Silhouettes on the Horizon
Every morning right as the darkness outside lifts but the sun can still not be seen, I feel a big warm hand rub over my shoulder in bed whispering, “Arafa, it’s time to wake.”
And the usual answer of, “Father, let me sleep. Can’t you just let me sleep in today, just once?” Then my words becoming slurred from shoving my face into the bed, refusing to get up. This was the same routine day after day. He is always the first one to wake and last up at night. He watches the clouds every morning outside of the hut, he can tell a storm is coming days before anyone else in the village can. My dad was very proud of his farm. He always told my brothers. “you see this land, these crops. I have spent my life working on this land to make it as great as you see today. We have the best crops in all the local villages. That did not just happen overnight.” He always spoke this way to my brothers, because one day he wanted them to take it over. The farm land is so special to him he wants to make sure they would be ready. I’m just a girl I guess. No women gets power like that. It’s a man’s job. I would always wish I was a guy so I could get my dad’s land. It seemed like my brothers really did not care if they got the land or not.
My dad’s name is Asante meaning “thank you”. When I was younger, he would tell me the story behind his name. He was the youngest of four, but all his older siblings were girls. His parents did not want girls. They always wanted a boy, because boys were more valuable and would carry on the family name and in the people’s eyes boys were better in every way. Girls at that time were not wanted. It was heard for people to kill their baby’s if they were girls during this time. But they did not do that, so they kept trying for a boy, after four girl’s they got him. They were so happy and thankful they named my dad Asanta. I notice that people in the village respect my dad. Not sure if it’s because of his large stature or his reputation and trust worthiness he has built over the years living here in Morogoro.
I get up in the morning and can see my dad looking out at the sky and land like he does every morning. I could see an unusual look in his face almost a worry. I have only noticed this since the Germans made us grow cotton for them. The Germans have taken over all of Tanzania. They came here for the resources, and there way of getting the resources is making us grow these cash crops for them. We had to cut some of our old crops that we could have sold and eaten to make room for the new cotton crop. But I don’t think that was the whole problem in his eyes. Something else was bothering him. As the week continued I noticed the same look appearing in the faces of elders and farmers around the village.
My dad is a man of very few words. I ask him, “What’s going on.” I would try to ask him to get some reasoning behind his change. Get some reasoning behind it all? But he would never answer my questions directly. Almost as if he thought I was too young to understand or he himself did not want to bother me with the trouble.
Even though I am a girl as well as the youngest in the family, I still did lots of work on my father’s land. My job is normally planting the seeds in the trenches my brothers carve all the way across the fields. My mom helps me with this as well. After the seeds are laid in the trenches, they must then be covered with dirt about a finger length deep. My dad say’s “Everyone leaves their seeds with not enough dirt covering them allowing the birds to dig them up before they have a chance to grow. And if they are too deep they will not get the sun they need.” This is why he is so picky about how much dirt covers the seeds.
The land was located just a short walk from the hut, but you could not see it through the dense wall of trees. Every shade of green was present in the different plants around, over the years we had created a nice trail to get to the crops. The trail started by our hut that was located right next to a river much too large to cross without a bridge. The bridge was very old, you could see the new logs that we have replaced just from the distinct change in color. And white lines where the high water during flashfloods in the past made its impact on the bridge. After you cross the bridge, the trees and vines become very close around you as you are walking down the path. Then it opens up, the covering of the forest canopy disappears, leaving a clearing my father had created before I was born. It’s full of crops from my father, about halfway through the growing season at this time.
My father says, “This is the most crucial point in the growing, because the crops need lots of rain for their rapidly increasing size. But this year has been unusually dry compared to past years. If you look at the river you see that line on the bank that is where the water level is normally. It’s now almost a whole body length lower than it should be this time of year. No water no crops, no crops no food and money.”
My mother earlier that day had told me that we were having people over so she would need my help with cooking. When I walked in the house a few hours before sunset, the smell of yams from last year’s harvest filled the air from my mom’s cooking. My dad invited many farmer friends over that were farmers as well for the feast. We did this to clear out the old food from past harvests to make room for the new harvest that would soon be on its way. Everyone brought a little food of their own. Everyone seemed to be having a good time.
When the wife’s were cooking, I could overhear my dad and other men talking. I had nothing better to do, I was the only kid and anyways I wanted to see if I could find out why my dad was acting so strange, and sure enough I did. I could hear them talking, “These dang Germans, who the heck do they think they are coming in to our land, making us pay taxes to them, grow their crops!” as the guy said this, his breathing increased and his voice slowly got louder.
“I agree. And then this drought right now, it’s killing me, I’m spending all my time working for the Germans growing cotton, I have no time to work my crops at home, so the work load is landing on my wife. I don’t think I am going to be able to make it to harvest, well at least not while growing all this cotton for the Germans.”
Another said, “But what can we do about it, trying to drive them out would be crazy. Germans have too many weapons, fire arms as well as people, we have nothing compared to them.”
I thought to myself. Are they seriously considering starting a rebellion against the Germans? But if we won and they left, just think, we could get our independence back! But what if that does not happen, they lose and our people die for nothing. What good is that going to do, just make it harder for their wives at home? Possibly making it harder to gain independence in the future. Because we already lost to the Germans once, we will probably just lose again. My mind was going crazy, trying to decide if this could be good or bad. Weighing the chance of failure and the chance of success.
