by Paul Twivy
Joe’s attention was distracted by two children playing a game at the side of the road. They started with twenty or so round rocks of roughly equal size, arranged in a pile. On a count of ‘one, two, three!’ they ran and picked up five rocks.
Then they raced to arrange their rocks into patterns. Then, they ran back to the pile, picked up more rocks and raced to the other person’s side this time, building on the pattern their opponent had created.
‘Mr Andjaba,’ Joe called. ‘What are they doing?’
‘It’s a pattern game. It’s called Dabra. You build up a picture of something recognisable with the stones. To make it more difficult, you work on each other’s patterns, building on what they have done.’
‘Two people then act as judges, guessing what the picture intended. The first picture to be guessed correctly is the winner.’
‘This could be good for learning maths: pattern recognition,’ Joe observed.
‘I’m sure. It’s centuries old,’ Andjaba said, proud of the tradition, now that it was so admired by an outsider. ‘Bushmen use something similar, to teach hunting. They show people how to draw different animal tracks.’
‘A game after my own heart,’ Joe thought to himself.
‘Wondergat! Taotatide! Bergsig! Grootberg! Another in Bergsig!’
Ralph struggled with some of the pronunciations but was determined to be as accurate as possible, as befitted his civil service training. He was reading out the towns and villages from the list of patients with burn marks that the ward sister had prepared for Anne.
Anne sat at the dining-table, feeding the names into her laptop. Freddie had loaded the right software to turn the addresses into a map. Joe had helped, but Freddie was keen to take all the credit.
Clara was busy on the floor, trying to pin flags for each person on to her own physical map at the same time.
‘Mummy, I’m finding it hard to fit all of them on,’ she complained.
‘Never mind, darling, it doesn’t matter,’ Anne replied casting a glance at Clara’s crowded arrangement of cocktail sticks on the noticeboard taken down from her bedroom wall. ‘It’s just to get a pattern. Any more, Ralph?’
Clara had been somewhat subdued since the shooting-star episode and Anne felt warmed to see her so enthusiastic again.
‘Three in Huab. That seems to be it,’ Ralph said, turning the pages to double-check.
‘OK, let’s see if your software can work its magic, Freddie,’ Anne said, vacating her seat for him.
Freddie took his place at the laptop, somewhat nervously. He hoped he would remember what Joe had told him about the modelling and was cursing himself for not having written it down.
He tapped away feverishly.
Clara joined him at the table, leaning into him. He pushed her away, irritated by her closeness which felt invasive.
‘Hey!’ she protested. ‘It’s only going to show you what my map does already.’
‘Yes, but this one’s likely to be more accurate,’ he observed.
‘So? Mine’s three-dimensional,’ she retorted.
‘Now you two,’ Ralph admonished.
A few minutes later, Freddie turned the laptop screen triumphantly towards his parents.
‘Here. They’re all within a 50-mile radius….in Damaraland, not far from Twyfelfontein.’
They all moved closer to look properly.
‘So, why are all my patients with skin problems coming from such a small area?’ Anne asked, excited about the diagnosis but worried about the cure.
‘Some kind of pollution, in the local water supply?’ Freddie suggested.
‘Unlikely, they look like burns or scorch marks.’ Anne said.
‘Are you sure it’s not some sort of infectious skin disease?’ Ralph asked.
‘Well, if it is, it’s not one I’ve ever seen. Look…’
Anne handled Ralph a couple of photos she’d taken on the ward. She was careful to keep them anonymous. Freddie left the computer to look.
‘Not you Clara,’ Anne said. ‘I don’t want you having nightmares.’
‘Don’t be silly, Mummy, I saw them on the wards, remember?’
‘What?’ Ralph exclaimed, staring wide-eyed at Anne.
‘She followed behind me without my knowing,’ Anne explained.
‘It must be some kind of radiation,’ Ralph suggested. ‘The uranium mines?’
‘No. It’s unlikely to affect anyone other than the miners themselves, according to Li anyway,’ Anne said.
‘Nonetheless, why don’t we just ask Li to check his company records?’ Ralph suggested ‘Can you print this for me, Freddie?’
‘Sure,’ Freddie replied, flushed with pride at being the trusted guardian of the software.
‘Print two copies could you, darling?’ Anne added ‘One with names. I need to notify the Department of Health.’
‘Can you leave notifying them for a few days?’ Ralph asked her.
‘Why? It’s a public health hazard. I must notify them. You, above all people, should realise that.’
‘This could be politically sensitive. Iran are trying to get hold of uranium for their nuclear programme. If this is them…or the Russians, botching it by bringing uranium up to the surface unprotected, it needs to be dealt with in the right way.’
‘Dad, protecting people’s health must come first surely,’ Freddie pleaded. He could see his mother was taken aback at Ralph’s response. Freddie always jumped in to protect her. It was like an automatic response of his nervous system and had been since he was tiny.
‘The health of international relations is also critical Freddie. Please don’t challenge me,’ Ralph admonished.
‘Freddie, please do, always challenge your father. And me… everyone in fact,’ Anne counselled, her eyes burning with indignation at her husband.
