About the Africa Project
Our class's exploration of Africa involved heavy amounts of research, because most of us had never seriously studied Africa. The picture above is of an infographic about Zimbabwe that I made at the start of the second semester. Within this semester the most important projects were an in-depth research paper, which could be on any African country, and a more free form project which could be pretty much any medium. For myself, I researched Botswana, and then later wrote a story about the Khoisan people who you may know better as the 'Bushmen'. All of this writing can be found below.
Your Descent Matters
About the Book
Normally, this part of the book could be a happy preference with the intent of introducing you the topic and getting you hyped for the story (or at least guilt-trip you into reading it), but in my case, I’m afraid it will have to double as a formal apology letter. And really, calling my story a book is really a bit too charitable.
Your Descent Matters is a story I wrote with the intent of exploring the khoisan, people native to the Kalahari desert who happen to represent one of the oldest living cultures on earth. I wanted to bring them to life with characters and perspectives that were very different from my own.
I think to some extent, I accomplished this, but at some cost. I am not a professional writer; my workload is more demanding and my deadlines are quicker. I am a student; my work is unpaid and my research does not have the funds to equal that of a real writer. I learned as much as I could in the time frame I was given, but the resources necessary to fully capture daily life for the khoisan people was simply not something I had access to.
From setting descriptions to daily activities, I tried to keep everything in the story as general as possible to avoid major inaccuracies. I know for a fact that the names are incorrect, and merely come from the area surrounding the desert rather than the people who inhabit it. If I did give my characters names from the khoisan’s traditional names you would have found them all but unpronounceable , as their language is heavily reliant on clicks and other sounds foreign to English. Nevertheless, I would have been happy to include the romanizations of any of the names if I had found them available. Sadly, as this was not the case, I accepted names that were available from the area nearby.
Regardless, I worked very hard on this story and enjoyed the research I was able to accomplish immensely. My hope, is that for you, the reader, Your Descent Matters will serve as an engaging and refreshing piece that inspires you to look at the world differently.
--Cypress Ellen
Your Descent Matters
Oafe awoke to the feeling of her toes being pulled. Shrill voices hissed her name over and over again. Oafe took to morning as a worm takes to salt.
She groaned and sat up to face her sisters, but they were already scurrying back to their mother, their obligation fulfilled. Oafe noted that they had awakened her late, by the intense heat already being emitted from the sun.
Rubbing her eyes with her left hand, Oafe dragged herself up and over to where her mother waited with the tools for the day’s work of foraging. For one who never seemed at home in the desert, her mother certainly had a great will to be successful in it. Every day Oafe and her sisters collected food, as though they would be unable to collect it the next day. Their mother worked just as hard, if not harder, to collect water while they looked for edible plants.
Without a word, Oafe’s mother handed Oafe a basket and sent her and her elder sister to fill it with desert fruits. They would not be back till late afternoon, when they would eat a large meal with the entire family and the rest of the village, who are not so distantly related.
Silently Oafe took the basket up in one arm and followed her sister. Kefilwe never let out a sound while she led her sister around, which Oafe found strange and pleasing.
Sand found a familiar place between the girls’ toes as they walked with the sun on their backs. They walked for over an hour before reaching a landscape that had anything to offer them.
Oafe and Kefilwe had come to this place the last three times they went food gathering, so next time they would have to go to a different spot, which would probably mean walking further.
Oafe smiled at the thought. These long walks were fun, relaxing even. It was the processing of food, making of beer, gathering of water, and other such menial tasks that she disliked.
Kefilwe set down her basket near some bushes, and set to digging up edible roots. Oafe made to copy her, but a tree laden with berries caught her eye and she decided to pursue them instead.
These berries could not be eaten on their own, she knew, and would only give her more work in the end when they had to crush them for medicine or drink or both. But it gave her a reason to climb the tree and a much better place to sit than the rocky, sandy, desert floor.
Before she began picking, Oafe sat looking up for some time, taking in all the color that could not be expressed on anything other than the great canvas that is the desert sky. Here is not just home, she thought, here is life.
She had not even filled her basket when Kefilwe pinched her leg, causing Oafe to jolt in surprise. Kefilwe pointed at the sun which had risen all the way above them and was just beginning to slip. They must begin walking home if they wanted to return at a reasonable hour.
Oafe jumped down from the tree and looked sorrowfully at her basket. There hadn’t been enough berries to make a decent harvest, and she ought to have waited till their next visit when there might have been more. Kefilwe generously gave Oafe some of her own roots to make Oafe’s basket look more appealing.
Without giving a second glance to the work they’d completed, the sisters turned for home. The sun hit their backs again, but this time more gently, as though it were saying goodbye.
✬✬✬✬✬✬✬
Food preparations were well underway when Oafe and Kefilwe returned to their village. Even the men had finished the day’s hunting and brought back the few trophies that came of it.
Oafe’s mother gave Kefilwe and her a stern look, taking their baskets without a word. They joined their younger sisters, peeling and cutting the day’s harvests.
Taking up a root, Oafe began picking of the bad spots, then rubbing of the dirt. She was painfully slow, and her younger sisters finished three in the time she finished one. The men were preparing a fire, just in time, as the evening air was settling in. A few elders circled around them, some keeping their hands busy with minor work, but most talking and joking and laughing.
They told incredible stories of their lives and the lives of those who had passed before them. They seemed to be bottomless in knowledge and experience, yet light in their demeanor. As though age had taken them to a higher plane.
Oafe could picture herself, much older, with wrinkles caressing her and wisdom seeping from each pore and flowing from each fold of skin. No longer would being a woman or a man have any say on her authority, for age could make her a higher being.
