“But what about the words of their big chief?” I ask. “He said no Herero can live in the white people’s land. The white people say all of Hereroland belongs to them now.”
One of the women laughs. It’s not a happy sound. “Hereroland is a big place. Too big for the white people. Land is not like a headdress or a long skirt that belongs to one woman. Land is a gift from Njambi Karunga. No one can own it.”
I sigh. “You’re right, Mama. But the white people don’t think like us. They don’t understand.”
The women leave when the sun sleeps. I don’t go with them. “I must find my own family,” I tell them. “My village is a long, long way from Hamakari.”
I watch the women until the twilight swallows them. I’m sad. And I worry about them. The rest and food has helped them. But they’re still weak. Especially Mama Uaporimana. Life has not come back to her eyes. Her soul is dying.
I go back to my little hut on the hill. It’s very quiet. Too quiet. I talk softly to myself and sing songs. It breaks the quiet, but not the loneliness. It’s hard to sleep. I think about the women. About my family. About home.
The sun is high in the sky when I wake. I feel sad. But I don’t know why. Then I remember. Mama Uaporimana and her friends are gone. I will have no one to talk to today. No one to pick berries with. I look around for something to do. If I’m busy, I won’t think about everyone I’ve lost. I’ve explored most of the places close to the waterhole. Maybe I’ll go farther today.
I hang my pouches around my neck. I don’t want to leave them in the hut – someone might come. Then I head off toward a pile of big rocks in the distance. I walk slowly. I’m in no hurry. I watch a young giraffe stretch its neck, trying to reach the leaves in a high tree. Its mother eats nearby. She reaches the leaves easily. I make up a song about the giraffes. I sing it softly as I walk. I stop suddenly as a warthog crosses my path. He’s very fat, so he takes his time moving out of my way. I walk all morning, but the pile of rocks doesn’t seem to be getting any closer. Every little bit, I turn to make sure no one is coming behind me. The sun is very hot. But I don’t care. I’m used to it by now.
At last, I reach the rocks. They look like they were thrown together by a giant. The pile is much taller than it seemed from my hut. I look for snakes before sitting down in the shade of one of the rocks. I drink from the jar the snake hunter gave me. I wish he was here. This would be a good place for snakes to hide. He could protect me. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about snakes. I could worry about everything else.
I climb up to the top rock. It isn’t easy. It takes me all afternoon. When I stand at the top of the pile, I turn in a slow circle. I can see to the end of the earth everywhere I look. The veld spreads out before me. Way, way off in the distance – where the sky meets the ground – are the Okavaka Mountains where I hid with my family. When I look the other way, I see the beginning of the Omaheke. In between, the veld lies empty and silent. It makes me sad. I don’t know what I thought I’d see. But it wasn’t this emptiness. There has to be someone out there somewhere.
I climb down the rocks. The sun is preparing to sleep when I reach the veld. I will sleep here tonight. Tomorrow I’ll go back to the hut for a few more days. If no one comes, I’ll find my way home.
I lie on the ground, looking up at the stars. I see the Otjikoroise Tjovaeve. It’s very bright tonight. I smile. It’s like an old friend. My smile goes away when I see the other stars in the milky omukuangu. A firespot shines bright red. Tjikuu said firespots in that part of the sky mean the next rainy season will be dry. That’s not good. It’ll be hard to find food and water. One more thing to worry about.
I watch the firespot until my eyes close in sleep. It’s a bad sleep. The stars blink out of the sky, leaving it so dark I can’t see my hand in front of my face. I want to run, but I can’t. If I move, I might fall off the rocks or run into a soldier or a snake. I open my ears and listen hard. I hear nothing but my heart. It beats so loudly it sounds like thunder. I slowly walk forward, feeling in front of me with my hands. There’s nothing to feel. I’m hungry and thirsty. But I can’t find any food or water in the dark. I’m very, very scared. I don’t know where I am. Or where I’m going. Or where I’ve come from.
I wake up. I’m covered with sweat. But the night is cold. I shiver and pull my cow skin around me. I still shiver. I look up at the stars to make sure they’re shining in the sky. Then I close my eyes. The dream comes back. It’s scarier than before. I wake up and tell myself stories so I won’t sleep again. As soon as the sun begins to wake, I pick up my things and walk back toward the waterhole.
