Ruben Kapimbi
Hello! Call me Peter.
I pulled a humped back horse down the s-shaped hills. My master, Mr Werner, was in the leathered saddle. The settler sported a khaki shirt and two revolvers.
I cleared my sore throat as my lord sipped water from an aluminium bottle.
I buried my feet in the sand. Then, we paused next to a shadowy tree. Here, I rubbed blisters on my feet. I pictured Mr Werner, my swelled-up feet and ballooned watery skin.
“Carry on!” he yelled. So, I limped and pulled the halter. Soon, Mr Werner waved me to fan the oval-shaped houseflies from his face.
“My mission is simple,” he said.
“What’s the target? my lord,” I asked, looking skyward.
“To shoot the cows,” he said.
“Shoot?” I asked.
“I’ll safeguard the settlers’ cows,” said Mr Werner.
We showed up at the headman’s brick-mud hut. I pulled the yellowish-brown animal between the main hut and the ranch.
“Do you want to kill me?” the greybeard man queried.
“We’re here to shoot sick cows,” I said, numbering a herd of oxen roaming around.
“Cows?” the grandsire queried.
“The shaking cows,” Mr Werner said, angling his revolver.
“This hornless creature?” the headman asked, pointing at the camel.
“Sorry,” I said.
Instantly, Mr Werner spotted a cow oozing watery mucus.
Bang!
He shot the brown-red cow.
“Only the off-coloured cows,” the headman said.
“What?” my master shouted.
“These are holy cows,” the headman said, pattering towards four horizontal poles.
“You’re in my shooting range,” said Mr Werner.
The broom-like hair settler pelleted bullets at the red oxen. I whistled and applauded my lord’s shooting skills as his bullets missed the aged man by a few inches.
“Don’t shoot that black ox,” the headman said.
Immediately, the murky bull blocked the gateway to the ranch.
“The black ox is discharging pus droplets,” said Mr Werner.
He pointed the gun at the bull, but missed it. Later, he jumped from the camel’s back and cocked the revolver.
“I’ve ran out of bullets,” he shouted.
Instantly, the ox charged at
him and knocked him down. Later, the bull punctured its cork-screw horns through his ribs.
I picked the revolver, but a shot went off, and hit my lord between his eyes.
Finally, I weepily informed the governess that the natives had shot my lord.
* Ruben Kapimbi hails from Okangeama in Otjituuo. He is a fifth-generation offspring of the genocide. This story is historical fiction.