I Am Not Your Slave Read online

  I was not quite sure how many livestock my family had lost over the past several years. In fact, I really did not know how big the herd was. Among the people of my tribe—the Himba—it was bad luck to count cows or even family members, and few people ever came up with an exact number for anything. I always remembered the time when the government men came to our village and asked my grandfather how many cows we had. The Old One just shook his head—either because he did not know the answer or in disbelief that they would ask such a foolish question. “Ha, ta, ta, ta . . . ,” he exclaimed, a common refrain in my home area—the Kunene of northwestern Namibia—to let someone know that they just asked an impossible question. Yet if the men had asked my grandfather about an individual cow or goat, he would have told them every little detail about that animal, including where it was at that exact moment. Everything revolved around the movement of cattle, and my family—like every family in the area—grazed our animals and planted our maize gardens in accordance with a seasonal round that stretched back generations. Each morning, we milked and turned out our cows to graze. As okuni—the time of dryness—came on, the best pastures gradually got farther and farther out until it was time to pack up and move to the mountains. When the rains came again and the grasses returned to the low country, we came down from our dry season camps, planted our gardens, repaired our huts and kraals, and began another year. To each and every Himba, the herd represented everything: movement, wealth, social status, relationships, kinship obligations, blessings from the ancestors—life itself. It was wrong to put a number on such things.

  After we had led the cows to the grazing area, I sat beside Timo in the shade of a large overhanging boulder. It was the hottest part of the afternoon, and the Namibian sun was at its apex, once again beating the land around us into a single rippling scar of pulverized red rock. To me, there was always an air of invulnerability to the Kunene, as if the only forces that could possibly work upon it were the slow, epochal pressures of geologic time. I always thought of it as a land of horizontals; even the mountains were flattened out into mesa-like ridges called etendekas. Dry riverbeds snaked their way in between the mountains and dispersed onto broad, windswept plains that, to most outsiders, must have looked exactly like the surface of Mars. The vegetation was sparse but tough, having adapted to its arid ecology in striking ways. While the various grasses lay dormant and unseen for years at a time, we all knew how they erupted into lush fields of green at the slightest hint of rainfall.

  And that was why we had brought the herd to this particular valley—it had rained here the night before. To be more precise, a passing cloud had sprinkled a smattering of lonely drops for maybe ten or fifteen minutes. But in the Kunene, that was enough to encourage new shoots of grass to push through the parched veins of hardened earth.

  After the herd feasted earlier in the morning, I could see that the animals were now sluggish; most squeezed themselves into what little shade was offered by the stunted mopani trees and scattered thorn bushes that competed for a foothold in the sandy riverbed. I enjoyed tending livestock with my eldest brother—he was always telling interesting stories or jokes that made me laugh. On that particular day, he was recounting the time he had spent in Swakopmund, the big town on the Atlantic Ocean just south of the Skeleton Coast. Trying in vain to describe the ocean, which I had never seen, he finally told me to imagine a second sky between the first sky and the land. When I asked him if it had clouds too, he laughed and said no but that it had rolling hills that came toward you from somewhere far away, maybe even as far away as America. Baffled, I asked my brother why the Americans were sending waves in our direction. But this just made Timo shake his head. He reminded me that I was still a girl of thirteen years, and such things were too big for me to understand. He yawned and said I would simply have to go see it for myself someday. Eventually, our conversation melted away and we both fell fast asleep.

  The next thing I remember is being jolted awake by my brother’s cries. I sat up to find him rubbing his foot and cursing. From the corner of my eye, I caught the brisk, glissading retreat of a large zebra snake, its distinctive bands flashing in the sun as it skimmed across the sand. Zebra snakes are common throughout the Kunene and have a reputation for being both aggressive and quick to agitate. Scrambling to my feet, I flung several rocks at the snake to chase it away from the immediate vicinity. I knew that among the many poisonous snakes in our area, zebra snakes were especially dangerous because they could spit their venom at you from several meters away. They always aimed for a person’s eyes, and if they hit their target, the venom was potent enough to cause permanent blindness. They often went out of their way to sink their fangs into someone as the person slept—and they were known to return for a second attack.

  I knew I had to get my brother back to the village as quickly as possible. But it was not going to be easy; his foot was already beginning to swell, and we would have to walk five or six kilometers through the middle of the desert during the hottest part of the day.

  We inched our way along the dry riverbed that wound its way between the mountains north of us and the scorched, windswept plains to the south. Like every Himba, I understood at a very early age that even though this land was my home, it could be unforgiving and demanded care and respect, especially during emergencies like this.

  We managed to get within a half mile or so of the village before Timo collapsed to the ground in agony. Terrified, I left him in the shade of a tree and ran as fast as I could the rest of the way home. Within minutes, I burst into our family compound, trying to catch my breath as I dashed from one hut to another looking for help.

  Finally, I came upon my grandfather sitting by the Holy Fire. I should have known he would be there. As the oldest member of the patriclan, he was the keeper of the Holy Fire—or Okuruwo—a responsibility he took very seriously. He tended to the glowing embers every morning and evening, ensuring that they were always smoldering and at the ready. The Holy Fire was where he spoke with the ancestors and asked them to watch over our household. But today, I thought they seemed to be sleeping.

