Ruben Kapimbi
My name is Delilah.
First, an ear-splitting boom shook our circlet hut. The blast triggered the woody milk-jug to spill over my legs.
Then, I waved away grey-winged insects dipping their sponging mouths in the buttery milk.
“That’s a gunshot,” I said.
Strangely, Nana scolded me for splashing the sour milk.
Another bang rocked our ring-shaped hut, peeling off the plastered cow dung. Instantly, I spotted a Schutztrupper between the y-shaped branches.
“Let’s run,” I said, patting granny’s arms.
Then, a trooper blew up a yapping mongrel. This time, a straying bullet rattled our rusty water tank.
“Pull me up,” Nana said, stretching her folding-skin hands.
I tightened my fists towards Nana.
Instantly, I earwigged her snapping knees.
“My knee hurts,” she said, rubbing her twitching rock-like knee.
“Run,” I said.
“Isn’t this splitting seed pods?” she asked, as we paused under a sun-bleached tree.
Suddenly, a bursting spiky seed-ball dropped on Nana’s head.
“I’ll not leave you,” I said, crisscrossing my finger on my hairline.
Then, I punched a kiss on Nana’s hollow cheeks.
“I’m too old,” she said, wiping her lips on my hands.
Thereafter, I clasped her crumpled hands as the wind waved her bead-trimmed dress. Her chest hummed and she wiped sweat drips from her lined neck.
Then, we crawled behind stem-less grey-green trees.
“Watch your steps,” I said, spotting that she had slipped on a shell-like stone.
“I’ve twisted my ankle,” she said, picturing me her puffed-up ankle.
Finally, we skidded into the dark bottomless holes.
“We’re safe,” she said, pointing to her stabbing chest.
Afterwards, I wiped sticky spiders’ threads from my eyes.
“How deep can we go?” I asked, tiptoeing on a knife-edged rock.
That moonlight, I tracked a snake’s trail. Soon granny flashed a burning stick at a wingless creature tumbling along the rocks.
That sun-up, I spotted an eight-eyed spider on granny’s shoulder. I ripped a light-grey stone and crushed the giant spider.
“I’m thirsty,” I said, squeezing the bitter water from the fleshy leaves.
“Go down the stony rungs,” she said.
Instantly, I spotted water dripping from the rocks. I slurped the salty water but stepped on a white-greyish snake.
Straightaway, I pelleted rough-edged rocks on the serpent’s three-cornered head.
Later, I cooked the white-flesh meat.
For years, we squashed python’s biltong and Nana stitched a snakeskin skirt to mark my menarche.
* Ruben Kapimbi hails from Okangeama in Otjituuo. He is a fifth-generation offspring of the genocide. This story is historical fiction.