Mama Namibia: Based on True Events Read online

  Mama Namibia

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  Copyright © 2017 by Mari Serebrov.

  Proudly prepared for publication by Kamel Press, LLC. v1

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission from the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN-13:

  978-1-62487-053-8 - Paperback

  978-1-62487-054-5 - eBook

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017934595

  Published in the USA.

  To the Herero and Nama grandmothers,

  the “mamas” of Namibia.

  May their legacy never be forgotten.

  Table of Contents

  Mama Namibia

  Book 1

  Jahohora

  Kov

  Book 2

  Jahohora

  Kov

  Book 3

  Jahohora

  Kov

  Book 4

  Jahohora

  Kov

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Mama Namibia

  From old Mother Africa she sprang

  In that moment when yesterday touched tomorrow,

  Born of rusted sands and salted tears

  Into a land of bones and strangers.

  White cows graze on the sacred graves.

  The homestead longs for its holy fire.

  The ancestors call, but no one hears,

  For their future sleeps in the sand.

  Dancing in the ancestral flame,

  Singing the praises of yesterday,

  Mama Namibia.

  Mama Namibia.

  – Mari Serebrov

  BOOK 1

  Jahohora

  FIRST DAY

  I wave at the morning sun peeping over the mountains.

  “Jahohora!” Mama calls.

  I run to the kraal to help her get sour milk. Mama’s belly is big with a baby so she walks slowly. Her bangles and iron beads make music when she walks. I want bangles. But I have to wait until I’m a woman. I have beads on my skirt. And in my hair. They don’t make music like Mama’s beads.

  Mama smells the milk in the gourds. I smell the gourds, too. Sour fills my nose. It makes my belly hungry. Mama puts the ancestors’ gourd on my head. I put my hands up to hold it still. I walk very, very, very slowly to omuriro omurangere, our holy fire. I hold my breath so no milk spills. Tate and brother Ramata are sitting by the fire. Mama carries our gourd to Tate. Her big belly gets in the way when she tries to set the gourd on the ground.

  Tate smiles. I see his pointed front teeth. His tate and mama filed his top teeth and knocked out his bottom teeth when he was a little boy. I don’t want Tate and Mama to do that to my teeth. It would hurt.

  Tate takes the gourd from my head and sets it by the fire for the ancestors. He drinks from the gourd Mama carried. “Ahhhh,” he says. “It is good omaere. The ancestors will smile.”

  Mama and I sit on the ground by Ramata. When Tate is done drinking the sour milk, Mama, Ramata and I drink from the gourd. My belly is happy.

  Yellow cow calls to us. It’s time to milk. I help Mama stand up. Tate laughs. She makes a funny face at him. She pats her belly and smiles. “Soon,” she says.

  I pick up the empty gourd.

  “I’ll race you to the kraal,” Ramata says. He’s already running.

  “That’s not fair,” I tell him. “You started first. And you’re not carrying anything.”

  Ramata gets to the kraal first. He’s bigger than me so he always wins. He runs over to help Tate fix a broken rail. We have many cattle. But only the cows that give milk live in the kraal. Yellow cow is my cow. She gives lots of milk. Tjikuume gave yellow cow to me when I was a baby. Tjikuume is Mama’s tate.

  Mama milks the cows. Clang, clang, squirt. Her bangles sing as her hands pull milk from red cow that belongs to the ancestors. I watch the milk fill the jar and then run to get another jar for Mama.

  “Slowly, Jahohora,” she says. “Stand tall. And walk slowly. Only servants rush through their work.” She pats red cow and then stands up straight and stretches. I put an empty jar under brown cow with white spot. Mama’s belly hangs low to the ground when she bends to milk brown cow. Clang, clang, squirt.

  A fly buzzes my head. I shoo it away. “Mama, tell me a story,” I ask. “About first day.”

  “I want to hear, too,” Ramata calls.

  Mama closes her eyes to think. Her hands keep pulling milk from the cow. Clang, clang, squirt. Clang, clang, squirt. Mama opens her eyes. She’s done thinking. She doesn’t look at me. She sees many yesterdays.

