Read an Excerpt
Walking with Secrets
By Carla Huxham Partridge Africa
Copyright © 2016 Carla Huxham
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4828-6216-4
CHAPTER 1
1963
The Littlest Diamond
In a faraway corner, beyond Africa's richest diamond fields, stars fill the black velvet sky in magnificent, shimmering swathes that are so bright they seem close enough to touch.
The small village is surrounded by the sweeping silence of the oldest desert in the world.
Everyone is assembled around the large fire blazing in the central clearing among the huts, and there is an atmosphere of apprehension.
Tonight is a sad occasion.
With a heavy heart, Hafeni sat quietly on his haunches sipping millet beer. He held the calabash in both hands, elbows resting on his knees. Firelight flickered on his muscled arms, and sent shadows dancing across his face.
Hafeni is tall and slim, and quietly authoritative. He is sure of his place in the community. His features are defined by the straight ridging of his nose and high cheekbones. His manner is relaxed and assured, and his kindly personality made him the friend of everyone.
Okanti, his six-year-old daughter sidles demurely beside him. She always has a ready smile, and peers up at him through wisps of plaited hair. He reaches out, wrapping her small hand tightly in his own.
'Tata, how far away is that place?' She asks softly. 'How long will you walk?'
'It is far. Very far. We will walk for a long time .... and sleep for many nights under the stars,' he answers.
She has asked him this question often over the past days, and with infinite patience he pretended that he was hearing it for the first time.
Tears welled in her dark eyes, and she fingered her ostrich-shell necklace in silence.
Hafeni hugged her closer, while his thoughts drifted.
Okanti was his delight. The night she was born, a most unusual event happened: a meerkat had entered the birthing hut and stood quietly on hind legs, intently watching the proceedings. The tiny, furry creature remained until Nala's girl child received the gift of life, and then it was suddenly gone.
Everyone agreed this was a particularly good omen, and Hafeni and Nala's new baby was immediately called Okanti – the meerkat.
By tradition, on the fourth day after Okanti's birth, she was taken to the homestead entrance, and shown her village and the world beyond. She was given the name Nda-pewa – after Meekulu, her grandmother – but she would always be known as Okanti.
Hafeni looked across the fire at his best friend Abed, surrounded by his family.
In contrast to his quiet space, Abed was engulfed in the clamour of his children pushing and jostling to be closest to their father.
Abed was a man who laughed easily, and with great enthusiasm. Not as tall as Hafeni, perhaps by half-a-head, he tended more towards roundness, even tubbiness, in contrast to Hafeni's lean and athletic build.
He was strong and sturdy, his life outdoors herding cattle – and looking after himself in the wilds from a young age – had made him certain of his own ability. His face was angular, more pronounced around the jawline, and his bright, inquisitive eyes sparkled with delight as he found fresh reasons for mirth.
A smile played around Hafeni's mouth as he looked across at Abed, standing with Jaloo, his wife. The couple always seemed to be in high spirits together, and Hafeni recalled when they'd first met.
He and Abed had stopped over at Jaloo's village, which was near the Great River.
They'd arrived in the late afternoon, and were hoping to be offered food and shelter for the night. They were on their way to trade for young goats to strengthen their flock, and knew the villages beside the Great River always had much livestock.
As they entered the village on their way to pay respects to the chief, all the women and young maidens – according to custom – averted their eyes and avoided looking directly at the strangers as they passed.
But one young woman stood her ground, seemingly intent on deliberately blocking their way.
It was Jaloo.
She stood in the middle of the path, almost defiantly, legs astride, hands on her hips. Her lips were slightly parted, and her tongue flicked incessantly between the gap in her front teeth.
She looked the two men up and down, and then turned to face Abed, tilting her head back slightly in an unmistakeable challenge.
Hafeni had become very discomfited during the interaction, and dropped his eyes, staring at the sandy track at his feet.
But Jaloo's impact on Abed was very different!
Abed felt an immediate attraction, and liked Jaloo right away. At a glance he saw that her frame was well covered, her breasts large and firm, and her skin had flashes of copper. She appeared sturdy and strong, comfortable in herself, and her brazen attitude particularly appealed to Abed.
She was indeed daring him to respond, to acknowledge her presence, and Abed realized that he needed to act.
Spontaneously, and entirely in character, he threw back his head and laughed uproariously, displaying his strong white teeth. It was a clear laugh, signaling pure delight and joy.
Jaloo turned her head to one side, her tongue flickering in the gap in her front teeth like a tiny viper. She stood thoughtfully for a moment, and to Hafeni's surprise, she too burst out laughing.
Later, as Hafeni had commented to Nala, explaining what had happened: 'I couldn't believe my ears! They never took their eyes off each other, and just stood there laughing like two hyenas – as if they had found their own special way to communicate ...'