  “What is it, girl?” the Old One snapped. Despite being blind, he always knew who was nearby from the distinctive sounds of their footsteps. He once told me that it was a special kind of wisdom he had learned from the desert elephants, claiming that they spoke to one another through the unique vibrations they made as they walked across the land.

  For once, however, I ignored my grandfather, rushing past him toward my mother, Nadi, who I spotted behind the kraal where we kept the goats at night. Even from a distance, I could always make out my mother’s long limbs and tall, slender build, physical traits that I myself had inherited. Otherwise, my mother looked like any other Himba woman, with her short leather skirt, tightly plaited locks of hair, and reddish skin that came from covering herself with otjize, a traditional mixture of cooked butterfat and crushed ocher.

  I ran up to my mother and breathlessly told her what had happened. Together, we located my father, Moses, who immediately raced off with my other two brothers to fetch Timo. By the time they returned, Timo’s foot had swollen to the size of a soccer ball and looked like it might burst open. They carried him to his hut and carefully laid him on his sleeping mat. My grandfather barked out orders for somebody to fetch the village healer, unaware that he was already on his way. I could hardly bear to watch.

  At that point, Zudongo, my father’s first wife and Timo’s biological mother, came running into the hut. She cried out and fell to the ground when she saw her firstborn in so much pain. She ran her fingers wildly up and down her son’s body, as if trying to locate the poison by touch. My mother grabbed me by the shoulder and led me outside, away from all the commotion. But I knew the real reason she wanted us to stay away: there was already enough tension between her and Zudongo, and she did not want to add to it by being in the way at a time like this.

  Having two or more wives was common among my people, but so, too, were the inevitable problems t
hat came along with such a practice. While most family disputes were easily mediated through vast networks of overlapping kin, my mother, Nadi, did not have these relationships available to her because her natural kin group lived deep inside Angola. I knew she often felt isolated because of this, especially since Zudongo—as Moses’s first wife—was traditionally higher in rank than her. Moreover, Zudongo had given birth to three strong boys, a sign of good luck among the Himba. As the eldest of the three, Timo was first in line to inherit Zudongo’s eldest brother’s property. “When Timo becomes a big man,” I often heard her tell my mother, “there will be nothing for Angola.”

  I sensed these pressures in my mother now as we walked away from Timo’s hut. She pulled me aside and demanded to know everything that had happened, clearly worried that her only child might somehow be at fault. For once, I knew that I had done nothing wrong and tried my best to show displeasure at my mother’s insinuation, but she was not in the mood.

  Over the next several days, the local healer tried to cure Timo by extracting the poison with various poultices and mixtures. There was increasing gossip that it was a case of embari, a particularly virulent form of witchcraft used by individuals to kill anyone they thought was in their way. We all knew that embari was on the rise in large part because young men were using it against anyone they believed was preventing them from obtaining money and cars and big houses, things that never used to be a problem because they did not exist before. Yet, even if it were embari, we still did not know who was attacking Timo. I kept asking myself who had the most to gain from his death, but it was difficult to say. Meanwhile, my brother’s foot continued to swell until it split completely open and his toes mutated into small black scabs. Everybody could see that the poison was spreading up his leg.

  My father tracked down an old pickup and hastily made arrangements to drive Timo to the government hospital in Opuwo. To make the hundred-kilometer journey a little less arduous, we lined the truck bed with a thick pile of old blankets, but given the pain he was in and the condition of the road to Opuwo—which was just a desert track—it seemed to me like a futile gesture.

  I knew things were serious when my father climbed into the back of the truck as well. Moses only went to town when he absolutely had to, usually to attend a funeral or because there was an emergency. Like my grandfather, he was a traditionalist and preferred life in the village.

  While Timo and the others were away, the Old One appealed to the ancestors for help and guidance. He sat by the Holy Fire for days, barely moving, like a rock or some impossibly gnarled mopani tree. Whenever I saw him like this, I imagined him growing out of the ground itself, with long roots that penetrated the soft sand to some hidden spring deep underground. He always told me that if he did not keep in close contact with the ancestors every day, they might stop listening and go away. “When that happens,” he said, “I have to go after them and beg them to return.” Perhaps he is chasing after the ancestors now, I thought as I watched him over the course of the week. When I threw a pebble at him and it plunked off his bony shoulder, he did not even move or seem to notice. I thought he must have found who he was looking for and was currently in deep negotiations with them over my brother’s fate.

  Once again, however, the ancestors were either asleep or had turned a deaf ear, because the poison in Timo’s leg continued to spread. As a last-ditch effort to save his life, the doctors were forced to amputate his leg below the knee.

  The entire incident left our household in turmoil, and as my mother seemed to anticipate, it widened the rift between herself and Zudongo. Within days of returning from Opuwo, Zudongo drew upon the continuing speculation of embari and openly accused my mother of witchcraft against her eldest son. To our horror, the local healer supported Zudongo’s accusations. My mother suspected that it was a calculated move on his part to protect his reputation after he had failed so miserably to cure Timo.

