“What are you doing?” I ask as he stops the wagon in front of our house.
“I’ve been asked to go to Otjimbingwe. I thought you might like to come with me,” he says. Otjimbingwe? That was the village of our chief. I haven’t been there since I was a girl.
Maybe Tate’s cousin is still there. Or his cousin’s children. “Of course I want to come with you,” I tell Fredrich.
I ask a neighbor to watch my grandsons and milk my cows. I quickly pack a few things for the trip. I smile when I catch myself singing the old praise songs. As we bump across the veld in the wagon, my excitement grows. But I remind myself of Kukuri’s words, preparing for more disappointment.
Otjimbingwe is not the village I remember. Its roads are filled with white people driving cars and trucks. Herero hurry to get out of their way. There are electric lines, and lots of big houses and shops. But some things haven’t changed. I see two white policemen holding a Herero down on a whipping bench. A small group of whites and Herero gather to watch the flogging.
“What did he do?” Fredrich asks a Herero standing near the crowd.
“He was speaking English,” the man says.
Fredrich pulls me away from the crowd as the flogging begins. Under South African rule, Herero can speak German or Afrikaans. And we can speak our tribal languages. But we cannot speak English. That’s a special language only for the white people. I hear the man’s screams and the slap of the whip as Fredrich and I walk away.
Fredrich goes into a shop that sells to Herero. I wait outside. There’s so much I want to see. I stand straight and tall, with my good dress covering my many petticoats. I look across the road to where a Herero man is loading a wagon. Even though he’s older, he’s very strong. Something about the way he moves reminds me of Tate. His wagon loaded, the man turns briefly toward me. I see his face.
“Ramata!” The name comes to my lips before I think. I run across the street, ignoring the cars and wagons. I’m afraid that if I don’t hurry, my brother’s face will fade into that of a stranger.
The man stops and stares at me. I search his face. There’s no recognition in his eyes. My run turns to a walk. I say the name again. It’s more a question than a greeting.
“Do I know you?” he asks.
“You are Ramata Eliphas Mutihu?”
He nods.
I want to run to him and hug him and never let him go. But I hang back.
“Penee!” Fredrich calls to me as he crosses the road. He looks from me to Ramata. “Is this man bothering you?” he asks.
I laugh. “No,” I say. “This is my brother.”
Ramata stares at me. “Jahohora?” he whispers.
I run into his open arms. We hold each other tightly. There are tears. Lots of tears. But no words. At last, we break apart. “How?” we both ask at the same time.
I tell him my story – my escape from the mountain, my journey into the desert, my search for our family.
He tells a similar story. He was watching the cows in the clearing when he heard the shots that killed our parents. Like Tate told him to, he ran and hid. After many days, he came back. He found the bodies of Mama and Tate and the others. In the darkness of the night, he buried them near the waterhole. The next day, he climbed the mountain. He found Vijanda sitting quietly beside the grave he had dug. “The soldiers killed them all,” Vijanda told him. “Even the baby.”
Ramata stayed on the mountain with Vijanda for many days. The deaths of Tuaekua Ehi and Karikuta made Vijanda like a crazy man. Sometimes he talked about killing the soldiers. Other times, he wanted to find his parents and join Maharero. And there were times when he acted as if Ramata wasn’t there.
When Ramata woke one day, Vijanda was gone. Ramata walked to the edge of the mountain and looked across the veld. But he could see no sign of Vijanda. Then he searched the mountain. Thinking Vijanda might have gone back to his village, Ramata went there. The village had been burned.
“What about Tjikuu?” I ask.
Ramata shakes his head. “All I found were burned bones. I buried them beside Tjikuume.”
Ramata continued to our village. It had been burned, too. He was returning to the mountaintop when a farmer found him. The farmer was going to give him to the soldiers, but Ramata talked the man into letting him work on his farm.
I stay with Ramata until Fredrich is done with his preaching. It’s hard to leave my brother when I’ve just found him. As Ramata hugs me goodbye, he promises to visit me soon. “We can’t lose each other again,” he says. “We have already lost too much.”