Jaloo's friends and family shook their heads fondly. They were used to her having her way. She was the only girl in a large family of boys and men, and everyone indulged her, encouraging her feisty spirit.
That same evening Abed told Hafeni that he had met the woman who would be his wife, and not long afterwards arrangements were being made for their wedding. Her father demanded many cows as payment for the bride-price.
Abed was fortunate that the rains had been good for several seasons and this was a time of plenty. He surprised his future father-in-law with a very special bull.
Cheerful Jaloo was the perfect life partner for Abed, and she was immediately accepted – and welcomed – by the people in Abed's village.
But this evening, even his good-natured friends were subdued.
It is the custom, on such occasions, for the men to gather apart from the women and children. But tonight is different. Mournfulness lay heavily in the spaces between the people.
The women talked less than usual, and when they spoke it was in hushed tones.
The children too, sensing the gravity of the moment, were unusually quiet.
Drumming started. At first a low, steady and deeply sad humming began, as the women plaintively gave expression to the depth of feelings within them. Spontaneously some gave voice to their emotions, unable to contain their distress.
Nala came out of the shadows and sat close to Hafeni, a little behind him.
His heart overflowed with love as he turned to look at his wife, and moved closer to her.
Okanti pressed between them, and Nala gave her husband an uncertain smile as she laid a hand tenderly on their child's arm, softly stroking her.
Nala, his kindly-natured woman. They had been children together in this village – he, Abed and Nala. They had grown into adults here, and it was always understood, from as far back as he could remember, that he and Nala belonged together.
Sadly, they had only one flower to show for all the seeds he had sown. He longed for sons.
Looking across at his friend, he reflected on Abed's good fortune that he and Jaloo had produced four children in only seven years. And three of them were boys!
It was Hafeni's right according to custom to take another wife, even just for the sake of having sons. But for all these years it was only Nala that he wanted.
She alone owned his heart. And Okanti, of course. They were the core of his being.
In the months to come, he knew that he would miss them both more than he could imagine.
Hafeni tried to push all sad thoughts from his mind, and began to join in the singing around him. But the sadness kept seeping back, unsettling him.
He took a deep breath, and cleared his throat several times.
The decision had been made.
* * *
It was the drought that had brought this difficulty to their village.
The dryness had devastated the land. Their tiny plots of maize and millet that every year had yielded less and less, now produced too little even to feed the village.
There was not a blade of grass to be seen in the parched earth. The trees – and they were always sparse anyway – had either died or been cut for firewood. The very few that had managed to survive, stood starkly desiccated and leafless – almost defiant – against the harsh sun.
The oshanas, pools that brought fresh water to the village when the rivers were swollen – and were generous too with many fish – were now dried, crusted beds of dust. The village's sandy well was deep, and it took very long now for even a little water to seep through.
Most of the cattle and sheep had died. Before long the remaining goats would have to be eaten for the people to stay alive. Even then, no one could say how much longer the village would manage to survive if the drought did not break.
Days earlier, when the men were called to a gathering, the chief had spoken.
Hafeni and Abed were the only two strong men in the village – the others were either youngsters just old enough to be included in this group of men, or much older, married men worn down by the burden of survival.
Chief Hidipoo was a very old man. He had lived through many cycles, and seen much of the devastation that resulted when the rains did not come. But, he said, this was the worst drought he had ever experienced.
It had been seven years since it last rained. Okanti and the other younger children had never seen rain, and did not know what it meant when the people spoke of 'water falling from the sky'.
It was impossible, looking at the dusty dryness around them, to imagine how such a thing could happen. To them, in its very strangeness, it was a frightening thought.
'I remember well how it was when there was much water. Even up to there,' Chief Hidipoo stretched out his arm, pointing a bony finger towards a spot just beyond the kraal-fence of wooden poles protecting the huts.
'We all know that the waters will come again, as they always do,' the chief continued. 'But this time we have suffered too much. I fear we must endure more hardships until our Great Spirit takes pity on us.'
The men nodded. They also understood only too well.
It was one thing to meet the elements in their daily battle for survival. But the suffering to which the chief now referred, had more to do with losing members of their already shrunken tribal family, than with the harshness of the environment.
'In the days before, when our lands were green and we did not feel as worthless as ants on the ground, we all lived well. Our women caught many fish with their reed traps, so many that we ate smoked bream long after the oshanas had dried away. Our cattle and sheep were fat. There was much milk, and our crops were plentiful.
'Even before then, when I was still a young man – big and strong like Hafeni and Abed,' he gestured with one hand towards them, 'we explored all over our country. We went far to that side', the chief swung a thin arm towards the south and east – where the sun and moon rise, and from where good fortune may be expected.
