My name is Muhindua
The King’s Council handpicks me to seek advice about the king’s untimely death. My pursuit steers me to an autochthonous shaman that uses a glistening mirror.
The grubby man glances at a pocketsize glowing mirror. “Three lightning flashes struck Okahandja from Ongandjera,” he says, his eyes popping out. “That could have killed the king,” he says, babbling incoherent words.
Instantly, I wander to the next soothsayer.
Here, the grey-haired man tosses bones in the air. “An army of reddish ants wheedled a pathway between the circlet hut and the sacred hearth,” he croons, calling strange names. The futurist’s remarks soothe my heartstrings. I dash out of the witchdoctor’s hut.
Next, I buttonhole a man who dreamily foretells my coming.
“The hump-back long snout horse that cut across the thatch-roofed hut and the fireplace killed the king,” he hums.
I dust off my feet, and scurry out of his hut. I dash towards a broom-carrying man at Otjikango.
A moment later, I step into his daylight-robbed hut. “The king was wittingly served tasty meat from a hornless cow,” he sings. “What?” I quiz, tapping my stick on the cracked cow dung floor. “Who would do that?” I ask, waving my dotted walking cane. Then, I tiptoe out of his hut.
Afterwards, I ride on a camel’s back and hash out at Osona. “The death of the king’s eldest son during a skirmish at the Battle of Ongombongange triggered his heart attack,” the magician says, smearing pastry leaves on my forehead. “That’s why the king was walking aimlessly in a knee-length gown,” I say. Even so, I wasn’t pleased with these hearsays.
Finally, I sprint towards a bejewelled sorcerer. “The blackbird, which nested on the king’s thorn bush kraal, caused his demise,” he says.
Later, my sweat-dripping run takes me to a red brick four-cornered house in Otjimbingwe. Here, a whiskery-bearded man squeezes a red-tongued black book in my hands. First, the hairy man asks me to flick through the book. “Death killed the king,” he prophesied, sprinkling golden grease on my kinky hair. Then, he totters me to a three-legged steel altar. “Blow up the red and green flaming candles,” he says. Immediately, I sink to my knees, and the spiritualist rubs my hands and feet with yellow oil.
* This is historical fiction.