked shocked and sympathetic when we told him about the missing boys, but he claimed not to have seen or heard anything about them. Meanwhile, Bernardo pressed my father to settle on a final price. If they could not come to an agreement, he warned, we would have to get off his farm by the end of the day. He shook his head when he heard about the missing cows, saying only, “There are many cattle thieves in Angola; you are always in danger.” I thought it strange how unconcerned he was about cows being taken from his own farm; almost everyone considered cattle theft a serious crime. When it happened in our area, entire villages were immediately turned out to find the culprits. But Bernardo just listened to Moses and smiled calmly, his eyes wandering slowly over the herd before settling on me. Now, staring straight into my eyes, he told my father that he would offer him the same price as he had several days before, but on one condition: he would take his daughter.

  Initially, my father did not even consider the offer, which involved me working for a year as a live-in house girl on Bernardo’s farm about two hours’ drive to the north. After the year was up, he would forgive the debt incurred by the four missing cows and I could return home. Without missing a beat, Angel jumped in to offer additional details when Bernardo walked away to make a call on his cell phone. It was almost as if the two men had worked out the deal between themselves beforehand. But I wondered how that could be unless they had known about the missing cows before they’d arrived. My mother, silent until now, seemed to understand this as well, and she interrupted Angel to speak with her husband. By that point, however, everything seemed to be pressing down upon my father: his missing sons, the stolen cows, the stress of the negotiations, the relentless drought, and the deteriorating state of the herd. He turned on my mother and snapped at her to be quiet so the men could do the talking.

  Then Bernardo approached my father and told him that once they came to an agreement, they would go and find his sons. My father stared after the Angolan as he walked away, seeming to put things together in his own head for the first time. Bernardo returned to his phone conversation, speaking in a language I thought might be Portuguese, but I was not sure. His entire demeanor was one of such cool assurance that it bordered on intimidation. Meanwhile, Angel smiled and offered placating words, maintaining that the deal was fair and everybody would be happy. He said they could all go home today and added—almost as a warning itself—that it was “getting more and more dangerous in this part of Angola these days.”

  I caught my father’s eyes when he glanced over at me. I tried to interpret his look in that instant, wondering if it was one of love or sorrow or simply cold appraisal as he tried to work out my worth relative to a handful of cows. I felt like everything I had ever done or been up to that point was now under scrutiny, only I could not be certain how my father was measuring my value. I remember hoping he would recall how I helped around the homestead or found calves that were lost in the bush. Or maybe he would remember all the times he had carried me on his shoulders when I was a little girl, telling me stories about the giraffe and how it got its long neck or why baboons scratched themselves the way they did. I knew those were the best times we had shared together. But ever since the zebra snake had bit Timo, things had changed: I had moved to Opuwo, forgotten all about life in the village, and grown apart from my father as I became more attached to my uncle and his way of life. I felt like my father was weighing all of these things now. As I stood there before him, I wanted to somehow show him that I was still the little girl he used to carry on his shoulders.

  But the moment my father’s eyes fell to the ground, I knew immediately that he had made up his mind and would agree to the deal. My mother knew it too, clucking her tongue in dismay and instinctively placing her hand on my shoulder. My heart fell as I thought about my life in Opuwo and how in an instant it had all become a distant thing of the past. I could not bring myself to believe that it could all end so suddenly. I turned to my mother and asked what was happening. What about my plans to finish secondary school? I had only two more years, and I was doing so well. What about university? What about everything we had talked about for my future? Could it really all just change in an instant like this? My mother held me and looked beseechingly at my father, but it was clear he had resigned himself to the offer. His voice sounded dull and wooden as he commented that it would only be for a year. I thought he looked ashamed; I wanted him to be ashamed.

  Everything moved quickly after that. Within an hour, the transaction was complete; my mother had packed up everything in the donkey cart, and my father was off with Bernardo and Angel to retrieve my brothers. Bernardo claimed they had turned up at a shop about ten kilometers away, but he did not elaborate or provide any additional details. Several boys appeared out of nowhere with diesel fuel for the pump and watered the herd. After that was done, they drove all the animals off into the bush, leaving me alone with my mother. As she prepared a bundle of clothes and some food for me, she gave me instructions on how to handle myself over the coming year. But she was interrupted by the arrival of an old, clattering pickup truck. Two young men climbed out and announced brusquely that they were there to pick up “the girl.” My mother pleaded with them to wait until the others returned, but they said they were in a hurry. So she hugged me one last time and quickly offered some final words of advice. Before I knew it, I found myself in the bed of the pickup truck, looking back at my mother as she disappeared in a thick cloud of dust and exhaust. And just like that, I was alone.

  4

  THE CLOSE ENCOUNTER with the garter snake almost made me want to give up. But God had directed me to the mutilado man, who in turn had told me about the next homestead, where there were possible English speakers. After hearing my pursuers’ truck closing in, I knew it was my last hope. I sped along the footpath for another twenty minutes before coming upon a second clearing, this time holding a larger homestead that included several huts and outbuildings. It bustled with activity: two women sat under a tree, chatting as they ground corn, while a group of young boys darted about, pushing their homemade wire cars ahead of them. An assortment of chickens, dogs, and goats wandered about. Dirty, sweaty, and utterly exhausted, I stumbled up to the two women and asked them if they spoke English.

  “Oh my child,” said one woman, looking me up and down. “You are
hurting.” She pointed to my arms and legs, noting the numerous cuts and scratches where small trickles of blood continued to flow. The second woman remained silent but eyed me dubiously as she took in my state of panic and disarray.

  Relieved to finally find someone who spoke English, I blurted out, “Some men have taken me from my family. I do not know them or what they want from me. I think they are coming now. Please help me.” My words resulted in a look of distress from the English-speaking woman, which was quickly mirrored by the second woman after a brief translation.

  “Where are you coming from?” the English-speaking woman asked cautiously.

  But I did not have time to answer—the sound of my pursuers’ truck broke the heavy stillness of the sweltering air. At that moment, the Bushman tracker ghosted into view from the bush on the opposite side of the clearing. He surveyed the scene before him with eyes that were both attentive and amused, eyes that quickly settled on me with a look of confirmation. He whistled loudly in the direction of the truck and squatted in the sand, patiently waiting and watching as he worked his jaw and spat a long, thin stream of brownish liquid onto the ground.

  I turned to the English-speaking woman again. “You must help me!” I cried. But both women were now busy shepherding the children into one of the huts. Desperate, I pushed my way inside and continued to plead for help. This only angered the second woman, who shouted at me in another language as she tried to shove me back out again. Meanwhile, the children screamed and scurried about while a dog managed to trip up the English-speaking woman, who fell backward into a stack of cooking pots with a loud crash.

  The general pandemonium was at its apex when the truck drove into the compound. The two men got out and approached the hut. At first, the English-speaking woman seemed to make an attempt to protect me, standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips and speaking somewhat sternly to the two men—now in what sounded like Portuguese. The men hesitated and looked unsure of themselves until the old mutilado man hobbled from around the truck on a pair of crutches. He shouted at the woman for several moments, gesticulating wildly at me and the men with one of his crutches until he almost fell over with the effort. Whatever he said prompted the woman to utter a meek “ooooh” before turning and giving me an apologetic look. She retreated from the doorway as the two men, seeing their opportunity, instantly pushed past her and grabbed me roughly by the arms. As they dragged me outside, I struggled against their hold and screamed, “What did they tell you? They are lying! Help me! Call for the police! Call for your headman!”