‘What do you think?’ Ralph asked as Li examined the printed map of burns victims laid out amidst the unwashed coffee cups on his desk.
They were in Li’s make-shift office in the industrial zone of Walvis Bay. It was functional, rough, the walls lined with whiteboards crammed with schedules and drilling diagrams: a world apart from the polished desks and delicate crockery of the High Commission.
Li gazed up from the map.
‘Look, Ralph, radiation is often misunderstood. I don’t know how much you know…I don’t want to teach grandma how to suck eggs.’
Ralph signalled for him to continue, given his ignorance on the subject.
‘Radiation is everywhere. It’s in the soil, in rocks, in the air, in our homes, our workplaces. It’s like a constant shadow. It comes from outer space and from solar flares. Flying in a plane for ten hours exposes us to as much radiation as an X-ray.’
‘Remind me to cut back on my air travel,’ Ralph interjected.
‘Uranium mining involves relatively little exposure to radiation. We’ve had forty years to monitor and deal with it.’
‘Even if, say, uranium was brought to the surface and left unprotected?’
‘The product of mining is uranium oxide concentrate. It’s shipped from the mines in two-hundred-litre drums and is barely radio-active. It’s no more toxic than lead.’
‘So, these burns can’t be because of that,’ Ralph half-asked and half-stated.
‘The kind of reaction you’re talking about, over an area this big, is different. It’s very unusual. Perhaps radiation from a hole in the ozone layer?’
Ralph walked round to Li’s side of the desk, putting down the undrinkable mug of coffee Li had made him. He pointed to the centre of the map.
‘What about the concentration of cases here?’
‘I agree. There seems to be an epicentre. It does suggest a source. But, as I say, that source is not a mine.’
‘Is there anything about the area that strikes you? Is it
…I don’t know… near a tectonic plate or anything?’
‘Only the coincidence!’
‘What coincidence?’
‘It’s very near where Barbara is planning to build the new hotel… on Darius’s father’s old farm.’
Jacob Ubuntu’s office was a tribute to his passions. There was a mahogany and glass cabinet full of the school’s cups, trophies and shields, brightly polished and awaiting the inscriptions of next year’s winners. There were the yearly school photographs, panoramic stretches of hopeful faces yet to be weathered by the world. The older photos were starting to fade in the sunlight that powered through his study windows. You could see enough detail, even from where they sat, to know that the pupils had become more diverse with time, as the school had taken on more Asian and African students.
The Namibian flag was stretched and framed proudly on the wall next to a signed photograph of the current President. Next to that were various certificates of excellence awarded by the Department of Education. Joe found himself disturbed by their lack of symmetry. He wanted to get up and re-arrange them.
There were two bookshelves even taller than Ubuntu himself, heaving with books, some slotted in sideways like vagrants.
His pride, and joy, was a display case, with embroidered covers laid over it to protect the objects from sunlight. Inside lay clay pots, weapons, utensils, drawings, land deeds, photographs and items of clothing arranged by tribe: Herero, Himba, San, Damara, Caprivian, Kavango, Nama and Ovambo.
On Ubuntu’s desk were stacked piles of exercise books to mark; textbooks; a Victorian letter-writing box; Secretary Bird quills in a pot and ostrich eggs in a wooden, oval bowl.
Ubuntu stared at the three of them.
‘So, when are you planning to go?’ Ubuntu asked.
‘At the weekend, sir,’ Hannah answered.
They had agreed that she should be their spokesperson as she was clearly his favourite.
‘You realise that there are up to five thousand engravings at Twyfelfontein. Many of them are closed to the public.’
Joe piped up.
‘My father has been given a special licence by the Department of Culture sir. I think it gives him access to all the drawings sir.’
‘Yes of course, I’d forgotten. He is a professional in these matters. Which begs the question why you need me to come at all.’
Hannah looked at Freddie, egging him on to speak. He took the cue.
‘Headmaster, you were the one who inspired us about Twyfelfontein in the first place. It was your talk in African Studies. You know a lot about the engravings. We hoped you might be able to help.’
Ubuntu paused before answering. A breeze rustled the trees outside the open window behind him.
‘Don’t get me wrong. A study of the engravings could not be more fascinating or worthwhile. What I can’t quite fathom is the reason why you are so obsessed by them.’
They looked at each other. They agreed that were he to ask, they would have to divulge the whole story.
Hannah took a deep breath.
‘Sir, Joe’s mother is planning to build a hotel here.’
‘Yes, I am aware of that,’ Ubuntu said disapprovingly.
Joe shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
Ubuntu could see that Joe felt his mother’s integrity had been questioned and gave him a healing smile.
Hannah continued.
‘In the process of digging some test foundations for the hotel, a body was found. It has been identified as Captain Alexander, a Victorian soldier and explorer.’
‘Yes, I have read something of him. He befriended the Herero and Himba tribes I believe.’
‘Sir, the tomb shows that they buried him with honour. There were garlands,’ Freddie added, conscious that this would warm Ubuntu to the cause which indeed it did.
‘Go on,’ he said, leaning forward, his arms resting on the desk.
‘We found a trunk next to him,’ Joe continued.