A hand pulled the root from her hands and her thoughts from this vision. Her mother stared down and spat, “If you can’t keep up with youngsters you shouldn’t be wasting your time here.” before turning sharply, leaving Oafe with shamefully empty hands.
✬✬✬✬✬✬✬
After most of the families finished eating, chants began to emerge from the chatter that had absorbed dinner. Infrequent at first, they became louder and more decisive as the people began to get in tune for the night’s festivities.
The night air was soon filled with clicks, the sound of life in the desert.
Oafe watched her sisters get up to dance and marveled at their grace. She herself was not such a bad dancer, but she never commanded movement the way they could. Kefilwe, in particular, transformed herself into a divine force, so spectacular was her performance.
A tug at her arm urged Oafe to join the dance. It was her brother. This tug was soon followed by another from a boy she also called brother. More followed even as she openly displayed her lack of resistance to dancing. Any outsider to the dance was met with a similar approach, for all must join in at least one dance. The frenzy of worship and community and life was surely magnificent to behold. But it was even more awe awakening to experience it.
Oafe recalled the words of a talkative elder who had died some seasons ago. He had said, “One can not live in the desert alone. But if you live with others in the desert, you can no longer be just one person.”
At the time those words had been little more than trifles, like the beads she wore around her neck. She loved how they sounded but failed to find meaning in them. Now they seemed to finally have struck some chord in her.
Some time later Oafe managed to pull herself from the dancing and hastened to get herself to where the elders sat. Kefilwe had already begun an exciting yarn when Oafe got to sitting down with the other children. This Kefilwe was not Oafe’s sister, but the mother of her father. There weren’t many varying names in one family, and even in the whole village it was strange to have just one or two bearers of a name.
Old Kefilwe’s story described a heroic match between a hyena and a lion. The clever hyena and powerful lion were evenly endowed with skill, but neither would recognize this. In the end, the hyena outwitted the lion, but the lion overpowered the hyena. They both died because they could not recognize that they held abilities that could not be compared to each other.
This was a tale Oafe had heard previously, but she didn’t mind listening to it again. Old Kefilwe had a way of making her stories new each time she told them.
When she finished her story, Old Kefilwe closed her eyes for several minutes to take a deep breath. No one moved a muscle. When she opened her eyes once more, she met Oafe’s gaze, filled with glittering anticipation.
“Here is a lioness,” said Old Kefilwe, “who does not believe hyenas are better than her.”
Oafe smiled, though she was unsure if the statement was to be taken as a compliment. She was still pondering the words when she returned to her cot. Passing her father’s hut, she heard whispers. Her mother and father, she correctly guessed.
Their tones were low, but not especially difficult to overhear.
“Why not let her go? Surely someone must go?”
“None of us should go. We are not so many that we can spare anyone.”
“You say that blindly. You don’t know what you haven’t seen.”
“Then you are as blind as I am.”
“Please. Make her go.”
A long silence followed her mother’s pleading words. Oafe didn’t draw a breath. Anger welled up inside her, twisting up her veins so tightly she felt they might burst.
“You would have me force the unwilling, wouldn’t you?” Her father’ voice was rough, and accusatory. “She is old enough. Ask her. Kefilwe made her choice. Let Oafe make hers.”
Oafe heard her mother stifle the words she wanted to add. Oafe was glad of her father’s strong will. She would hate to be caught with her mother as the dominant household force.
Knowing there would be nothing interesting left to hear, Oafe crept quietly to her bed and shut her eyes, urging sleep to come quickly.
Shortly, her busy mind devolved into a tangled web of dreams.
✬✬✬✬✬✬✬
If you had ever known Okal, you probably would have thought of her as an angry girl.
And in truth, she was often quite angry and frustrated. When she was angry she would escape to a hideaway so she could be alone. You don’t have to walk far in the desert to be alone.
But Okal liked walking far. She would walk until all landmarks disappeared. She would walk in the daytime under unforgiving sunlight, or at night in the chilling cold.
Okal was sure that walking smoothed the rough edges of human hearts. She could walk with the most violent stomps, and when she turned to head home, her footprints would be as delicate as an antelope's, if they were visible at all.
One day, she found herself walking longer than usual. Two hours passed, yet her frustration hadn’t dissipated in the slightest.
Okal stopped by some trees and decided to climb into one of the sturdier looking ones. The bare branches were hard and pushed uncomfortably against her bones, but she had no intention of moving. Most days the sky filled with a brilliant color that Okal adored above all others.
Today, it seemed to fill with the contempt she now felt.
Her father was to have a new wife. Okal had been introduced to the woman just that day. She took one look at the woman and immediately began to direct disapproval at her father.
The woman was clearly not of their people. She was a Khoikhoi. Their people were farmers; they grazed the lands they traveled through, not bothering to settle into any one place.
Most importantly, they were different.
Okal’s father had not taken her outburst lightly and left Okal with red marks on her arms on cheeks.
She did not mind the pain so much as she minded the humiliation.
The sky she looked up at was the color of rejection. The tree bark was the color of her father’s angry eyes.
Why would father chose these strange nomads over our own people? Okal couldn’t comprehend it.
If you had ever known Okal, you’d have found there was a wonderful and determined girl under that angry exterior.
You’ll never get the chance to meet her, of course, at least not in this lifetime.
✬✬✬✬✬✬✬
Oafe woke early, before either of her younger sisters had a chance to get the better of her. She was wary of the imminent decision her mother was sure to impose upon her.
It was still cold, so Oafe took her blanket with her, skirting the edges of the village, trying to avoid anyone she saw.
In the distance Oafe could see sand billowing in the wind. Instinctively she pulled the blanket further over her head.
