Heritance
written Oct 2016
Quiet. The soft crunching of the dry grass reeds under our shoes is the only sound we make as we pad across the red dusty earth. I stumble, landing heavily on my left foot to balance myself, and my father turns to me with a stern, reproachful look. My uncle turns as well.
“Mosi, quiet your son.”
My father is more gentle, but still motions to the ground with a sharp tsk. This is my very first hunt, but my father says I am ready.
We continue, single file and crouched low to the ground, myself in the rear, then my father, my uncle Sizwe, and my cousin in the front. Limbani is only two years older than me, but everyone already knows him for a man with his long legs and sharp eyes. Eagles eyes, his mother always brags. He says he saw a herd pass over the next hill, and my father believes him, but I didn’t see anything.
As we approach the hill, made of tightly packed earth and shoots of dry grass, my father raises his hand to stop. We go lower to the ground, hands and knees in the hot soil, the grasses scratching up my arms and on my belly. We stalk silently up the hill. Above us I spy a vulture. Two, three, four, five. They float effortlessly in overlapping circles watching us with lustful eyes. I wonder how many hunts they’ve participated in, how often they circle a predator, waiting for the kill and their chance at a meal. Does the prey see them too? Do they grow uneasy that the birds are here for them?
“Chima!”
I lower my eyes to see that my father, uncle, and cousin are ten paces ahead and nearly to the top of the hill. I hadn’t realized that I’d stopped crawling.
“To me, quickly!”
My father’s voice is a shout whispered through taught lips. I scramble up the hill as fast as I can on all fours.
“Quiet, boy!” Sizwe snaps.
I eventually catch up to them, my face red to match my dirty hands. Together we crawl the remaining distance and peer over the crest. Limbani’s face breaks into a smile that turns smug when I meet his gaze. Just beyond the hill stands at least two dozen gemsbok lapping from a pond. They are much larger than I'd expected and I am afraid. They hide their faces behind black and white masks, and long horns shoot from their heads like vicious spears, but my father says they’re just for mating and we aren’t in any danger. Limbani grins, and his father places a tender hand on his shoulder. He pulls the small bundle of arrows from under his arm, thin shafts made from fire-hardened rods and tipped with whittled bone, and lays them on the ground. Selecting the arrow with the freshest poison he notches it to his bow and pulls the string taut. My father does the same.
The two men rise to a crouch and walk down the hill, my father to the left and my uncle to the right. They move quietly, but as quick as they can: it won’t be long before the gemsbok smell us, so time is more important now than silence. Limbani and I wait upon the hill watching our fathers approach the pond.
“There’s one right there, just a stone’s throw from father. What are they waiting for?” I whisper to my cousin as quiet as I can.
“That’s a doe,” he sounds annoyed. “We only kill the males, the ones with the shorter horns. See?” He points to one with his back to us, drinking from the pond. “Now hush.”
Our fathers are close now, thirty paces to either side of the unsuspecting buck. I see the two of them look at each other, then raise their bows and draw full back the string. The buck lifts his head sharply, his nostrils flaring in and out.
“Here they go.” I whisper, voice cracking with excitement.
Fizz-whump-whump. Both arrows are loosed, hitting their marks on either side of the beast’s torso. The herd explodes like a hive of hornets as the wounded animal rears up and races away, bucking wildly at the pain from his movement. Smiling our fathers rejoin us on the hill, and I am confused.
“What now? We didn’t kill it,” I complain. Limbani’s smiling too. “He got away, didn’t he?”
“He thinks he has,” my father tells me, “but with two arrows in his chest, the poison will kill him soon.”
“You think he has too, Chima. You’re as dumb as the deer!” Limbani says between laughs.
I lunge at my cousin and wrestle him to the ground, playfully grappling him and pulling his ears. My father laughs as well, but Sizwe pulls us apart.
“Enough now. We must follow. He can make it miles before he falls, and we cannot lose his trail.”
I straighten up and give Limbani one last shove. My uncle has always been the stern one. Perhaps raising my father hardened him more than the rest. We collect our things, the unused arrows, the father’s bows, and we walk down the hill.
Glistening like quartz, like the ocean. The water from the pond is warm but feels refreshing as it cleans the dirt from my mouth. We drink deep, fill our jug, and follow my uncle after the herd.
He walks several paces ahead of us, eyes fixed on the ground, studying divots, bushes, pebbles, and hoof marks, but we no longer need to be quiet and my relief is evident. I skip and kick stones and pester Limbani with annoying questions, but within an hour I grow bored. By the second hour I am dragging my feet. The slow chase of the hunter is proving to be woefully underwhelming.
With stern Sizwe out of earshot, my father turns to Limbani and me and says, “Have you heard the story of Imani the Hero?”