* * * * *
It’s the last day of school for the boys, so I’m cooking their favorite meal over the fire. Kapombo and Luther run into the yard and throw down their bookbags. They look at me and grin, as if they have the biggest secret in the world. “What are you smiling about?” I ask them. “You can’t be this happy just because school is out.”
Kapombo shakes his head and smiles even bigger. “It’s a surprise, Tjikuu. A special surprise.”
“A surprise? For whom?” I ask.
“For you!” Luther shouts. He starts to tell me more and then puts his hand over his mouth. I turn around and see Jesaiah behind me. He’s shaking his head at his younger brothers. He stops when he sees me looking at him.
“What are you boys up to?” I ask him.
“Nothing, Tjikuu.” Jesaiah was never a good liar. The boys run off to play before I can ask them more questions. I turn back to my cooking.
“If it weren’t for that dress you’re wearing, you’d look just like Tjikuu cooking over that fire,” a voice says behind me.
Ramata! I spin around to see my brother standing next to the house. My grandsons are peeking around the corner. So this was their surprise!
“Did you know about this?” I ask Fredrich when he joins us later for dinner.
He smiles in that quiet way he has. Then he looks at Ramata. “Have you told her yet?”
“Told me what?” I glance suspiciously from my husband to my brother.
Ramata holds up several travel passes. “Tomorrow, we’re going on a trip in my wagon. You, me, Martin, and the boys.”
“Martin? But he’s working in the mines in South Africa.” I look at Fredrich. “And what about you? Aren’t you coming?”
“One question at a time,” Fredrich says. “Martin should be home late tonight. He got leave so he can go on this trip with you. And, no, I’m not going. I have to meet with the bishop. Besides, this is a trip you need to make with your brother and the boys.”
“Where are we going?”
“To the Okavaka,” Ramata says quietly.
We set out before the sun wakes the next morning. My son and grandsons stretch out in the back of the wagon. I sit on the driver’s perch with my brother. We are silent as the oxen pull the wagon across the veld. No words are needed. Sitting next to each other after all these years is enough.
When Ramata is ready to speak, he says, “I should have asked you before ... are you all right with going back?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’ve wanted to for many years. But I wasn’t sure I’d find it. That was so long ago.” I look across the veld, seeing many yesterdays. “What about you? Have you been back?”
He shakes his head. “I was afraid to go. I wasn’t sure I was strong enough.” He wipes the tears from his eyes. “But it’s time ... now that I’ve found you.”
We sit arm in arm as the wagon bounces over the veld, sharing our memories. Our tears flow freely as we approach the waterhole at the base of the Okavaka.
Ramata helps me down from the wagon and leads me to a spot covered with rocks. Stooped with age and grief, we stand before the grave of our parents. My son and grandsons stand beside us as Ramata and I, through our tears, tell them of Mutihu and Tutejuva. We tell them how they died so their children, and their children’s children, could live.
Ramata and Martin go to the wagon and return with the horns of several cattle. They place the horns on the grave.
It is now a proper burial site for an important healer of the Herero.
“Do you want to go to the top?” Ramata asks.
“Yes!” the boys shout.
I shake my head. “If you think it was hard for Mama Uajoroka to climb that mountain, just imagine me trying to crawl up it in this dress and all these petticoats.” Ramata and I both laugh at the memory of Auntie crawling up the path and threatening to make Tate or Uncle Kozondanda carry her up.
“You’ll be all right down here by yourself?” Ramata asks, as he slings his pack across his back. “We won’t be back until tomorrow. But there’s plenty of food and blankets in the wagon for you.”
I laugh. “If I could survive two years in the desert, I’m sure I’ll be all right for one night in the wagon.”
When they come down the mountain the next day, the boys beg to go on to the Waterberg. Ramata looks questioningly at me.
“Why not? It’s good for them to learn their history,” I say. “They won’t get it at the white man’s school.”