She hadn’t slept well. Her mind had been wound up, nervous about the oncoming confrontation.
Now, looking at the sun rising, Oafe wished she had slept longer.
A hand rested on Oafe’s shoulder, but she didn’t flinch.
“Our mother would speak to you,” Kefilwe spoke without a hint of apology.
It was now that Oafe remembered when her mother had taken Kefilwe away from her usual gathering missions. She spent days trying to convince Kefilwe to leave the reservation in which their village was located, and experience life outside the desert. She spoke of marvelous cities, wondrous opportunities and an easy life.
There was reason, however, for Kefilwe to believe that it was not so perfect as her mother described. For one thing, their mother had never been outside the reservation. And for another, they had heard from those who had left, and their stories did not sound glamorous at all. Tales of a complicated life dependent on money and filled with busy office work at best left Kefilwe with an easy decision.
A decision which upset her mother greatly. Oafe’s mother sent Kefilwe back to gathering and stopped speaking with her regularly. Kefilwe herself, began to speak less and less, regardless of whose presence she was in.
That was the end of one cycle. Now with Oafe, it began again.
She would be asked to leave, to make a life for herself in the modern world. Her mother saw it as a chance for her to become someone, but Oafe saw it as rejection of her past.
She had no intention to leave this beautiful life behind to live in a grey, polluted city.
Yet she had to face this trial with her mother. Oafe walked solemnly to where her mother and siblings had gathered. As usual, she gave them baskets and sent them to forage for what food they could find.
To Oafe, she said, “You will help me draw water today.” She tried to sound warm, but her tone came out forced and stiff.
Oafe and her mother walked silently to the wells. When they reached them, her mother set down the water pots and turned to her daughter. “You know how it’s done?” she asked, though she knew the answer.
Shaking her head, Oafe set down her pots in turn. She had never gone water collecting, and she’d only visited the wells once or twice before.
“Are you prepared to learn this task, and to perform it each and every day, along with all the other tasks?”
Oafe looked blankly.
“Are you prepared to be trapped with the burdens of the desert, for all of your days?”
Oafe looked down at the sand, not wanting to answer.
“Are you?” her mother repeated.
Staring at her mother, Oafe wondered what could make her say such things. It was maddening--hurtful, even.
And then all at once, it clicked.
“It’s not me that’s trapped. It’s you.” Oafe spoke these words slowly, like she was tentatively solving a puzzle.
Her mother sighed. “I never had the chance to make a choice. I can no longer leave this life. My name is not Oafe any more, it is Mother. Now Oafe is your name, and your choice.”
Oafe was silent. She had made her choice long before.
Why must her mother look so sad?
✬✬✬✬✬✬✬
Never one to forgive first, Okal hid after her fight, and didn’t go to help her siblings with chores. She stalked and tip toed around the elders, who went about their work peacefully.
Their cheerfulness irritated her. She followed the men who were taking up weapons for hunting. The younger boys were a bit rowdy, but most of them kept quiet and stony faced.
Sometimes Okal wished she could be a boy. The prospect of the hunt was enticing, a new lens through which she could view the world.
From the shadows, Okal laughed with the men as they bemoaned a boy’s loss of a kill. She listened carefully to the advice the more experienced hunters imparted. She practiced watching for signs of movement and signs of life.
On that day Okal experienced joy like no other. The feeling of trying something new. Of learning.
She didn’t feel angry when she reached home.
At home, her mother called to her. Okal’s mother was a frail looking woman, unbecoming of their tribe. Elders whispered about her dying. “Soon,” they said, “All too soon.”
Okal cringed at the whispers. Whispers were like sand, something she couldn’t quite pick up but still clung to her. Maybe if her mother hadn’t been so sick, Okal wouldn’t have worried so much about her father getting a new wife.
Having multiple wives was common for a respectable man like her father. If anything, it was odd that he hadn’t married again sooner. It was not the practice that bothered Okal, but the implications it would have for her mother.
Okal’s sick mother would not be the wife in favor, the rest of the tribe would put her aside more than they usually would.
Thin arms wrapped lovingly around Okal’s torso, and Okal returned the gesture.
She asked her mother if she knew about her father’s plans to marry again. Her mother grinned and replied that she did. She babbled for a few minutes about how nice it would be for Okal to have more siblings, and for herself to have more assistance foraging.
Okal could not envision the same happy future. She found it especially unnerving that the bride-to-be was of the KhoiKhoi people. The khoikhoi had migrated closer and closer to the territory of her own people over time. They set up farms, abusing the land instead of taking merely what they needed. If their people mingled, both would lose their traditions and their legacy.
Her mother merely smiled, teasing Okal for her prejudice.
Not enjoying being laughed at, Okal changed the subject with another question.
“Can a girl hunt?’
Okal’s mother considered the question a minute before giving her answer.
“I think you would be the best judge of that.” she said simply.
Late into the night, while her eyes reflected the firelight and her body took in its radiating heat, her mother’s words were still on her mind.
She watched flames lick kindling, turning it to charcoal, slowly at first and then faster until it crumbled completely. Okal moved closer to the fire, as though it might reveal some secret and help her to be sure of herself once again.
Fire was power and warmth, a force of nature that Okal often found herself in awe of. She knew fire didn’t exist for humans to gain something of it. Instead it was a means of getting rid of the things they had no need for. Offerings to deities, waste that could not be given back to the soil, and most importantly, cold.
Now, Okal hoped the fire could rid her of the thoughts and confusion that filled her mind.
A hand rested delicately on Okal’s shoulder, jolting her out away from the fire and into the worried gaze of her father’s new wife-to-be. The woman’s lip quivered; she seemed torn between saying something and running away.