I’m very hungry when I get back to my hut. I sit in its shade, eating berries. I need to set my traps. I’m too tired. I’ll do it tomorrow. I lie down, but I’m afraid to close my eyes. I don’t want to dream again.
I walk down to the waterhole as the sun shines it last light of the day. I take long drinks and then fill my jar and pouches. Even though I’m staying near the waterhole, I must always have plenty of water with me. If soldiers come, I’ll have to leave quickly. I’m putting the pouches around my neck when a shadow falls across me. I look up in surprise. A Herero man stands on the other side of the water. He seems just as surprised to see me. I look at him closely.
He wears a soldier’s shirt that’s too big for his skinny body. He drags his kirri behind him. It’s thicker than he is. A small breeze could blow him over.
“You need to sit down, Uncle,” I tell him. I hand him a water pouch to drink from. He’s too weak to get his own water.
He tries to smile at me. He can hardly open his mouth.
“I’ll be right back,” I say. I go to my hut to get some uintjes and berries for him. I don’t care if he sees where my hut is.
When I return, he’s lying on the ground. His eyes are closed. I don’t know if he’s sleeping or dead. I watch him closely. I see his chest move a little with each breath. Good. I won’t have to bury him. I put the berries and uintjes next to him. Even though I’m tired, I must set my traps tonight. He needs more than berries to eat.
I check on the man the next morning. He’s still sleeping. He hasn’t eaten the food I left for him. He must be very, very, very tired. I go to my traps. A rabbit is in one of them. Good. I kill it and skin it. I think about starting a fire to cook it. No, I decide. If any soldiers came, they would kill the man. He’s not strong enough to run and hide.
I take care of the man for several days. As soon as he’s able to move, I help him get to a good hiding place. It’s not safe to lie in the open by the waterhole. He smiles at me. It’s not much of a smile. But it’s a smile. I bring him food and water every day. And I fill a few of my pouches with berries and roots. The veld is starting to dry up. Food will be hard to find soon.
At last, the man is able to sit up and drink without me holding the water pouch for him. He talks softly. His voice is just a whisper. He asks my name.
“I’m Jahohora, the daughter of Mutihu and Tutejuva of the Omukuatjivi clan.”
“Mutihu? The healer?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say in surprise.
“He’s a great healer. And a good man.” The man smiles at me.
I see that his bottom teeth are gone and his top ones are pointed – just like Tate’s.
“I can see that you’re his daughter. You are a healer, too.”
His words make me feel good. And sad. “How do you know Tate?”
“I’m Ikuaterua. We’re age mates,” he says. His voice is almost gone.
I want to ask him lots of questions about Tate and my family. He’s too weak and tired. “You must rest, Uncle. We’ll talk later.” I help him lie down. His eyes close quickly.
We do talk. A little bit more every day. Ikuaterua knows my family, but he hasn’t seen them. He says he was only one of thousands of Herero who went into the Omaheke with Maharero. He didn’t see who all was there. And too many died along the way.
I don’t know “thousands.” He tries to tell me. “It
’s like the stars in the sky,” he says.
I nod. That’s a lot. I’m sure not all the stars know each other either.
As soon as Ikuaterua is strong enough, he wants to leave. “This waterhole is too close to the desert,” he tells me. “You should leave, too. The soldiers are hunting Herero all around here. They don’t want us to leave the desert. They want us to die there.”
“I’ve been here many days,” I say. “I haven’t seen soldiers.”
“They’ll come,” he warns me. “And what they do to Herero girls is very bad. They just kill the men, but they force the girls and women to lie with them. Then they kill them.”
I remember what the soldiers did to the woman near their camp the day I met the snake hunter. I don’t want that to happen to me. “Where should I go?” I ask him.
Ikuaterua shakes his head. “No place is really safe. But it’s safer the farther you get from the Omaheke.”
“Can I come with you, Uncle?”