  I sit on the ground as Mama begins the story. “On first day, Njambi Karunga called the first ancestors from the trunk of the omumborombonga tree. One by one, they stepped from the sacred tree. Mukuru and Kamangarunga, the first Herero tate and mama, stepped from the tree. Then the first Berg-Damara tate and mama. The first Nama tate and mama. The first tate and mama of the Ovambo. The first tate and mama of every tribe on earth.”

  “And the first tate and mama of cattle,” I say. “Don’t forget the first ancestors of cattle! And kudu!” We’re from the kudu clan. That means we can’t eat kudu meat or wear the brown color of kudu.

  Mama smiles. “On first day, Njambi Karunga also called out the first tate and mama of cattle. The first tate and mama of kudu. Of lions and leopards. Of wildebeest and baboons. On first day, the first tate and mama of every living thing stepped from the omumborombonga tree.”

  “Did the lions eat the others?” I ask.

  “Shhh!” Ramata says. “Let Mama tell the story.”

  I know the story about first day. Mama has told it to me many times. But I like asking questions.

  “The lions couldn’t see the other tates and mamas,” Mama says. “First day was darker than a night with no stars or moon. All the ancestors hugged the omumborombonga tree and each other so they wouldn’t get lost in the darkness.”

  I close my eyes tight. I try to make it dark like first day.

  “The first tate of Berg-Damara made a fire. That made the first tate and mama of lions, kudus, giraffes, and other wild animals run away.” Mama makes a loud noise like many animals running over the veld.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “The fire scared them,” Ramata says. He thinks he knows everything.

  “But not the tate and mama of cattle,” I say. “They weren’t scared.”

  “No. The first ancestors of cattle were brave and loyal,” Mama says. “They stayed with Mukuru and Kamangarunga, the Herero tate and mama. But it was hard to see, even with the fire. So Njambi Karunga sent light. For the first time, the ancestors saw each other and the animals that stayed.”

  “They saw cows!” I shout.

  “And horses, camels, goats, and all the other animals that live with people until now,” Mama says. “When the first ancestors saw the animals, they chose which ones they wanted. Mukuru and Kamangarunga chose wisely….”

  “They chose cattle!” I clap.

  Ramata shakes his head at me and makes a face. I look away from him.

  “Yes, but the other ancestors wanted them too,” Mama says. “They argued and shouted so much that different languages were born. They no longer understood each other, so the ancestors walked separate paths. Mukuru and Kamangarunga came here with the first tate and mama of cattle. And until now, the Herero take care of cattle. And cattle give u
s milk, skins, and meat.”

  Mama stops pulling milk from the cow and stands up slowly. “That’s why we give the ancestors milk – to thank them for giving us life, and for choosing cattle. And to thank them for talking to Njambi Karunga for us. When we give the ancestors sour milk at the holy fire, they know we remember them and we remember Njambi Karunga.”

  “What if we forget the ancestors?” I ask.

  “They would give us bad luck.” Mama carries the full jar over to the gourds that hold the sour milk. I help her pour the fresh milk from the ancestors’ cows into the ancestors’ gourd. We mix the new milk with the sour. We fill the other gourds with milk from our cows.

  “Then the ancestors are bad,” I say.

  “Why do you think that?” Mama asks.

  “They give bad luck.”

  “No. The ancestors only give bad luck to make us remember them,” Mama says. “They know if we forget them, we will forget Njambi Karunga. And we will lose who we are.”

  THE BABY

  Tuaekua Ehi and I pick up cow dung and carry it to Mama, Tjikuu, and Mama Vitjitua. She’s Mama’s sister. They mix it with sand and put it on the hut they’re building for Mama. It’s the house where baby will come. They need lots and lots of dung.

  Tuaekua Ehi and I start to play. “Bring some more dung,” Tjikuu tells us. Tjikuu is Mama’s mama. “Baby is coming soon. The hut must be ready.”

  Tate and Ramata kill an ox so Mama, Tjikuu, and Mama Vitjitua will have food while they wait for the baby to come.

  At last, the baby house is done. It’s round, like our house. “A round house keeps snakes away because it makes no shadows where snakes can hide,” Tjikuu says. “Herero who build square houses like white people are foolish. Round houses bring good luck. They’re like nature.”

  I laugh. I think she’s teasing.

  Tjikuu points up at the sky. At the trees. And at the mountains. “Do you see anything that Njambi Karunga made that’s square?”