Okal asked what she wanted, barely keeping the venom out of her tone.
The woman answered that she wanted to be accepted happily into the family, and not to step on any toes.
Okal was silent. She didn’t like this woman, who was needy and seemed foolish, or even naive.
“My toes are strong.” she told the woman. “Do as you please.”
Grateful, the woman smiled, and she turned to leave.
As Okal returned her attention to the fire, the woman whispered, “Strong toes will be good for hunting...” before she hurried off into the night.
Unable to breathe for a few seconds, Okal tried desperately to contain a smile.
A breeze skirted around Okal, reminding her to inhale.
Winds of change are upon us, she thought. They will dip into human souls to test our courage and try our compassion.
✬✬✬✬✬✬✬
A gust of wind swirled through the desert all day, endangering the fire and displacing items light enough for it to carry. Sometimes there would be a heavy blast or two, but mostly it was just a steady, undying whisper of wind that trailed all about the reservation.
Oafe felt as though it was following her or nagging her--like she had done it some wrong.
Stars began to peek out of the evening sky, and still the wind would not leave, ever the incessant reminder of something she could not comprehend.
Oafe and her mother had not spoken much during the remainder of their time collecting water. Since then, doubt had risen in her like a cloud of dust, and she was no longer certain of a clear answer to her mother’s proposition.
Was it right to choose to stay in the desert, where she could be reliant on others throughout her life? Did she have some duty to the outside world? If she did not, surely she had some duty to her own mother.
But what of the ancestors? Of the traditions that must be carried on by the young or perish and be lost to ignorance? Many children had already left their desert home behind in preference of a modern world with luxurious technology. If Oafe left, that would be one less chance for her people to survive.
This turmoil was emphasized by the wind.
It occurred to Oafe that she might, in this time of confusion, seek the wisdom of someone other than herself. When she was much younger, Oafe’s father had told her to call on the elders’ knowledge whenever she needed to know or understand something. Oafe was delighted to find how efficient this practice was, and it was in this way that she came to adore the elders of her village.
Restless through the evening, Oafe danced only once, never reaching the level of concentration that would have satisfied her. It was an ugly blur, and Oafe stumbled more than once.
When it was over, she wandered over to the evening’s story telling session. One of the oldest men in the village was recounting the major pieces of history from his youth.
Uninterested for once, Oafe looked around for someone to talk to.
She found Old Kefilwe warming herself by the fire.
“You are missing an important tale.” Old Kefilwe chided.
“I want to hear a different story,” Oafe responded with a hint of embarrassment.
Old Kefilwe looked Oafe over, considering the situation. Then she nodded in agreement, admitting that perhaps Oafe should hear a different story.
“Maybe first, you should hear mine,” Oafe said in a low tone. She described the choice she’d been offered, the reasons for her confliction, and the sadness that had followed her in the form of wind throughout the day.
Old Kefilwe listened, not looking at Oafe, but at the fire. When Oafe finished, Old Kefilwe countered that, “Change often seems like a sad thing.”
Oafe wasn’t sure what that meant in context, but she didn’t question the wise woman’s words and waited for her to continue.
“Oafe means ‘your descent matters’, implying your personal connection to the past, and not just any past, but that past which is yours.”
Oafe nodded. She knew this of course; who wouldn’t know the meaning of her own name?
“Oafe is not a burden, but a strength. Your name does not require you to devote yourself to something that is gone, but allows you to use it and enrich your life with it. Today and every day afterwards, you will make many choices. Your story is not one that will be decided for you, Oafe.”
Drawing in the sand with her toe, Oafe fidgeted uneasily.
“Are you not pleased with my advice?” Old Kefilwe asked, cheerfully.
Oafe protested unconvincingly that it was fine.
“Perhaps a story will be more satisfying,” Old Kefilwe admitted, “I did promise you one, after all.” She turned her attention away from the fire and onto Oafe.
“I will tell you the story of a girl who was much like you, but also quite different. She was a powerful lioness who learned to respect hyenas. This is a story of courage, and of compassion. It is the story of Okal.”
✬✬✬✬✬✬✬
The End
Normally, this part of the book could be a happy preference with the intent of introducing you the topic and getting you hyped for the story (or at least guilt-trip you into reading it), but in my case, I’m afraid it will have to double as a formal apology letter. And really, calling my story a book is really a bit too charitable.
Your Descent Matters is a story I wrote with the intent of exploring the khoisan, people native to the Kalahari desert who happen to represent one of the oldest living cultures on earth. I wanted to bring them to life with characters and perspectives that were very different from my own.
I think to some extent, I accomplished this, but at some cost. I am not a professional writer; my workload is more demanding and my deadlines are quicker. I am a student; my work is unpaid and my research does not have the funds to equal that of a real writer. I learned as much as I could in the time frame I was given, but the resources necessary to fully capture daily life for the khoisan people was simply not something I had access to.
From setting descriptions to daily activities, I tried to keep everything in the story as general as possible to avoid major inaccuracies. I know for a fact that the names are incorrect, and merely come from the area surrounding the desert rather than the people who inhabit it. If I did give my characters names from the khoisan’s traditional names you would have found them all but unpronounceable , as their language is heavily reliant on clicks and other sounds foreign to English. Nevertheless, I would have been happy to include the romanizations of any of the names if I had found them available. Sadly, as this was not the case, I accepted names that were available from the area nearby.
Regardless, I worked very hard on this story and enjoyed the research I was able to accomplish immensely. My hope, is that for you, the reader, Your Descent Matters will serve as an engaging and refreshing piece that inspires you to look at the world differently.