‘You were at the dig?’ Ubuntu exclaimed.
‘Yes sir. My father led it.’
Hannah stepped in.
‘In his trunk were several journals and a map.’
‘What do the journals tell us?’ Ubuntu enquired.
‘They tell us that he became obsessed with a burial ground. Not the one in which he was found, but one that the Bushmen, or other tribes, wouldn’t go near.’
Ubuntu nodded vigorously.
‘As I have taught you, there is always reverence for the burial places of our ancestors.’
‘That is exactly what fascinated us, sir,’ Freddie said emboldened. ‘Alexander wrote that this burial ground held the clue to the Fairy Circles.’
The room went silent. Ubuntu pushed his chair back. It was decorated with African beading which glinted in the sun as he vacated it. The scrape of the chair was like the whelp of an animal.
‘Now it makes sense,’ he boomed. ‘This is all linked to your obsession with the circles.’
They returned his stare, suddenly guilty prisoners in the dock.
‘I should have known. So, all our sacred places are a glorified treasure hunt for you.’
They were shocked by his sudden pivot into anger.
‘No, sir,’ Joe said ‘not at all. We’ve fallen in love with Namibia, sir.’
‘Have you?’ Ubuntu challenged. ‘Think about your words carefully. Have you fallen in love with this country? Or are we just a stopping-off point in your international lives? Another curiosity to play with?’
Ubuntu paused by the window, aware that his own anger was getting the better of him and could lead him in a dangerous direction. Looking at their hurt and curious faces, he had never felt so keenly the tension between seeing his pupils as future ambassadors for his country, and invading, foreign brats who condescended to him.
He walked over to his prized display case and tore off the covers.
‘These tribes,’ he said signalling to the objects inside ‘were not just surviving, but painting, potting, engraving, thousands of years before your civilisations even spluttered into life.’
‘With respect, sir, the Chinese had mastered…’ Hannah started.
‘Do not interrupt me please, Miss Chiang. I am aware that you all come from cultures with long and great histories. The point is, that… so… do...I.’
These last three words were said individually and staccato like a knife stabbing the air.
‘Sometimes, it is best we let secrets stay in the soil with the dead,’ Ubuntu concluded.
‘But, Headmaster,’ said Freddie, trembling with indignation and passion, ‘you have taught us to be inquisitive and to pursue knowledge. Surely, you can’t feel that what we are doing is wrong.’
‘The Fairy Circles are almost certainly caused by termites or plant competition. One day soon, doubtless, the scientists will prove it beyond doubt. You will not find any new secrets in an ancient burial ground. You must respect the traditions and fears of my people and not prise open a scared place. Every foreigner seems to feel it is their God-given right to dig up our country… for minerals, for gold, for… hotel foundations and, yes, for anthropology. But I do not want my country’s heritage to be a wing of the British Museum or the Smithsonian.’
He looked at them all in the eyes with an intensity that felt like a shock wave.
‘Stop digging!’
‘It’s here,’ Hannah said, carrying a large package from the post room to the Reading Room.
Joe and Freddie barely responded. They were still in a state of shock form Ubuntu’s animated rant. It was still difficult to fathom.
‘He’s accusing us of raiding his country,’ Freddie said.
‘It probably doesn’t help that my mum is planning to build hotels here,’ Joe admitted.
‘But what’s wrong with that?’ Hannah asked ‘Es
pecially if it’s done respectfully. It will bring money into the country. It certainly doesn’t help that my dad is mining uranium.’
‘Then they need to build their own mining industry,’ Freddie retorted.
‘Maybe he’s right and the Fairy Circles are just down to natural causes,’ Joe said despondently.
‘We’ve been through this. The science doesn’t add up yet. Why, for example, don’t the circles exist anywhere else apart from here and Pilbara?’ Hannah asked.
‘This might help anyway,’ she continued, opening the end of a poster tube and removing its innards as if she was foraging inside a crab claw for meat.
‘What is that?’ Joe asked, suddenly clocking the package for the first time.
‘The analysis from my dad’s company… of your data!’
The penny dropped and suddenly Joe kicked into life, grabbing the tightly-curled sheets of paper from her.
Hannah and Freddie gathered round it as he thumbed through the data.
‘They’ve done an amazing job,’ he muttered. ‘They’ve analysed several hundred square miles of satellite and Google Earth imagery.’
‘And?’ Freddie asked.
Joe didn’t answer for several minutes. When he did, there was no hiding his disappointment.
‘There don’t seem to be any clear patterns. They’ve tried analysing it by taking squares, rectangles, circles and pyramids of circles.’
‘It was always a long shot,’ Hannah observed.
‘What about the different types of circle?’ Freddie asked. ‘Did they get to a number?’
Joe checked the tables.
‘Twenty-eight.’
‘So, they could be an alphabet?’ Freddie speculated.
Joe rushed round the table, and hugged and kissed Freddie, like a Russian.
‘You’re a genius. Why didn’t I think of that?’
‘We could allocate twenty-eight letters - one to each circle type - and see if it creates repeating words,’ Freddie added. ‘This is the Enigma code all over again. I could get my mum to help. This is where her translation skills would be brilliant.’