Again, he shakes his head. “You’re safer alone. You can hide better.” He looks sadly across the veld. “I escaped the desert with five others. We found an old Cape wagon in the bush a few days’ walk from the Omaheke. We thought we were safe. That all the soldiers were still in the desert, chasing Maharero and the others. It was very cold that night, so we started a fire by the wagon. We sat around it – talking and eating scraps of food we found in the wagon.”
Ikuaterua pauses. His thoughts bring pain to his face. His voice is very soft when he talks again. “I heard a strange noise and looked up. Five soldiers were creeping up on us. I shouted a warning. But the soldiers started shooting. I escaped into the bushes. My friends were all killed.” He looks over at me. I see tears in his eyes. “I’ve been running ever since.”
I can’t sleep tonight. I know Ikuaterua is leaving in the morning. I’m sad. Taking care of him has filled my days. Now they will be empty again. I think about what he told me. Maybe it’s time to leave this place. I don’t want soldiers to find me. I’ll leave tomorrow night. I feel safer walking at night.
I tell Ikuaterua goodbye when the sun wakes. Just before he goes, he thanks me. “You saved my life, Jahohora,” he says. “I will never forget you. Mutihu must be very proud of you.”
I watch him walk away – toward where the sun sleeps at night. “Mukuru ngakare punaove,” I call after him. It’s my wish for him. He turns to wave. I try not to cry. It’s very, very hard.
BECOMING A WOMAN
As the sun rises in the sky, I try to sleep. I must rest today if I’m to walk tonight. I’m a little sad about going. I’ve been here so long, it’s like leaving home. I roll over and shut my eyes. I have to stop thinking. I’ve got to sleep.
At last, it’s dark. I fill my jar and water pouches one more time at the waterhole. I stand and look up at the sky, searching for the Otjikoroise Tjovaeve. There it is. I follow it away from the waterhole. I’m in no hurry. I have no place to go. Just a place to get away from.
Once again, I live like the animals. Walking at night. Sleeping in the day. Gathering food and water at twilight. But now, I see more signs of people. Fresh hoof prints by the waterholes. Fires that aren’t quite cold. Bones picked clean of meat. Dust clouds across the veld.
I must be very careful. I try to walk far from the paths cut by the soldiers’ wagons. When I come to a waterhole, I lie low in the grass, watching to make sure no one is there before I go to get water. And when I need to sleep, I find hiding places away from the waterholes.
Sometimes I see other people. But they don’t see me. I watch quietly as soldiers ride past me on their horses. Several Herero walk in a line between the soldiers. They’re very skinny. And they walk funny. Almost like they’re falling, but catching themselves before they do. Then I see why. They’re tied together with heavy metal ropes about their necks and wrists. If one stumbles, the others do, too. The first Herero is tied to the saddle of a soldier’s horse. The soldiers stop to drink at the waterhole. They let their horses drink. But they don’t let the Herero.
After they rest, the soldiers move on. They go in the direction I’m heading. They’re probably going to Windhük. It’s a big, big village far from my home. I’ve never been there. But I heard Tate talk about it. Windhük is in Hereroland. But it is the white people’s biggest village.
I stay in my hiding place long after the soldiers leave the waterhole. I come out only when it’s dark. I quickly get some water and then go back to my place in the bushes. I’ll rest tonight. I want the soldiers to get far from here before I start walking again. I don’t want to catch up with them.
I wake up suddenly. Sharp pains circle my belly and back. It’s like someone is squeezing me. I have never felt this pain before. It scares me. I wish Tate were here. He would know what to do to make the pain go away. I think about what he’d do. He’d feel my head to see if it’s hot. I touch it. It’s not. He would look at my eyes and mouth. I can’t do that. And he’d ask what I’ve eaten. Raw meat and berries. It’s all I’ve eaten for many yesterdays. It didn’t make me sick before. Why should it now?
Maybe someone cursed me. Who would do that? Ikuaterua is the last person who saw me. And that was many, many yesterdays ago. Ikuaterua wouldn’t curse me.
Maybe the ancestors are angry because they think I’ve forgotten them. But they don’t know where I am.
Maybe I’m dying. I’ve never died before. This could be how it feels. I lie there thinking about death. I don’t want to die. But if I have to, I want to go to the ancestors. How will I find them? I need Tate to show me the way.