--Cypress Ellen
Your Descent Matters
Oafe awoke to the feeling of her toes being pulled. Shrill voices hissed her name over and over again. Oafe took to morning as a worm takes to salt.
She groaned and sat up to face her sisters, but they were already scurrying back to their mother, their obligation fulfilled. Oafe noted that they had awakened her late, by the intense heat already being emitted from the sun.
Rubbing her eyes with her left hand, Oafe dragged herself up and over to where her mother waited with the tools for the day’s work of foraging. For one who never seemed at home in the desert, her mother certainly had a great will to be successful in it. Every day Oafe and her sisters collected food, as though they would be unable to collect it the next day. Their mother worked just as hard, if not harder, to collect water while they looked for edible plants.
Without a word, Oafe’s mother handed Oafe a basket and sent her and her elder sister to fill it with desert fruits. They would not be back till late afternoon, when they would eat a large meal with the entire family and the rest of the village, who are not so distantly related.
Silently Oafe took the basket up in one arm and followed her sister. Kefilwe never let out a sound while she led her sister around, which Oafe found strange and pleasing.
Sand found a familiar place between the girls’ toes as they walked with the sun on their backs. They walked for over an hour before reaching a landscape that had anything to offer them.
Oafe and Kefilwe had come to this place the last three times they went food gathering, so next time they would have to go to a different spot, which would probably mean walking further.
Oafe smiled at the thought. These long walks were fun, relaxing even. It was the processing of food, making of beer, gathering of water, and other such menial tasks that she disliked.
Kefilwe set down her basket near some bushes, and set to digging up edible roots. Oafe made to copy her, but a tree laden with berries caught her eye and she decided to pursue them instead.
These berries could not be eaten on their own, she knew, and would only give her more work in the end when they had to crush them for medicine or drink or both. But it gave her a reason to climb the tree and a much better place to sit than the rocky, sandy, desert floor.
Before she began picking, Oafe sat looking up for some time, taking in all the color that could not be expressed on anything other than the great canvas that is the desert sky. Here is not just home, she thought, here is life.
She had not even filled her basket when Kefilwe pinched her leg, causing Oafe to jolt in surprise. Kefilwe pointed at the sun which had risen all the way above them and was just beginning to slip. They must begin walking home if they wanted to return at a reasonable hour.
Oafe jumped down from the tree and looked sorrowfully at her basket. There hadn’t been enough berries to make a decent harvest, and she ought to have waited till their next visit when there might have been more. Kefilwe generously gave Oafe some of her own roots to make Oafe’s basket look more appealing.
Without giving a second glance to the work they’d completed, the sisters turned for home. The sun hit their backs again, but this time more gently, as though it were saying goodbye.
✬✬✬✬✬✬✬
Food preparations were well underway when Oafe and Kefilwe returned to their village. Even the men had finished the day’s hunting and brought back the few trophies that came of it.
Oafe’s mother gave Kefilwe and her a stern look, taking their baskets without a word. They joined their younger sisters, peeling and cutting the day’s harvests.
Taking up a root, Oafe began picking of the bad spots, then rubbing of the dirt. She was painfully slow, and her younger sisters finished three in the time she finished one. The men were preparing a fire, just in time, as the evening air was settling in. A few elders circled around them, some keeping their hands busy with minor work, but most talking and joking and laughing.
They told incredible stories of their lives and the lives of those who had passed before them. They seemed to be bottomless in knowledge and experience, yet light in their demeanor. As though age had taken them to a higher plane.
Oafe could picture herself, much older, with wrinkles caressing her and wisdom seeping from each pore and flowing from each fold of skin. No longer would being a woman or a man have any say on her authority, for age could make her a higher being.
A hand pulled the root from her hands and her thoughts from this vision. Her mother stared down and spat, “If you can’t keep up with youngsters you shouldn’t be wasting your time here.” before turning sharply, leaving Oafe with shamefully empty hands.
✬✬✬✬✬✬✬
After most of the families finished eating, chants began to emerge from the chatter that had absorbed dinner. Infrequent at first, they became louder and more decisive as the people began to get in tune for the night’s festivities.
The night air was soon filled with clicks, the sound of life in the desert.
Oafe watched her sisters get up to dance and marveled at their grace. She herself was not such a bad dancer, but she never commanded movement the way they could. Kefilwe, in particular, transformed herself into a divine force, so spectacular was her performance.
A tug at her arm urged Oafe to join the dance. It was her brother. This tug was soon followed by another from a boy she also called brother. More followed even as she openly displayed her lack of resistance to dancing. Any outsider to the dance was met with a similar approach, for all must join in at least one dance. The frenzy of worship and community and life was surely magnificent to behold. But it was even more awe awakening to experience it.
Oafe recalled the words of a talkative elder who had died some seasons ago. He had said, “One can not live in the desert alone. But if you live with others in the desert, you can no longer be just one person.”
At the time those words had been little more than trifles, like the beads she wore around her neck. She loved how they sounded but failed to find meaning in them. Now they seemed to finally have struck some chord in her.
Some time later Oafe managed to pull herself from the dancing and hastened to get herself to where the elders sat. Kefilwe had already begun an exciting yarn when Oafe got to sitting down with the other children. This Kefilwe was not Oafe’s sister, but the mother of her father. There weren’t many varying names in one family, and even in the whole village it was strange to have just one or two bearers of a name.
Old Kefilwe’s story described a heroic match between a hyena and a lion. The clever hyena and powerful lion were evenly endowed with skill, but neither would recognize this. In the end, the hyena outwitted the lion, but the lion overpowered the hyena. They both died because they could not recognize that they held abilities that could not be compared to each other.
