Ruben Kapimbi
“Never give this away,” said Mica’s father, tapping the iron tube of the gun. The frail man pressed his sad eyes at his son. Soon Mica knelt before him and wiped tears gathering around his eyelids. Then, the grey-haired man shut his eyes.
At his burial, Mica sprinkled soil over his tomb, and swore to the mourners that he’ll keep the gun. A year later, the man with a stick-out forehead criss-crossed the grass-choked Okamita River. That sunrise, he stumbled upon a deadened cow, with grain-like swellings on the nostrils. When he scrutinised the lifeless cow, he spotted lumps on the tongue. The cattle-rich fellow ran towards his foe, Joshua.
“You’ve cursed my cows,” Mica said, rubbing his pointed forehead.
“What?” Joshua asked, looking skyward.
Now Mica raised his walking stick, but saw Joshua’s cows oozing watery mucus from their eyes. Soon they hopped towards the balloon-bellied cows, scattered everywhere.
“I’m sorry,” Mica said.
“It’s your black magic,” Joshua said, looking heavenward. The duo galloped towards Mathew, and before they could shake hands, they bumped into berry-red cows breathing rapidly. When they scrutinised Mathew’s cows; most coughed up pus-filled droplets.
“What’s this?” Mathew asked, pointing to the strewn cows. “It’s John’s magic,” Joshua said, and raced towards John.
“Let’s kill him,” Mica said, rubbing his hands clockwise. The trio tiptoed towards John’s hut. When they sneaked into his hut, he was chair-bound with his head between his legs.
“It’s a perfect position,” Mathew hissed. The other two nodded. “You’ve cast a spell upon our cows,” Mica said, and hit him at the back of his head. The chair-bound fellow dropped facedown. Now his pack of ticks-ridden dogs sniffed and licked his swollen face. On their way from John’s hut, the three tripped on more carcasses, and few cows still shaking on their legs. Finally, the trio tracked down a spoiled carcass of a buffalo. As they sprinted towards John, they were grief-stricken. However, they discovered his louse-ridden dogs had crushed his body.
In an animated meeting about the plague of cows, the villagers circled a dark-green leave tree. That’s when a white-robed man hopped towards them. “The cows are dying,” Anderson said, rubbing his horsetail hair.
“This disease has killed all curved-horned animals,” Mica said.
“The governess had ordered me to collect all the guns,” Anderson said, as the wind blew his long hair. “What?” Mathew asked.
“She’ll vaccinate the guns,” Anderson said. Soon the villagers hesitantly piled all the guns at his feet. First, Mica ran and picked John’s bamboo-tube gun and dropped it. Then, Mathew brought his hand-held musket and gifted it to Anderson.
Joshua hopped to collect his shoulder gun. Finally, Mica looked at his sick-collar firearm and kissed it.
“This’s the first jab,” he said, weepily hugging his gun. “There’ll be a third dose once you reach Windhoek,” he whispered, rubbing his chin. Then, he wrapped the gun inside a saddle pad, and handed it over to Anderson.
Irony: Two years after the vaccination of guns, the genocide took place.
*Ruben Kapimbi is a fifth-generation offspring of the genocide. This story is historical fiction.