  I think hard. Sun, moon, trees, berries, seeds – they’re all round. I can’t think of anything square.

  “What about a rock?” Tuaekua Ehi asks.

  “Rocks are only square when they’ve been cut or broken from the mountains,” Tjikuu says.

  I nod. Tjikuu is right. She is very, very wise. That’s because she’s old.

  Mama Vitjitua goes in the baby house. I want to go in, too. But Tjikuu stands in the opening. “No, Jahohora. Only your mama, Vitjitua, and I can go in the baby house. We have to keep the house clean so the baby won’t get sick.”

  “I won’t make the baby sick,” I say. “I want to be with Mama. And I want to see the baby when it comes.”

  Tjikuu smiles. “You must be a big girl and go home. You have to take care of Tate.”

  “When will Mama come home?”

  “When the baby is named,” Tjikuu says. “Now go home with the others.”

  “Come on, Jahohora,” Tuaekua Ehi calls to me. She is walking toward our village.

  I tell Mama goodbye and try not to cry. Then I run to catch up with my cousin. Tuaekua Ehi puts her arm around me. “It’s all right. Your mama will be home soon with the baby,” she says.

  I like Tuaekua Ehi. She’s as old as Ramata, but she isn’t mean to me like he is.

  Many days pass, but Mama doesn’t come home. I miss her. Ramata makes me play stone echo with our cousins. Ramata hides. I hear him throwing stones to show where he is. He thinks he can trick us. When the others go to find him, I don’t look for him. I cross the veld to the baby house instead.

  I’m tired when I get there. The sun is hot. I sit by a camelthorn tree close to the hut. It makes a little shade. Not enough for snakes though. I look at the ground anyway. Just to be sure.

  I wait a long time. No one comes out of the hut. I am almost asleep when I hear crying. I open my ears. It’s baby! Mama sings to the baby. It stops crying. I want Mama to sing to me. But I don’t want to make the baby sick. I sit under the tree till the sun makes long shadows. I listen to Mama sing. I pretend she’s singing to me.

  Many days later, Ramata and I go to Tjikuu’s house. Mama, Tjikuu, and Mama Vitjitua come with the baby before the sun wakes up. It’s baby’s first time outside the baby house. The bright sun could hurt the baby’s eyes. So Mama must bring the baby when the sun is still sleeping. Tjikuu spreads a goat skin on the ground by her house for Mama to sit on. Mama holds the baby. Her big belly is gone. Ramata is happy that the baby is a boy. I wanted a sister. But seeing Mama again makes me happy.

  I sit close to Mama and watch the baby while he drinks milk from Mama. Like the baby calves drink from their mamas. The baby’s hair and skin are red. Mama says Tjikuu rubbed ochre on him when he was born to make him smell nice and to keep his skin soft.

  The sun is waking when Mama’s brothers and their families come to see the baby. We sit by Tjikuume’s holy fire. He drinks water from the ancestors’ cup, but he doesn’t swallow it. He spits water on Mama and the baby. Tjikuume is older than Tjikuu. He’s the oldest person I know.

  Tjikuume takes out a special knife to cut a piece of the baby’s hair. The baby doesn’t have much hair so Tjikuu tells Tjikuume to be careful. “I know what I’m doing,” he says. “How many grandchildren do I have, woman?”

  Tjikuu laughs. “It’s been many seasons since we’ve had a newborn,” she says. “Your eyes are older now. And your hand isn’t as steady.”

  Tjikuume cuts a piece of hair and gives it to Tjikuu. She puts it in a skin pouch.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “This will make medicine for the baby if he gets sick,” Tjikuu tells me.

  “His hair?” I think she’s teasing.

  “Not just his hair. His ongua is in here, too.”

  “Let me see. What’s ongua?” I ask.

  Tjikuu opens the pouch wide so I can see a fat dark string. “It’s the cord that joined baby to Mama when he was in her belly.” She nods her head toward Tjikuume. “It’s time for Tjikuume to give baby a name.”

  Tjikuume looks closely at the baby. He closes his eyes to think. Naming a baby is important work. Tjikuume’s mouth gets big with a smile. “Karemarama!” he says. He pulls the baby’s legs straight. Everyone laughs. The baby’s name means “long legs.”