This was a tale Oafe had heard previously, but she didn’t mind listening to it again. Old Kefilwe had a way of making her stories new each time she told them.
When she finished her story, Old Kefilwe closed her eyes for several minutes to take a deep breath. No one moved a muscle. When she opened her eyes once more, she met Oafe’s gaze, filled with glittering anticipation.
“Here is a lioness,” said Old Kefilwe, “who does not believe hyenas are better than her.”
Oafe smiled, though she was unsure if the statement was to be taken as a compliment. She was still pondering the words when she returned to her cot. Passing her father’s hut, she heard whispers. Her mother and father, she correctly guessed.
Their tones were low, but not especially difficult to overhear.
“Why not let her go? Surely someone must go?”
“None of us should go. We are not so many that we can spare anyone.”
“You say that blindly. You don’t know what you haven’t seen.”
“Then you are as blind as I am.”
“Please. Make her go.”
A long silence followed her mother’s pleading words. Oafe didn’t draw a breath. Anger welled up inside her, twisting up her veins so tightly she felt they might burst.
“You would have me force the unwilling, wouldn’t you?” Her father’ voice was rough, and accusatory. “She is old enough. Ask her. Kefilwe made her choice. Let Oafe make hers.”
Oafe heard her mother stifle the words she wanted to add. Oafe was glad of her father’s strong will. She would hate to be caught with her mother as the dominant household force.
Knowing there would be nothing interesting left to hear, Oafe crept quietly to her bed and shut her eyes, urging sleep to come quickly.
Shortly, her busy mind devolved into a tangled web of dreams.
✬✬✬✬✬✬✬
If you had ever known Okal, you probably would have thought of her as an angry girl.
And in truth, she was often quite angry and frustrated. When she was angry she would escape to a hideaway so she could be alone. You don’t have to walk far in the desert to be alone.
But Okal liked walking far. She would walk until all landmarks disappeared. She would walk in the daytime under unforgiving sunlight, or at night in the chilling cold.
Okal was sure that walking smoothed the rough edges of human hearts. She could walk with the most violent stomps, and when she turned to head home, her footprints would be as delicate as an antelope's, if they were visible at all.
One day, she found herself walking longer than usual. Two hours passed, yet her frustration hadn’t dissipated in the slightest.
Okal stopped by some trees and decided to climb into one of the sturdier looking ones. The bare branches were hard and pushed uncomfortably against her bones, but she had no intention of moving. Most days the sky filled with a brilliant color that Okal adored above all others.
Today, it seemed to fill with the contempt she now felt.
Her father was to have a new wife. Okal had been introduced to the woman just that day. She took one look at the woman and immediately began to direct disapproval at her father.
The woman was clearly not of their people. She was a Khoikhoi. Their people were farmers; they grazed the lands they traveled through, not bothering to settle into any one place.
Most importantly, they were different.
Okal’s father had not taken her outburst lightly and left Okal with red marks on her arms on cheeks.
She did not mind the pain so much as she minded the humiliation.
The sky she looked up at was the color of rejection. The tree bark was the color of her father’s angry eyes.
Why would father chose these strange nomads over our own people? Okal couldn’t comprehend it.
If you had ever known Okal, you’d have found there was a wonderful and determined girl under that angry exterior.
You’ll never get the chance to meet her, of course, at least not in this lifetime.
✬✬✬✬✬✬✬
Oafe woke early, before either of her younger sisters had a chance to get the better of her. She was wary of the imminent decision her mother was sure to impose upon her.
It was still cold, so Oafe took her blanket with her, skirting the edges of the village, trying to avoid anyone she saw.
In the distance Oafe could see sand billowing in the wind. Instinctively she pulled the blanket further over her head.
She hadn’t slept well. Her mind had been wound up, nervous about the oncoming confrontation.
Now, looking at the sun rising, Oafe wished she had slept longer.
A hand rested on Oafe’s shoulder, but she didn’t flinch.
“Our mother would speak to you,” Kefilwe spoke without a hint of apology.
It was now that Oafe remembered when her mother had taken Kefilwe away from her usual gathering missions. She spent days trying to convince Kefilwe to leave the reservation in which their village was located, and experience life outside the desert. She spoke of marvelous cities, wondrous opportunities and an easy life.
There was reason, however, for Kefilwe to believe that it was not so perfect as her mother described. For one thing, their mother had never been outside the reservation. And for another, they had heard from those who had left, and their stories did not sound glamorous at all. Tales of a complicated life dependent on money and filled with busy office work at best left Kefilwe with an easy decision.
A decision which upset her mother greatly. Oafe’s mother sent Kefilwe back to gathering and stopped speaking with her regularly. Kefilwe herself, began to speak less and less, regardless of whose presence she was in.
That was the end of one cycle. Now with Oafe, it began again.
She would be asked to leave, to make a life for herself in the modern world. Her mother saw it as a chance for her to become someone, but Oafe saw it as rejection of her past.
She had no intention to leave this beautiful life behind to live in a grey, polluted city.
Yet she had to face this trial with her mother. Oafe walked solemnly to where her mother and siblings had gathered. As usual, she gave them baskets and sent them to forage for what food they could find.
To Oafe, she said, “You will help me draw water today.” She tried to sound warm, but her tone came out forced and stiff.
Oafe and her mother walked silently to the wells. When they reached them, her mother set down the water pots and turned to her daughter. “You know how it’s done?” she asked, though she knew the answer.
Shaking her head, Oafe set down her pots in turn. She had never gone water collecting, and she’d only visited the wells once or twice before.
“Are you prepared to learn this task, and to perform it each and every day, along with all the other tasks?”