“I have,” Limbani replies, “My father told me when I started hunting with him.”
“What about you Chima?”
I had never heard Imani’s story, but after Limbani’s response I feel embarrassed, like a child. “My friends told me once.”
My father’s smile fades. “Oh,” he says.
He casts down his eyes. We are silent for a moment, so I add, “but they didn’t finish it, and I don’t really remember.”
His smile returns and he strokes his trimmed beard the way he does when the story he’s about to tell is particularly good. I hide my excitement as best as I can.
“A great while ago, four men went out on a hunt for gemsbok in a plain just like this one. Just like us, their group consisted of a spotter, a hunter, a tracker, and a pupil, but unlike us they were very evil men and it was decided they should die during the hunt. For three days, they walked from watering hole to watering hole in search of any sign of a herd, but for three days they found only dust and earth. Their spotter was very lazy and would only pretend to look at the horizon, so the far-off gemsbok remained unseen. And after three days of nothing to hunt, the other members of the group became so angry that they killed their spotter.”
Shuddering at the surprising turn, I blurt out “Why would they do that?”
“Don’t be such a child,” Limbani says, “They obviously found out that he wasn’t doing his job and punished him for it. Spotting is really important.”
My father interjects, “They killed him because they were bored. They didn’t know that he wasn’t doing his job. It was anger, not justice. They were evil men.”
“I thought you heard this story before?” I challenge Limbani.
He rolls his eyes, “Shut up.”
“Shall I continue?” My father sounds more amused than impatient. We nod in unison. “The three men carried on, and left the spotter unburied to rot in the sun. Soon enough, they caught up to a large herd resting in the shade of a thicket, but every gemsbok in the herd was a doe.”
“Not a single buck in the whole herd?” Limbani asks.
“That’s right.”
I add, “They aren’t allowed to kill the does. Just the bucks.”
“I just told you that, idiot.”
“Chima is right, they aren’t allowed to kill the does. And in fact, the youngest of the group, the young pupil, told the other two just that. But they ignored him because they were tired of hunting and wanted to return home. They notched their bows with their freshest poison arrows and picked out the largest doe they could find, surrounded by the most fawns. They loosed their arrows at the gemsbok, and both hit their mark.”
I hold my breath.
“But the hunter was a poor shot. He never practiced his aim, and instead of piercing her chest, he hit her haunch. She would die very slow and in a lot of pain. The pupil was so angry that he stormed off, and his friends let him leave. On his way back home, he was surrounded by a pack of hyenas and they devoured him.”
“He died? Why did he die, he knew not to kill the doe?” I exclaim.
“Well Chima, the hyenas killed the pupil because he abandoned his friends. Even though they were doing something he knew they shouldn’t do. Its dangerous to walk alone.”
“Plus, he killed the spotter,” Limbani is quick to point out.
“That’s right Limbani, he also killed the spotter, and it was decided that these evil men would be punished.”
It doesn’t seem fair, the youngest was standing up for what was right. I lower my head and kick a pebble with a scuff of my foot.
My father peers under my downturned gaze. “Do you want me to continue?”
I think it over, then nod.
“When the dust from the fleeing herd had cleared the hunter and the tracker set off after the injured doe. It should have been easy, but the tracker kept losing the trail, getting caught up on other tracks or missing important signs in the earth. And the doe ran for miles and miles, the poison very slowly killing her.”
A loud whistle interrupts my father. He looks up from our eager faces at my uncle, who has stopped up ahead.
“Blood, quite a bit of it.” He shouts to us.
My father explains, “That means we are getting close to where the doe has probably collapsed. A lot of blood means the animal has slowed to rest or is horning at the arrow shaft. Be sure to keep a look out Limbani, you should see him soon.”
Limbani runs past us to join his father’s side.
“Keep going father! Did they ever find her?” I plead.
“They did, but it took the two of them all day and half of the next to finally track her down. When they found the carcass, they began to butcher the meat, but they were very tired and slow about it. The smell of the blood carried over the breeze for miles and miles and drew in a monstrous lion. It didn’t take her long to find them, and when she arrived, she ate them both.”
I am still. “Is that the end? They were all eaten and that’s it?”
“Well, for the hunters that is the end, but someone has to slay the lion,” my father replies.
“I see him! Laying just ahead!” Limbani shouts for our attention.
“I see him too,” Sizwe sounds less elated. I look away from my father. Now wholly engaged in the hunt, my lips press into a stern line, my eyes narrow and my ears perk up. Ahead I can see a small brown mound protruding from the dirt near the shade of a lone tree. The earth here is flat and wide, the wind a low rumble. I scan the plain to the right and then to the left, looking for hyenas or the lion from the story. There is nothing but dirt and air.