My thoughts were interrupted when the wives walked in with the food, and I noticed the conversation about the rebellion rapidly changed to a different subject. Like they were trying to hide it from the women. I thought to myself. Why would they want to keep this from their wives? Maybe it’s like how my father did not want to tell me what was going on. I thought it was just because I was a kid, but they are not kids.
All I could think about while I ate was the thought my dad going to war. I couldn’t cope with the thought of him being killed. He was everything to me. He taught me everything thing! What if my brothers got dragged into this as well! All I would have left would be my mom. I quickly snapped myself out of these thoughts, because I did not want to start crying.
When I was checking on the crops after a long hot day, I heard some men talking through the trees at another’s hut. I stopped every muscle in my body from moving. I shut out all my senses other than hearing, allowing all my focus to be on the voices. The longer I listened, I heard my father’s voice; I had a feeling it was a follow up conversation from the feast at my hut. So I slowly inched farther into the forest, closer to the voices. I found a down tree and crouched beside it where I could see the men talking but making sure I could not be seen. I felt guilty using what my dad had taught me about hiding against him, but my curiosity was too great to just walk back home as if I had heard nothing.
I could only hear them say, “If we are going to really do this, we are going to need help. We have no chance against them. We can get the people, but our spears and arrows will do us nothing against the Germans.”
“Are we sure this is what we want to do? You do realize if we don’t succeed it’s just going to be a slaughter. What if I die, what about my family? All the men that are going to be fighting are the ones that do most of the work around here. What is going to happen when they are gone?”
“I think it’s worth the risk. What if I found another form of protection, something that would give us a chance against them?” the man standing in the background said.
“Okay then I would be willing,” said my father.
“Okay I got an idea, follow me everyone,” the same guy in the background said as he started walking off.
I kept thinking. Where are they going? What is his idea? We don’t have any weapons like the Germans. The Witch Doctor on the other side of the village! That’s where they are going! Once I figured it out, I ran across the village as fast as I could trying to get there before them. As I ran all I could think of was my mother saying, “Never go there,” as she pointed to a long path. At the end was a small but pretty rundown hut. The hut was decorated with various muds and paints to create symbols and patterns, many that I have never seen before. A lady covered in lots of feathers and strands of cloth was sitting inside it. “That belongs to the Witch Doctors. They are no good.”
The weird part about it was my mom was the only one that thought that. Everyone else thought the Witch Doctor was good because she had powers to fix people, could make them feel better. I had never understood why my mom did not like her. Over the years of thinking about it all I could come up with was that my mother did not grow up here and that maybe where she used to live did not have Witch Doctors.
When I got to the hut, I looked back and could see my father and several other men coming my way, so I ran into the trees to hide. I could hear them talking to the strange lady. “We have come to you for help. We need something to protect us from the Germans.”
She walked out of my sight into another room and came out with an arm full of things. She started mixing specific ones into water. First castor oil, then she grabbed yam seeds, looked at them as if she was going to put them in then hesitated. Put them back and then added millet seeds to the mixture and then a few more things I could not see from where I was hiding. She mixed it all over the fire to help the ingredients blend with one another. As she did she was saying. “This will help you. It will protect you. It shall turn German bullets into water. Carry it with every one of you. It will keep you safe. Where you go, war medicine goes.”
“Thank you. We must go now,” said one of the men with my father and then walked out with the war medicine in hand.
After they were out of sight, I got out of my hiding place and kicked the ground with anger. I was thinking, Now they have what they want. They are really going to do this! I had forgotten that the women was still in the hut. She looked out the window to find out where all the commotion was coming from. We made eye contact, and I ran as fast as I could even after I knew I was long ways away from the Witch Doctor’s Hut. I was just a mess. I could not believe this was happening. They got what they wanted. It was just a matter of time. I had to talk to my father and try to talk him out of this. I had to give it a shot, so when I got home I ran up to my father. “How could you do this to me, to us?”
“What are you talking about,” dad replied.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about I’m not stupid father. I have been listening to your conversations. I’m not a stupid little kid. Please don’t do this, please what if something happens to you?”
“Quiet, now stop there!” He yelled interrupting me. “Yes, I know, but that’s the risk I must take. I have made up my mind, and there is no changing it.” I tried to talk once more, and I was stopped. “It’s done; I have to do this now. What you think I want to die? No! But I must do this.”
When he said that I knew he was serious. A week later the time had come, they had it all planned out: Where they were going to go, what they were going to, who was going to do what. And the men headed out one after the other. I sat on the street. Not a single man would look me in the eye as they walked by, then one turned back, looked me in the eyes and gave me one last hug. I could feel tears falling on my shoulder from father, then he turned back and kept walking. With millet stalks around their foreheads, armed with arrows, spears, cap guns and the war medicine, they walked into the distance until their silhouettes could not be seen on the horizon. I would watch that horizon every day looking for the silhouettes to come home. Day after day, I saw nothing. Days went into weeks and weeks into months. The village was very different without them there. Quiet, slow, rare to see a smile in anyone’s faces.
As time went on, my brothers inherited my father’s land and carried on his name and reputation. All they wanted to do was what our father always wanted them to do, to make him proud. So they worked day after day farming, taking care of father’s land. My mom took a while to cope with the thought that she was now a widow. But life went on, it was different, we all had to work harder, but we made it work. All the other families were going through the same thing, same problems, and same scenario. Now a days this is what’s normal, and we just got used to it. I still look at that horizon every once and a while, sparking my memory of how my father would wake me in the morning, and how he would watch the weather. It always brings me a smile thinking of him.