Genocide - The Mysterious Hideout (1908)

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 foldingskin 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 whitegreyish 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.