“We’ll finish the story later Chima, now we have work to do.”
Far off the beast could pass for a pile of dirt or a small bush, and I doubt it could be the large animal we shot at the watering hole. But as we get closer, the gemsbok begins to take shape, pointy horns emerge and black stripes morph from brown fur. The arrows no longer than our arms in the gemsbok’s sides seem far too small to kill such a large creature, but here he lies, dead.
I am instructed to hold one of the gemsbok’s legs, as we turn it onto it’s back. Sizwe uses his knife to slice the animal down the middle. We scrape the hide off along his sides, around his legs, and down his back. My father cuts open the red flesh and removes the intestines and massive stomach, placing them in a pile, as well as the heart, liver, and lungs, placing them in another pile. Sizwe tells me to dig a small hole in the dirt as my father and cousin begin to cut strips of meat from his back and ribs. I can guess he means to bury the blood, and I am reminded of the four hunters and their violent fate. I dig a little deeper.
When we are finished, we have gleaned a hide, two haunches, plenty of ribs, strips of thick muscle from his back, a heart, a liver, intestines and stomach, and two thick gemsbok horns. Far too much for just four men to carry. What we wish to discard, we bury. What we cannot carry in this trip alone, we bury. The blood, we bury, and the head, we bury. The rest, we haul onto our shoulders and backs and turn for home. We have finished in under an hour. Only several words are ever spoken, and all of them instructions for me.
For a while on the walk back we do not speak. Butchering our kill with such speed was exhausting, and we can already feel the added weight on our backs, making each foot fall heavier and each leg lift shorter.
We reach the small pond in the last few hours of light, dropping our catch into the dirt and collapsing next to it. Exhausted. I have never been this tired. We drink full from the pond and refill our water jug one last time. Our respite ends too soon.
“Come sons, we must get back before dark, and we still have a way to go,” Sizwe tells us.
With a sigh, I stand. We walk another hour, the land becoming more familiar as we get closer to home. We pass trees I have climbed and bluffs I have tumbled down. Thickets I have hidden in, playing chase with my friends.
“Let’s continue the story now,” my father says.
I nearly forgot the story, my mind wandering with my feet, but I smile and hoist the heavy leg higher onto my shoulders.
“Several days passed since the lion ate the hunters and the people began to worry. The elders gathered everyone together, the women, the men, the girls, and the boys, and said to them, ‘Who will go out into the desert to search for the hunters that left so long ago?’ The strongest man in the entire tribe said, ‘I will go. If I encounter a lion, I will surely kill it with my immense strength,’ and the elders agreed.”
“Does he kill the lion, father?” We are walking again, but the story is keeping my mind almost entirely off the weight around my neck and the blood dripping down my legs and into the dirt beneath my feet.
“Patience, Chima, I’m getting to it.”
I smile.
“Well, the strongest man gathered up his spears, his cudgel, and plenty of meat to eat during the journey and he set out to find the lion. He searched for seven days and nights, never stopping to rest because of his strength and skill as a warrior. On the eighth day, he found her and charged, spear raised high above his head. But before he could release it, she pounced and devoured him whole, leaving nothing left.”
Limbani and I laugh at my father’s emphatic gestures describing the foolish display of the warrior and the deadly swiftness of the lion. My father laughs as well.
“As you can imagine, the people grew worried once again, and once again the elders called forth a gathering. ‘Who will go out into the desert to kill this ferocious lion who has bested our strongest man?’ the elders asked of the tribe. A younger man, very tall with long wiry legs, stepped forward and said ‘I will go. When I encounter the lion, I will surely outmaneuver her with my impeccable speed,’ and the elders agreed. So, the fastest man gathered up his knife, his shoes, and plenty of dried fruit to eat for the journey ahead, and he set out to find the she-lion. The fastest man was much quicker, and found the lion in only three days. He charged her head on, and when she went to pounce, he dove out of the way. But when he doubled back to slice at her haunches, the lion whipped about and slashed his neck with a ferocious claw. As he died in the dirt, the lion devoured him whole, leaving nothing left.”
“We’re almost back now,” Sizwe informs us. “I can see the smoke. Do you see it Limbani?”
He looks out to where his father is pointing. Even I can see it.
“Keep going father, who tries to kill the lion next?”
Limbani hurries to catch up to his father, leaving the two of us alone in the rear.
“The elders thought they had run out of capable men. They called together everyone in the tribe and said to them ‘Our strongest man was defeated by the lion. Our fastest man was defeated by the lion. Who is left that could possibly hope to kill such a monster?’ Then, a young girl, about your age, stepped forward and said ‘I will go. I alone can kill the lion, and I will not fail like the others.’ Everyone in the tribe laughed at the young girl. ‘You are not strong, you are not fast, the lion will best you quickly and devour you whole,’ they told her. But no one else stepped forward, so the elders said ‘If you wish to go and die, you are free to,’ and the young girl left. Her name was Imani.”