So we journey on, bouncing in the wagon as its wheels slip into the old ruts that still scar the veld. As we come to the broad plain that spreads beneath the towering rocks of the Waterberg, I once again see the soldiers blink their star words across the night sky. I watch the flashes of lightning and hear the rolling thunder of the big guns. All those yesterdays ago, I saw it from the safety of the Okavaka, not understanding the death the lightning and thunder brought. Today, I tell my grandsons of the sacrifices of Mama Uaporimana and the other eighteen women who gave their babies’ milk to the warriors so the Herero nation could live a few days longer. I tell them of that day that was the beginning of the end of a free people.
The boys cut through my memories, begging to explore the cemetery with its engraved headstones and crosses marking the graves of German soldiers. They read the red stone monument memorializing the German lives that were lost at the Waterberg.
“Tjikuu, where is the monument for the Herero?” Jesaiah asks.
“Here,” I say, placing my hand on my heart. “And here. And here. And here.” I put my hand on each of my grandsons’ hearts. “You must never forget.”
We stop at Ramata’s house before going home to Okakarara. He has one more surprise for me.
He gets his pack from the wagon and sets it on the ground in front of his small square house. He pulls two pieces of wood from the pack. One is crumbling with age and ash. The other is an old branch of the omumborombonga tree. “They’re from the mountaintop,” he says quietly. “From our holy fire.”
We sit around the fire circle as Ramata strikes Mama’s firestones, sparking a flame with dried grass in a hollow branch. The holy fire comes to life as the sun slips behind the mountains. Ramata drinks from a gourd and spits three times. He hands the gourd to me. I drink and spit and pass it on to Martin and then to my grandsons.
Ramata turns to the fire. He tells the ancestors that he, Ramata Eliphas Mutihu, the son of Mutihu, the healer, and Tutejuva, is now the keeper of the fire. “It has been many years since we gathered at the fire of Mutihu,” he says. “But we have not forgotten you. Even though our house has been diminished, we are still here.” He looks at my grandsons. “And we will be here for many tomorrows.”
I sit tall as Ramata says my name, “Jahohora, daughter of Mutihu and Tutejuva.” Then he introduces my son and my grandsons to the ancestors.
Tears run down my cheeks as yesterday meets tomorrow. I am happy. Very, very happy. The circle of my life is complete.
Kov
WAKING TO LIFE
I’m trapped in a nightmare that I can’t wake up from. One minute, fire is burning through my veins, consuming my organs. The next, ice floes freeze me from the inside out. And everywhere I turn is death. I walk chest-high in mutilated black bodies. In front of me, hooded skeletons hang from ropes. A wind kicks up, driving the sand into my eyes. I gag at the nauseating smell of rotting flesh assaulting my nostrils. I hear Hanna calling my name, but her voice gets fainter and fainter as it’s lost in the thunder of artillery. A cannon ball crashes to the ground, splintering a pile of corpses into a shower of disjointed bones.
Something moist pushes against my cracked lips. I taste it, trying to remember what it is. Water! I swallow thirstily. The cool trickle feels like the sharp thorns of the bramble as it courses down my throat. I push it away. Someone holds up my head, forcing me to drink. I struggle as if I’m drowning. Voices buzz around me, their words a senseless hum. Once again, I hear Hanna in the distance, but the voices continue to crowd around me, overpowering her faint call.
“Be quiet!” I scream, covering my ears with my hands. The voices ignore me as if I am nothing.
I open my eyes to blurred images; the lines and colors bump into each other in a splash of blurred shapes. I try to make sense of the figures hovering about me, to attach the sounds I hear to some of the images. But it takes too much effort. I close my eyes and let the darkness envelope me once again.
I’m back home, smiling as I watch Hanna rocking David in Mama’s old wooden rocker. A loud knock rattles the door. I get up just as three soldiers burst through the door, their bayoneted guns drawn. “What do you want?” I ask, trying to keep my voice calm.
“You are Jews.” It is a statement, not a question.
“We are good Germans,” I say.
“You’re Jews.” One of the soldiers spits on the floor as another one rips the mezuzah from the doorpost. The commanding officer points his gun at my chest.
“Yes, but we are good Germans. I’m an army doctor.” I look down, surprised to see that I’m wearing my dress uniform. “See?” I say, pointing to the insignia of the snake wrapped around a pole.