'Life was very, very good. We journeyed to the Great Etosha, where the water and reeds are so plentiful that you cannot see to the end of it.
'There were more wildebeest and elephants and lions then than there are stars in the sky.' He pointed upwards, and the men marvelled as they imagined what it was like to see animals in such profusion.
'Over there,' the chief indicated behind him, towards the west, where – in their tradition – danger lurked, 'beyond even the wide oshanas of Okaholo towards the great dryness of Kaoko – we travelled there also.' He paused, drawing deep breaths as he struggled with his memories.
'But now, we must think about how we are going to feed our people the women and the children – so that our village will still be here when the young ones are old like me.'
It was true. This village had existed in this place long before Chief Hidipoo was born. Even before his mother's mother was born. In their culture, land passed through the women's line, and it was right that it should continue to be the home of this generation, and for the many generations to follow.
'In those days, we walked on the land that has always belonged to our people. We went everywhere and anywhere, freely, with our cattle, to find fresh grass whenever we needed to. We moved to the places where we knew the rainfall had been good, and where the gemsbok were always fat and plentiful. Yes, then we were strong. But now everything has changed,' he gazed intently at each of the men in turn. 'We are now struggling too much ...,' his gruff voice trailed off.
Clearing his throat, he continued: 'Long ago, when our lands were also dry, four of our men went to work on the mine, because we needed food to survive.' He paused as the pain of the memory returned.
'It is true. We needed the money to help us buy more cattle and goats. But we have always been a small village, and we need our men here – more than we needed cattle and goats. And two of our men, then, once they had tasted life on the mine, did not return.'
He spread both arms in a gesture that embraced everyone, and looked meaningfully at Hafeni and Abed. The two younger men respectfully lowered their gaze.
They – like the others present - were squatting on their haunches during all the time that the chief was speaking, knees almost level with their chins, arms outstretched and resting on their knees.
They knew full well that the village would suffer great hardship from their leaving.
It was their strength on which the villagers depended for their very survival. They were the men who could travel great distances to check the snares for rabbits and jackals, and bring meat back for the village. They were the ones who would be called by the young boys herding the cattle and goats, to drive off hyenas before the calves and goat kids were savaged. They were the defenders of the villagers against interlopers and strangers. They were the men who stacked the stones into cairns when the villagers buried their dead.
And now, they were the ones in the village who were healthy enough and of an age to be accepted for work on the diamond mine.
They lifted their heads slightly and, without looking directly at their chief, for that would be disrespectful, they turned their heads in his direction. Chief Hidipoo was wiry and gaunt. Sun and wind had dried him into a scrawniness that made him seem like an ancient, gnarled tree, whose limbs shuddered and moved awkwardly under some hidden burden. But his eyes, bright and piercing, missed nothing. Here his authority was palpable.
The chief spoke slowly: 'You will send money every month, and your money will keep us alive. After your time at the mine, we will be waiting for you to come back home. And we will all be joyful to see your return.'
Hafeni and Abed understood. They had never questioned the role that they were expected to play for the greater good of their community. In this environment, sometimes harsh and hostile, and sometimes wonderfully lush and nurturing, it was the natural way of life that everyone assumed responsibility for the wellbeing of all.
The chief was silent for a while. He knew, from personal and bitter experience, that their lives would be forever changed. He had seen this situation before, and he knew that once the men left the village to work on the mines, other things could become more important to them.
Kapuuo, the youngest of the four who had gone to the mine, had returned at the end of his contract.
But Langa, his brother, had only come back some years later – his spirit broken from being imprisoned for trying to steal diamonds. After a lifetime of open air, and sky from horizon to horizon, the harsh punishment of being locked in a tiny cell, was too hard to bear.
Hafeni knew that he would come back. That he must return. Everything he cared about and loved, was here. It was not his choice to leave, but the situation now was desperate.
So, he would leave his family and familiar surroundings and travel a great distance to the diamond mine.
Neither he nor Abed had ever seen a diamond, and what they knew came from the stories that Kapuuo and Langa told of the mine.
Once, by the sandy bed of the river that flowed into the oshana, Kapuuo had held up a piece of clear quartz. 'You see this stone, this is what a diamond looks like.'
They examined the shiny stone in wonder, and passed it around.
'A real diamond is very hard, and it is always cold to touch. A small one, no bigger than the nail of my little finger, is worth more than we can earn in one year.' Kapuuo held up his pinkie finger in emphasis.
'They take these stones away to another place, and make them shine. I don't know how they do it, but we see the white women at the mine wearing these things on their fingers, usually this one,' Kapuuo pointed to the third finger on his left hand, 'and they wear them in their ears ... where they shine like stars.'
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Walking with Secrets by Carla Huxham. Copyright © 2016 Carla Huxham. Excerpted by permission of Partridge Africa.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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