“Imani the Hero?” I excitedly realize. I was wondering when they would enter the story. Limbani and his father pass over the next hill and drop out of view.
“That’s right, this is her tale. The young girl, Imani, gathered up her things: her net, her poisoned arrows, and a jug of water. Imani didn’t take seven days to find the lion, or even three. Instead, Imani walked a short distance from the village and laid out some raw and bloody meat beneath a tree. Soon enough, the lion came to her, but when she spied the meat, she did not see Imani hiding in the tree with a net and poisoned arrows. The lion walked up to the base of the tree and began to eat the meat, but right when she finished, Imani threw her net down and entangled her. She let loose seven poison arrows into her hide before she was able to get free of the net, and even though she ran off, Imani followed a few short miles to where she lay dead in the dirt. Imani had outwitted the lion.”
As we crest the final sandy mound to reveal our home below, I see figures silhouetted against the setting sun. Limbani and Sizwe have nearly reached them; they must have raced down the hill. I look up at my father’s face with disappointment, but he places a hand on my shoulder and smiles at me in a way which means ‘We will finish the story soon.’ I smile back.
“Wanna run?” he asks me.
“Let’s just walk,” I say. I can smell the fire they have prepared. Soft ash and nutty. My mother and uncles are among them, walking up to meet us. They take the meat from our backs and carry it off to the fire. Tonight, we will eat, and tomorrow we will go back for the meat we buried. The four of us, the hunters, sit down to rest as the others prepare the evening’s meal.
By sun down the roasted meat is crackling over the fire, veins popping, dripping blood to boil on the hot rocks beneath. We are gathered around the large pit, the faces of my friends flitting in and out of shadow with the movement of the flames. My family waits for Sizwe to taste it.
He grabs a handful of meat. “Thanks given to those who came before” Sizwe says.
“Thanks given,” his son echoes.
My father cuts off a piece and hands it to me. I bite into the seared flesh, warm juice dripping down my neck. “It’s good,” I say.
He smiles. “It is good.”
For a time we eat and laugh and tell stories. The children run and tumble in the dirt. I watch. Twice I catch Limbani bragging to the others about his eyes and his strong legs, flexing his muscles and regaling the heroics of the afternoon, but I only smile and leave him be. Sizwe comes from behind and grabs my shoulder. Good job today, he tells me. When we’ve all finished the meal and the fire has died down to a smolder, people retire to their homes. With my legs sore and my belly full, I stare at the glowing embers and the sound of chatter fades. The night air fills with the softer sounds of insects, crackling sap, and the light sandy breeze flowing over the dunes. Reaching beneath me, my father hoists me into his arms. My mother and my younger brother are already asleep when he lays me next to them. Quiet. The silence of the night fills our house.
Laying next to my father, I turn and whisper, “Are you awake?”
“I am,” he rolls toward me and I hear his smile. “You did very well today, Chima. I’m so proud of you.”
I smile and shift on the floor, “Can we finish the story now? The story of Imani the Hero?”
“Of course we can,” my father whispers, stroking his beard. “When Imani arrived back at her home, her people were shocked. They thought for certain that she would have been killed by the lion like all the men before her had. ‘She must have gotten scared and never sought the lion out,’ one man reasoned. ‘The lion must have thought her not worth the trouble,’ another said. But when Imani got closer they saw on her back the pelt of the great beast. Roars of cheering and laughter filled the tribe as the women and men hoisted young Imani upon their shoulders. ‘How did you do it?’ they asked. Imani answered, ‘I used cunning to defeat her, because our wit is the thing we have most in abundance.’
“The men chanted her name, and decreed that Imani would be their new leader. She provided for everyone, led with great wisdom and clarity, and had many daughters and sons to strengthen our people. Imani taught all of them the wits to conquer the animals, and our people prospered for years upon years.”
A long silence occurs as I wait to be certain I’ve heard the last of it. My father waits too, not with tension but with quiet peace. “I like it,” I finally say. My father reaches out and touches the top of my head, gives me a kiss, and rolls back to my mother. I lay on my back, and fall into a heavy sleep, my body aching from the day. I dream of a lion drinking from a pond; she does not see me as I creep up behind her to shoot her in the heart with a poisoned arrow. She runs off, but I follow, my son at my side. I tell him stories of our ancestors and of my father and of my first hunt, and I am happy. He looks up at me and I wait for him to speak. He only smiles. I smile back in a way which means “I love you.”