Oafe looked blankly.
“Are you prepared to be trapped with the burdens of the desert, for all of your days?”
Oafe looked down at the sand, not wanting to answer.
“Are you?” her mother repeated.
Staring at her mother, Oafe wondered what could make her say such things. It was maddening--hurtful, even.
And then all at once, it clicked.
“It’s not me that’s trapped. It’s you.” Oafe spoke these words slowly, like she was tentatively solving a puzzle.
Her mother sighed. “I never had the chance to make a choice. I can no longer leave this life. My name is not Oafe any more, it is Mother. Now Oafe is your name, and your choice.”
Oafe was silent. She had made her choice long before.
Why must her mother look so sad?
✬✬✬✬✬✬✬
Never one to forgive first, Okal hid after her fight, and didn’t go to help her siblings with chores. She stalked and tip toed around the elders, who went about their work peacefully.
Their cheerfulness irritated her. She followed the men who were taking up weapons for hunting. The younger boys were a bit rowdy, but most of them kept quiet and stony faced.
Sometimes Okal wished she could be a boy. The prospect of the hunt was enticing, a new lens through which she could view the world.
From the shadows, Okal laughed with the men as they bemoaned a boy’s loss of a kill. She listened carefully to the advice the more experienced hunters imparted. She practiced watching for signs of movement and signs of life.
On that day Okal experienced joy like no other. The feeling of trying something new. Of learning.
She didn’t feel angry when she reached home.
At home, her mother called to her. Okal’s mother was a frail looking woman, unbecoming of their tribe. Elders whispered about her dying. “Soon,” they said, “All too soon.”
Okal cringed at the whispers. Whispers were like sand, something she couldn’t quite pick up but still clung to her. Maybe if her mother hadn’t been so sick, Okal wouldn’t have worried so much about her father getting a new wife.
Having multiple wives was common for a respectable man like her father. If anything, it was odd that he hadn’t married again sooner. It was not the practice that bothered Okal, but the implications it would have for her mother.
Okal’s sick mother would not be the wife in favor, the rest of the tribe would put her aside more than they usually would.
Thin arms wrapped lovingly around Okal’s torso, and Okal returned the gesture.
She asked her mother if she knew about her father’s plans to marry again. Her mother grinned and replied that she did. She babbled for a few minutes about how nice it would be for Okal to have more siblings, and for herself to have more assistance foraging.
Okal could not envision the same happy future. She found it especially unnerving that the bride-to-be was of the KhoiKhoi people. The khoikhoi had migrated closer and closer to the territory of her own people over time. They set up farms, abusing the land instead of taking merely what they needed. If their people mingled, both would lose their traditions and their legacy.
Her mother merely smiled, teasing Okal for her prejudice.
Not enjoying being laughed at, Okal changed the subject with another question.
“Can a girl hunt?’
Okal’s mother considered the question a minute before giving her answer.
“I think you would be the best judge of that.” she said simply.
Late into the night, while her eyes reflected the firelight and her body took in its radiating heat, her mother’s words were still on her mind.
She watched flames lick kindling, turning it to charcoal, slowly at first and then faster until it crumbled completely. Okal moved closer to the fire, as though it might reveal some secret and help her to be sure of herself once again.
Fire was power and warmth, a force of nature that Okal often found herself in awe of. She knew fire didn’t exist for humans to gain something of it. Instead it was a means of getting rid of the things they had no need for. Offerings to deities, waste that could not be given back to the soil, and most importantly, cold.
Now, Okal hoped the fire could rid her of the thoughts and confusion that filled her mind.
A hand rested delicately on Okal’s shoulder, jolting her out away from the fire and into the worried gaze of her father’s new wife-to-be. The woman’s lip quivered; she seemed torn between saying something and running away.
Okal asked what she wanted, barely keeping the venom out of her tone.
The woman answered that she wanted to be accepted happily into the family, and not to step on any toes.
Okal was silent. She didn’t like this woman, who was needy and seemed foolish, or even naive.
“My toes are strong.” she told the woman. “Do as you please.”
Grateful, the woman smiled, and she turned to leave.
As Okal returned her attention to the fire, the woman whispered, “Strong toes will be good for hunting...” before she hurried off into the night.
Unable to breathe for a few seconds, Okal tried desperately to contain a smile.
A breeze skirted around Okal, reminding her to inhale.
Winds of change are upon us, she thought. They will dip into human souls to test our courage and try our compassion.
✬✬✬✬✬✬✬
A gust of wind swirled through the desert all day, endangering the fire and displacing items light enough for it to carry. Sometimes there would be a heavy blast or two, but mostly it was just a steady, undying whisper of wind that trailed all about the reservation.
Oafe felt as though it was following her or nagging her--like she had done it some wrong.
Stars began to peek out of the evening sky, and still the wind would not leave, ever the incessant reminder of something she could not comprehend.
Oafe and her mother had not spoken much during the remainder of their time collecting water. Since then, doubt had risen in her like a cloud of dust, and she was no longer certain of a clear answer to her mother’s proposition.
Was it right to choose to stay in the desert, where she could be reliant on others throughout her life? Did she have some duty to the outside world? If she did not, surely she had some duty to her own mother.
But what of the ancestors? Of the traditions that must be carried on by the young or perish and be lost to ignorance? Many children had already left their desert home behind in preference of a modern world with luxurious technology. If Oafe left, that would be one less chance for her people to survive.
This turmoil was emphasized by the wind.
It occurred to Oafe that she might, in this time of confusion, seek the wisdom of someone other than herself. When she was much younger, Oafe’s father had told her to call on the elders’ knowledge whenever she needed to know or understand something. Oafe was delighted to find how efficient this practice was, and it was in this way that she came to adore the elders of her village.