“You make a mockery of that uniform,” the officer says as he rips the insignia from my sleeve.
I back up, shielding Hanna and the baby. The two other soldiers search the house, overturning tables and throwing books and dishes. Hanna clutches at the back of my jacket as her china crashes to the floor.
“What do you want?” I repeat.
“We have orders to purge the Fatherland of all inferior races. We need more room for good Germans,” the officer tells me.
“But we’re good Germans,” I protest.
“You’re Jews. You know you’re not wanted here, yet you insist on staying. Taking up space and jobs that belong to Germans.” The officer looks inquiringly at the soldiers who have finished ransacking our small quarters.
“Nothing of value here,” one of them says, “except these tin soldiers.” He’s examining the pieces of Papa’s collection. He puts a few of them carefully into a pack.
“Put those back,” I demand. “My father made those.” Again, Hanna tugs at my jacket.
“Your father did nice work for a Jew,” the soldier says derisively as he packs up the rest of the collection. He looks around disdainfully. “We’re finished here.”
I hear the gunshot just before the bullet tears through my abdomen. An unbelievable pain sears me as I drop to the floor. I try to stanch the blood with my hands.
“Kov!” Hanna screams. David cries as Hanna moves toward me. But one of the soldiers restrains her. The other tears David from her arms and throws him to the floor, stomping on him until his cries stop. Hanna sobs, watching helplessly as David’s blood mingles with mine on the floor. Her sobs turn to anger as the soldier who’s holding her begins to grope her. She kicks him and struggles violently. He slaps her, laughing when I try to reach her. I don’t have the strength to stand up, let alone protect my family. I lose consciousness as the beasts begin to rape my wife.
I come to in the cemetery where Papa now rests beside Mama beneath the snow. I brush away a tear as I look at his tombstone. I should have been here when he died. I had no business going off to South West Africa. The earth shifts beneath me. I lean against the headstone to steady myself, but it breaks in half. I lose my balance and fall to the ground. Instead of landing in the blanket of snow, I crash into a tangle of bones and ro
tting corpses. I scream as I try to get up. But the more I struggle, the deeper I fall. The bones bury me, blocking out the gray light of winter. Someone grasps my arm.
“Yaakov, what are you doing here?” It’s Papa. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I make out his shape. “It is not your time for She’ol.”
“They’ve killed me, Papa.” I hold up my blood-soaked hand.
Papa shakes his head. “They can’t kill your soul unless you let them. Open your eyes, my son. You don’t belong here. Not now. Reclaim your life. Go back to Hanna and David.”
“I don’t deserve to live, Papa. I abandoned my family.”
“Nonsense,” his face is next to mine, his dark eyes pierce me with their intensity. “It takes courage to live in the midst of hate. And it requires strength to keep that hatred from eating your soul. You have both within you, son. You must tap into them, letting them grow and flourish from the inside out. In doing so, you will find atonement. Now get on with your life.”
“But….”
Papa puts his finger to his lips. “There are no excuses. Live the life God has blessed you with. Go.”
Papa’s shape disappears into the inky blackness of the grave. “I will look for you in Olam Ha-Ba,” he calls to me faintly.
“In the World to Come,” I whisper in agreement. I open my eyes, and a bright light washes over me.
“Kov, can you hear me?”
I look up into Alexander’s concerned face. “Where am I?” I whisper.
“You’re back with the living,” he responds. “I was afraid we’d lost you.” I try to sit, but he gently pushes me back. “Take it easy. You’re very weak.”
Slowly, I get my bearings. I’m on a real bed in some kind of hospital. And everything is clean. I look at Alexander questioningly.
“You’re in the hospital in Windhük. You’ve been here for more than a month,” he informs me.
“A month?” I shake my head in disbelief. “What are you doing here? Is the war over?”
“I was assigned here when the Herero were defeated. The uprising is over, but the soldiers are rounding up what remains of the enemy and sending them to concentration camps.”
Mama Namibia: Based on True Events Page 35