  An accusation of witchcraft is a strange and powerful thing among my people. A simple accusation could hang over someone for years, and, as everybody knew, the social stigma that came with it could force an individual into seclusion. I once joined a group of children and badgered a woman from a neighboring village who had been accused of witchcraft. We followed her around for days, spreading stories about her to our friends and family: we said she left the village at night, transformed into a chicken, spoke to snakes, and so on. Before long, it made little difference what the original circumstances were; the damage was done and people were speaking behind the woman’s back, accusing her of being a dangerous half person who conspired with witch doctors and engaged in dark and secret matters. Ultimately, she had little choice but to flee the area altogether. And while we all knew that her original accuser was maneuvering to steal her husband and probably using an allegation of witchcraft to take her out of the picture, it did not necessarily make the prospect of witchcraft any less real for us. It was all just part of the local gossip and social politics that defined every Himba community.

  For somebody like my mother, who came from Angola and could not turn to immediate kin for support and assistance, Zudongo’s accusation was especially dangerous. Nadi’s only option was to throw herself at the mercy of the local headmen and elders, who eventually called a meeting to discuss the incident. Curiously, they did not ask either Zudongo or my mother to speak or defend themselves, so both women were forced to watch the meeting from a distance. My grandfather spoke for a long time, while my father sat beside him occasionally adding something or nodding his head. When it was finally over, the men approached my mother and told her of their decision: she would be sent to Opuwo for a year to live with Moses’s younger brother, Gerson. I was to go with her. They explained that this would allow things to settle down and tensions to ease. Resigned to her fate, my mother accepted their decision, realizing that it was as good an outcome as she could hope to get. I was not so sure.

  When I stood before the Old One, he placed his hand on my head and asked me, “Tupa, would you like to go to a big town with many people? It is a place with motorcars and shops filled with wonderful things. Would you not like to see such a place?” But I could not imagine a more frightening prospect. Taking note of how he called me by my first name, something he did only when I was in some kind of trouble, I tried to look as wounded as possible and responded that I did not want to go, adding that none of this would have happened if the snake had not bitten Timo. I reminded my grandfather of a story he often told me: how a black mamba had come into the village on the day I was born and made everybody flee, forcing my mother to give birth under a tree. He always told me that it was an evil omen. Surely, I argued, that incident was somehow related to what was happening now. What if it was the omen coming true? The Old One rubbed his chin and considered my words, but just when I thought he might change his mind, he waved his hand and said the decision had already been made. Besides, he said, he would make a special offer to the ancestors to watch over me. But given everything that had happened so far, I was not convinced that the ancestors were willing to help.

  On the day of my departure, I was angry and hurt. I asked myself how my grandfather and father could allow me to be sent away like this. I was especially bitter with my father. I was convinced that he was sending me away because he favored his three sons. But what could I do? So I left for Opuwo with a seed of doubt planted deep inside me.

  2

  AT FIRST, I WAS INTIMIDATED and frightened by Opuwo. I had never seen so many shops and houses before. Each one seemed to grow out of the next as they spread out from the town center and clambered up the surrounding hills in a concentrated mass of dust and humanity. I immediately took pity on all the goats that wandered around town, thinking how scrawny and sad they looked. But I was amazed at how many different kinds of people there were—Himba, Herero, Ovambo, Damara, Nama, Caprivian—and how they all seemed to speak different languages or mixed pidgins with strange dialects. It was a bustling mass of people: hip-hop, Hikwa, and Ma/gaisa mus
ic blared from the local bars known as shebeens, while children chased makeshift soccer balls through the streets, hairdressers and tailors plied their trades on the sidewalks, customers crowded into open-air butcheries, and vendors sold everything from roasted corn to the traditional drink known as tombo.

  I was excited to see white people for the first time too, usually tourists who stopped in town for gas and supplies in their distinctive Toyota Hiluxes, the interiors stuffed with all kinds of wonderful and mysterious things. I noticed how they smiled a lot and seemed to be interested in just about everything. Unfortunately, they were always in a rush to leave town, coming and going so fast that I wondered at all the amazing places that must exist beyond the horizon to make them be in such a hurry. For me, a young Himba girl from the bush, Opuwo proved to be an ideal window to the wider world.

  We settled in to my uncle Gerson’s house, a small cement-brick structure that sat on top of a long, rolling hill above town. The house itself was already filled to capacity with his own family, so we pitched a small canvas tent under the shade of a withered acacia tree in the backyard.

  Uncle Gerson was a shorter, squatter version of my father, with a more outgoing personality. He worked as a clerk for the Ministry of Agriculture, Water and Forestry but like many people in Opuwo he also ran a variety of informal moneymaking schemes on the side. He insisted that I attend school, and despite starting late for my age, I adapted quickly. In the classroom, my native language of Otjiherero was spoken alongside English, which helped me adjust to the new environment. And with the support of my cousins, who also attended the same school, I managed to make many friends. I was surprised and delighted to find out that many of my classmates were related to me in some way.