The pain comes again. Harder this time. I push against my belly. That helps a little. Maybe it would feel better if I get up. I stand up slowly. Something drips down my leg. I look down at the ground. There’s a little pool of blood. That scares me. Is that from me? I’ve never bled like that. I must be dying. I lie back down to keep the blood from coming out of me. To slow the final sleep. I cry. I want Mama. And Tjikuu. I don’t want to die by myself.
I think of all the things I’m going to miss. Little things, like running across the veld. Looking up at the stars in the sky. Drinking cool water on a hot day. And I think about the big things. I’ll never marry Uapiruka. I’ll never become a woman.
I start laughing. I’m not dying. I’m becoming a woman. Mama said I’d be a woman when I started bleeding between my legs. I’m a woman today. I hug the thought to me. I’m happy. I’m also very sad. I need Mama and Tjikuu to tell me what to do. I have so many questions. I know they have the answers. But they’re not here to give them to me. I must learn this on my own.
My biggest worry is the bleeding. How do I stop it? I don’t want blood running down my legs. It makes me feel dirty. And the smell of it could bring wild animals. I don’t want to be dinner for a lion or a leopard. I gather some large leaves and tie them between my legs with a long thin piece I cut from the cow skin. I go down to the waterhole and wash the blood from my legs. The pains still squeeze my belly. But I feel much better.
I sit on a rock, letting the sun warm my body. The veld looks different now that I’m a woman. Life is different. I’m no longer a girl. I think about when Tuaekua Ehi came back to the village when she became a woman. She was so different I didn’t know who she was. Would my cousins know me? Karemarama would tease me. And he’d want to race just so he could finally beat me.
If I were home right now, I’d be getting ready to marry Uapiruka. But I can’t think about that. I can’t think about everything I’ve lost. I must think about now. About staying away from the soldiers. About gathering more food before the veld dries up. About staying alive.
It gets harder and harder to find food and water. Even though it’s the rainy season, no rain comes. The waterholes are drying up. And the berries are gone. It’s been too long since the earth had water. And it’s been too long since I had much to eat or drink. I dig in the dry ground for roots and set my traps. Too often, the traps are empty. When I do find food, I eat only a little so I’ll hav
e something for tomorrow. And when I find water, I take small sips. It’s like being in the desert again. My lips crack. My mouth sticks together. And it hurts to swallow. I walk only a little way each night. I’m too weak to walk further.
My pouches and cow skin become too heavy to carry. But I don’t want to leave anything. I need the skin to keep me warm at night and to protect me from stinging sand when the wind blows. And I need the pouches to carry food and water. When I can find any.
It’s almost twilight. I see dust clouds rolling across the veld. Riders. They’re coming this way. I have to get away from this waterhole. All the others in the area have dried up. Whoever is coming will stop here. I quickly fill my jar and pouches and start walking.
The pouches hang heavy on my neck. I wrap the cow skin around me. It will be cold soon. I walk and walk and walk. Until I can’t take another step. I’m so tired that my eyes close before I drop to the ground.
When I wake, the moon shines big and round in the sky. It’s so bright it covers the light of the stars. I can’t find the Otjikoroise Tjovaeve. I rub my eyes so I can see better. I still can’t find my guiding stars. I don’t know which way to go. I don’t want to go back the way I came. Soldiers are there. I look around. I can’t remember how I got here. I stare at the ground, trying to see my footprints in the dust. The moonlight may be bright, but it’s not enough to show my path. I sit down by some bushes. I’ll have to stay here until the sun wakes.
I shiver in the cold. I reach for my cow skin. It’s gone. I look all around, but I can’t find it. I remember wrapping it around me when I started walking. It must have fallen off somewhere along the path. I was so tired I didn’t feel it fall. I’m wearing the soldier’s shirt. But it doesn’t keep the cold out anymore. It’s been cut by too many thorns. I sit with my knees up to my chest. I wrap my skinny arms around my skinny legs, trying to keep warm. It feels like bone hitting bone.
Mama Namibia: Based on True Events Page 22