Peter Orner - The Second Coming of Mavala Shikongo

“Can’t you tell it tomorrow?”

I listen to him turn over. I can see him cupping his head in his hands, talking to the ceiling, happily wrecking other people’s sleep.

“You asked me to tell you about independence. I was at the Dolphin the day of the election. The radio was on. You know the matron? Tangeni’s wife?”

“The drunk one?”

“Yes, except it was strange. That day she wasn’t drunk. It was noisy outside in the street, everybody was already celebrating, but in the bar it was quiet, only myself and the matron. A report came on and gave the lead to DTA. It was only in the south, because the polls closed down earlier there. Fewer people, fewer votes to count. But the only thing anybody heard was DTA wins, SWAPO loses. DTA wins, SWAPO loses . And do you know what happened? I saw it all from my stool in the Dolphin. People didn’t shout or curse. Not a word. They sat down in the road. Taxis stopped, and the men who were driving them and the women who were passengers got out and did the same thing. They all sat down in the road. And Tangeni’s wife laughed so hard at them she gagged. I can still hear her.”

Of course, it all turned out to be wrong. The hundreds of thousands of votes in the north got counted. SWAPO won in a landslide. And since it was wrong, and since it ended up not meaning anything, Pohamba wants to know, demands to know, through the wall at five in the morning, “Why am I seeing those people in the road right now? In my pig bed at pig Goas? Tell me —”

I don’t answer.

From his silent room, Vilho doesn’t either.

T he Namibian had already been at it for months, quoting experts, statistics. The isohyets for mean annual rainfall have been falling dangerously … atmospheric and ocean circulation patterns consistent with… climatic change and variability remain constant. . water surface catchment areas are shrinking throughout the central. .

But drought being a negation, an unhappening, it doesn’t make for interesting copy.

We skipped those articles. It came every year. It was only a question of which region would get it worse. No drought was news. Extreme drought was news. Anything else was page 6, after sports. What emergency on earth is duller?

I, the great general of the German troops, send this letter to the Herero people. The Herero are no longer German subjects. They have murdered and stolen; they have cut off the noses, ears, and other bodily parts of wounded soldiers. And now, because of cowardice, they will fight no more… All Herero must leave the land. If people do not do this, I will force them to do it with the great guns. Any Herero found within German borders, with or without a gun, with or without cattle, will be shot. I shall no longer receive any women or children, I will drive them back to their people or I will shoot them. This is my decision for the Herero people.

THE GREAT GENERAL OF THE MIGHTY EMPEROR, LOTHAR VON TROTHA, 1904

Iawait the arrival of the new history text from the Ministry of Education. There’s been a delay. The word is, they’re still rewriting.

Among other things I have taught my learners, out of the old text, is that the Roman Empire brought civilized society to the countries of western Europe — to Britain, Holland, Germany, and so on. So, when the fathers of South Africa settled at the Cape, they brought all these beautiful elements of civilization with them.

Even the feeblest teacher has to draw a line in the sand with his toe. Despite my general ineptitude, I somehow hit upon what I now know to be a time-honored way of killing an hour in the classroom. Strategic use of a guest lecturer . I bring in the big gun to teach Waterberg.

“Scholars, I introduce you to a man who needs no introduction. This man doesn’t teach history, he endures it. When history has a question, it comes to this man to find out what happened, who massacred whom, who cheated whom out of what… Boys, I give you your former Standard Three master, Head Teacher Obadiah Horaseb.” Cheers for Obadiah, who struts in a pith helmet.

“Please, I’m only a man, corrupt blood in my veins. Sit. Sit. Now, boys, I understand you are to learn about Waterberg. Let me first say that prior to colonialism this was not a land of angels. This was as brutal a place as any other. And yet when the white devils came — pardon, Teacher Kaplansk — things did become, in a number of ways, worse. This is especially true, given that these adventurers, merchants, missionaries, claimed to come to us in the name of God. Now, skipping ahead to today’s lesson, if I may. May I?”

“Yes, Head Teacher.”

“It’s 1901, and the Herero people — how many Hereros here today? — seven, no eight, good. Yes, the Herero people, after decades of brutality, slavery, impoverishment, one day rose up to challenge the greatest military force known to man. The German army. What made them do it that day? This is a question not answerable by a man with such poor faculties as myself. It is a questions for scholars. Suffice it to say that there always comes a day when a flogged man accepts the last lash. And when, after fighting bravely for years, the Hereros found themselves trapped atop Waterberg Mountain — not only soldiers, but thousands of women and children and cattle as well — surrounded on all sides but one, what did they do? I ask you, sons of the sons of the sons of those valiants, what did they do?”

A hand slowly rises. It’s Magnus Axahoes.

“Child, you aren’t a Herero, are you?”

“No, Teacher.”

“A Damara?”

“Yes, Teacher.”

“A Damara knows the answer! No tribalism here at Goas. Prime Minister Geingob would be proud. We know each other’s histories on this farm. What’s the answer, child?”

“They went to the desert, Teacher.”

And Obadiah goes to Magnus and kneels and whispers something no one can hear.

Then he stands before the boys, lanky in his tweed coat. His arms at his sides, his hands limp. Obadiah once told me he did not believe in the power of hands to convey meaning. If your voice can’t do it, don’t think you can overcome its defects with your sorry hands.

“Yes, they went to the desert. The sea does not part for the Hereros. There is no sea. Only Kalahari sand. Welcome to the Twentieth Century of Apocalypse. And the people die, by the thousands, by the tens of thousands, the people die. But understand, my futures, my hopes, understand that they knew it. The moment the Hereros began to head for the desert, they knew the only answer was death. And so might we consider their choice a heroic one?”

She’s bored, and she’s got one of those little school scissors, the kind with the rubber handles. She thinks it’s absurd they make them for lefties.

“Why wouldn’t they?”

She looks at me the way she does. Mavala’s eyebrows. Even when her face does nothing to make them, they have a way of seeming arched. Then she points the little scissors at my head. “Talk.”

“About what?”

“Anything. Speak.”

“I have nothing, zero.”

“What sort of name is Larry?”

“French, I think.”

“You’re French?”

“No.”

“Say something else.”

“School?”

“Even that.”

“Obadiah came to my fifth hour and taught about Waterberg.”

“What did the guru say?”

“That it was heroic.”

“What was?”

“For the Hereros to go to the desert rather than get shot by Germans.”

“Heroic?”

“Yes. Biblically heroic.”