Ruben Kapimbi
Hi! Call me Katjove.
The governor, Mr Lutwein, popped out of an upward-swinging door wagon surrounded by gun-carrying officers.
Soon the bare-chested natives bounced onto their feet. The commander schooled the villagers on the borderlines of German S.W.A.
Suddenly the military-green suit governor pictured the onlookers with a sketch of the Ozohungu Mountains. The administrator pointed a baton at the modelled plan of Okahandja.
Then, he spread the map on the timber taboret.
“What do the dots stand for?” I asked.
“The natives’ huts,” he said, running the stick over the dots.
“The dots are too small,” I yelled.
“Nobody can fit inside that hut,” said headman Zoseu.
“We’ve numbered the natives,” the governor said.
“We don’t count people,” said Vihakautu, wide-eyed.
The governor pointed to the flat sticks marked as people.
“Are they sleeping?” asked Chief Hange, poker-faced.
“Move the sticks upright,” I said.
“The census was done during the full moonlight,” said the governor, winking.
“Whose census?” asked Chief Hange, chuckling.
Between the twin lines that symbolised the railroad, there were four crosses. “What are these crosses?” the chief yelled.
“The graveyard,” said the governor.
The chief gingerly pulled out of his rusty armchair. “You’ve counted the ancestors?” he asked, wagging his index finger.
Soon, the military officers chained the chief with metal rings.
Afterwards, the villagers pelleted the soldiers with rocks. A rough-edged rock hits Lutwein, before the police opened fire on the catapults-carrying villagers.
“How do you count the lifeless?” asked the handcuffed chief. “Sketch another map!” shouted the shackled chief. “Replace the crosses with cow skulls,” he said as his followers handclapped.
“In Berlin, death is marked by a cross,” said the governor.
The whiskery-bearded governor quietened the meeting before the chief picked up another disturbance.
The northerly jungle from the railway line was marked, ‘No men’s land.’ “What’s this?” asked the animated chief.
“It’s settlers’ land,” said the governor.
His remarks stirred the fired-up natives. “That woodland is called Kahivesa’s Plains,” said the chief.
“Oh, I see,” said the governor, spotting that the stick-carrying aborigines have outnumbered the trigger-happy police.
“Change that to future cattle posts,” said the chief.
Subsequently, the Kaiser replaced the diplomatic Lutwein with a hardnosed governor.
The pitiless governor, Luther Von Genocide, refused to alter the original map.
Finally, the bloodthirsty governor commandeered the natives to leave ‘Klein Germany’ at gunpoint.
This is historical fiction