The mother who gave my little sister and me to this world died when I was as small as a new desert monkey. The desert sand above her spirit place spiraled in a quick dance when the wind blew in from the sea. It brought with it the silver fog that made a cool blanket on my skin and chased away the night sounds when I slept.
The night sounds were many. Mother elephant rumbled her message to her sisters and children when they passed to drink, and hyenas laughed like drunken baboons. Sometimes we heard the great desert lion sing to the moon. We listened to his song and hoped the moon would show him a meal far from where we lived. He left some food for the black sky hawk and her children. When it was day and we fetched our morning water, sometimes we found what he and the black hawk left of their meal, some scattered bones drying and disappearing in the rolling sand. If the scorpion could dig down far enough, she could find them hidden away. It would be a great surprise for her.
I am no longer a twelve-year-old girl. I now have children of my own. Our goats and cattle need much water. The land is dry and nothing grows to feed us until the rains come and the soft river bed floods. But the rains don’t last, and the Sky Spirit takes away the water each year. In the dry months we share water with Mother Elephant, her family, and the elephant bulls who follow her, and with the baboons and ostrich. We don’t see the shy leopard, but he is there in the night to drink like the rest.
Raised by my father and grandfather Abisai, and by the dogs that herded our goats, we two girls were the only children to do family chores. I cleaned and made our meals, and chased away all the unwelcome visitors, the birds, mice and bugs and others who stole from us. My sister, Daffea, herded the young goats, despite her occasional recklessness. She had a dog to help, and I had several dogs to help herd the older goats. My father and grandfather herded the cattle, more precious and thirstier than goats. I missed having a mother teach me things I needed to know, care for me when I was sick, and talk to me gently when I was afraid. My grandfather tried to help us, but not my father. He found another wife, but she ran away. Life in the desert was too hard for her, so I lost a chance for a second mother.
Our family had two houses made of sticks tied tightly together. One was my grandfather’s, and the other was his brother’s. We lived first with my grandfather, Damar. He’s gone to the ancestors now, but the houses still stand on two different sides of a tall cement pool, made by government men who dug down deep into the sand to find water. When there was a strong breeze, a tall metal tower with wind paddles pumped water. The tall cement pool was for the great elephants. There was a low pool for the elephant calves and for our animals. Many goats stood in a line to drink one at a time, even the little ones. Our family fetched water from a big tank that stood on wooden legs about fifty feet from the pools.
I was scruffy then. My hair went in every direction, and my clothes were hand-me-down dresses from missionaries. I wore them ragged. My father always thanked the minister gratefully, but told him that his foreign religion was not for us.
It was the elephants that started all the trouble with the water, and made my father want to shoot them with a borrowed gun.
“Elephant meat is good,” he said. “We can dry it hanging from the mopane trees. Soon we can make potjiekos in our stew pot. I am tired of so much mealie pap. Then the elephants will no longer come here to drink or stop the flow of water for all of us.”
“Papa,” I shouted. “They won’t ever come back if you hang one of their family from a favorite tree. I want to see their great shade-leaf ears again and see them spray water and dust on their backs. I want to watch the small new ones drag their trunks along the ground, forgetting to lift them. They are so beautiful.”
“Look what that mother elephant is trying to do, Disen,” Papa Koako said. “When there is no breeze to move the wind paddles, she tears at the pipe the government men put in the ground. She smells the water inside it and wants a drink. If she digs it up again, the water will spill to the ground and then there will be no water for any of us.
“But dancing green gecko can always find it. He is clever and does not need big pools for drinking,” I said, foolishly, thinking of my small friend and not our animals or us.
“But our animals need to drink.”
“You’re right,” I said. “But Mother Elephant is caring for her family. Elephants don’t usually live in deserts. They were forced here by war in the north.”
“I don’t care where they came from,” said Papa. “They must learn to keep our water safe or they will not be welcome.”
That day, Papa threatened to kill Mother, a second mother to me. It was not a happy day because most of the water was gone. Perhaps she loved me because I was small, and because I loved her back. She was tired and brought her family as always to drink. I had been taught to stay away from her and her clan because she protected them so fiercely. This time, there was no time to get away as they arrived.