  Tjikuume’s smile goes away. “He may need these long legs to help him run far from the Germans.”

  The laughing stops. Uncles say Tjikuume is right. Tjikuume holds Karemarama up. He tells the ancestors about his new grandson and asks them to bring the baby good luck.

  The uncles follow Tjikuume to the kraal to get the cow he has chosen for the baby.

  “What are Germans?” I ask Tjikuu.

  “They are white people,” she tells me.

  “Why must the baby run from them?”

  “They take our land and cattle,” she says. “And they dig up our graves.”

  I look up when I hear a young cow calling. Tjikuume is leading the baby’s cow. It’s a red cow with spots all over its back. It has long legs like Karemarama. Uncles are laughing. It’s a good choice, they say.

  Tjikuume brings the cow close to Mama and the baby. Mama holds the baby up so his head touches the cow’s head. The cow sniffs him. Karemarama puts his fingers in the cow’s fur.

  “Baby likes his cow,” I tell Tjikuu.

  “She is the sister of your cow,” Tjikuu says.

  “Come,” Mama says. “It’s time to go home so Tate can meet his son.” She carries the baby across the veld to our village. I walk close to her. Ramata brings the baby’s cow. Tjikuu, Tjikuume, uncles, and their families join us. I smile and smile and smile. We will have a feast in our village!

  When we get home, Tate puts a big goat skin on the ground for Mama and the baby. I sit next to Mama. Uncles and aunties from Tate’s and Mama’s clans give the baby presents. Mama Vitjitua and the other aunties all want to hold the baby. But Mama says I should hold him first. I sit very tall and straight. Mama puts the baby in my arms. She shows me how to hol
d his head. The baby’s eyes are closed. I try to sit still. I don’t want to wake him. Mama smiles at me.

  I look down at the baby. Tjikuu says I’m a little mama. I feel important. I hold the baby a long, long time. My arms are hurting. The baby is heavy. Like a big rock. I move my arm. The baby wrinkles his eyes and cries. Loudly. It scares me so I cry too. Mama takes the baby from me.

  “I’m sorry, Mama. I didn’t mean to make him cry,” I say. I’m still crying.

  The baby drinks from Mama. He’s quiet now. “It’s all right, Jahohora,” Mama tells me. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Babies cry. It’s the only way they can talk. But you have words so you don’t need to cry.”

  I rub the tears from my eyes and smile at Mama. I pat the baby’s soft head. He keeps drinking. He must be very, very thirsty.

  Finally, it’s time for the feast. Tate has killed two oxen, so there’s lots of meat. I eat and eat and eat. Ramata and the cousins start to play stone echo. Tuaekua Ehi wants me to play. But my belly is too full. I lie down next to Mama and the baby. I close my eyes and sleep. The sounds of my family talking and laughing join my dreams. They are good dreams.

  Mama wakes me. “The sun is telling earth goodnight,” she says. “It’s time for Tate’s ancestors to meet Karemarama.”

  Tate’s mama and tate live with the ancestors. Tate is the oldest son, so he is the keeper of the omuriro omurangere for his family. The holy fire is a gift from Mukuru, the first Herero tate. It reminds us that the ancestors gave us life. And that they watch over us. The fire must never go out. Sometimes Tate lets me put wood on the fire to keep it burning.

  Tate sits by the fire, near the branch of the omumborombonga tree. The sacred branch can’t be burned. When I see it, I think about Mukuru and Kamangarunga climbing out of the omumborombonga tree on first day.

  Mama and the baby sit next to Tate. Then Ramata and me. Uncle Kozondanda and Auntie Uajoroka sit behind us with Tuaekua Ehi and all their sons. The other uncles and their families also sit behind us. Tate stands up and drinks water from the ancestors’ gourd. He spits water on the baby and on me and all the little cousins. We laugh. He hands the gourd to Mama. She drinks and spits water on the ground three times. Then she gives the gourd to Ramata. He drinks and spits and hands it to Uncle Kozondanda. I watch as Tuaekua Ehi drinks from the gourd and spits. Soon I’ll be big enough to drink from the gourd like Ramata and Tuaekua Ehi. Then Tate won’t spit on me.