Restless through the evening, Oafe danced only once, never reaching the level of concentration that would have satisfied her. It was an ugly blur, and Oafe stumbled more than once.
When it was over, she wandered over to the evening’s story telling session. One of the oldest men in the village was recounting the major pieces of history from his youth.
Uninterested for once, Oafe looked around for someone to talk to.
She found Old Kefilwe warming herself by the fire.
“You are missing an important tale.” Old Kefilwe chided.
“I want to hear a different story,” Oafe responded with a hint of embarrassment.
Old Kefilwe looked Oafe over, considering the situation. Then she nodded in agreement, admitting that perhaps Oafe should hear a different story.
“Maybe first, you should hear mine,” Oafe said in a low tone. She described the choice she’d been offered, the reasons for her confliction, and the sadness that had followed her in the form of wind throughout the day.
Old Kefilwe listened, not looking at Oafe, but at the fire. When Oafe finished, Old Kefilwe countered that, “Change often seems like a sad thing.”
Oafe wasn’t sure what that meant in context, but she didn’t question the wise woman’s words and waited for her to continue.
“Oafe means ‘your descent matters’, implying your personal connection to the past, and not just any past, but that past which is yours.”
Oafe nodded. She knew this of course; who wouldn’t know the meaning of her own name?
“Oafe is not a burden, but a strength. Your name does not require you to devote yourself to something that is gone, but allows you to use it and enrich your life with it. Today and every day afterwards, you will make many choices. Your story is not one that will be decided for you, Oafe.”
Drawing in the sand with her toe, Oafe fidgeted uneasily.
“Are you not pleased with my advice?” Old Kefilwe asked, cheerfully.
Oafe protested unconvincingly that it was fine.
“Perhaps a story will be more satisfying,” Old Kefilwe admitted, “I did promise you one, after all.” She turned her attention away from the fire and onto Oafe.
“I will tell you the story of a girl who was much like you, but also quite different. She was a powerful lioness who learned to respect hyenas. This is a story of courage, and of compassion. It is the story of Okal.”
✬✬✬✬✬✬✬
The End
Botswana Informative Essay
Cypress Makara
Julia Hewitt & Lee Penniman
Contemporary Issues
26 March 2013
The Botswana Success Story:
How International Efforts Can Successfully Make A Difference
Botswana is rarely in today’s news, probably because as far as African countries go, it is a rather successful one. In terms of education expenditure, Botswana ranks the eighth highest in the world spending 8.7% of the country’s total GDP on education. To show for that, the 2010 estimates of the Botswana literacy rate is 84% and the school life expectancy is twelve years for both girls and boys (“Central”). It is much harder to find the same sorts of blood curdling stories that you might find in a more volatile part of Africa, and so what you know of Botswana today may be very limited. Botswana agriculture produces livestock, sorghum, maize, millet, beans, sunflowers, and groundnuts. However, the industries of Botswana are even more important to the economy, the most important industries being diamonds, copper, nickel, salt, and so on (“Central”). Botswana is a completely landlocked country, and almost entirely flatland or desert. Not much of the land is good for crops, and the majority of the country’s population lives on the eastern side of Botswana, further from the Khalahari desert. Botswana has 120,000 internet users, 149,600 main telephone lines in use, and 2.9 million mobile cellular devices in use ("Central"). By world standards all these numbers are relatively average. When it comes to population, growth rates and death rates, Botswana is pretty average. The latest estimate supposes Botswana is just above two million. Though people aren't dying faster than one would expect, the HIV positive estimate of 2009 says that 24.8% of the adult population has AIDS ("Central"). This is likely one of the key issues in Botswana today and may yet continue to be one the issues the country will struggle with.
Like all but one African country, Botswana was subject to colonization. Colonization appears to be the root cause of much of the strife in African nations, and today there is a lot of debate over whether or not it’s possible to amend the past and aid the people that struggle. However, in Botswana colonization was not, directly at least, the root cause of its conflict. The story of Botswana suggests a simple truth from which we might all benefit. External help can improve the general well being of an individual or group, but only if this collective or individual consents to the aid being offered. In so many African nations, colonization, aid institutes, even the creation of separate countries were forced upon the land. What a difference it made in Botswana that its leaders asked first, before being colonized with out any form of consent. But the story of Botswana’s people begins long before the British had anything to do with Africa.
Herders and farmers define most people of 200-500 CE Botswana. The Khoikhoi and San people were, for a long time, the dominant peoples. They lived in relative harmony, freely trading and marrying amongst each other. During the 14th century, the Tswana people moved into the same area and the KhoiKhoi and San people. However, the Tswana moved in as three distinct branches of the same people, under the sons of chief Malope (Bennett). They were successful in creating new and abundant tribes, so successful, in fact, that their descendants would one day make up 80% of Botswana’s population (“Botswana”). The Zulu nation, however, would threaten this, for during the height of their power, they were aggressive in territory expansion, and forced the Tswana tribes to move to the Khalahari desert. When the Zulu nation retreated, leaving behind the old Tswana territory, the Tswana people returned, but the peace was brief (“Brief”). Shortly after their return home, the Tswana people were threatened by the Boers (descendants of Dutch settlers in South Africa) who also wanted the Tswana territory for their own purposes (“Boer”). Unwilling to experience the same loss of home twice, two major chiefs from Tswana tribes went to Britain to appeal for protection. The British were unenthusiastic about the idea, because at the time the Tswana territory was not considered valuable, and Britain did not agree to take the Tswana tribes under their wing until a few years later. In 1885, after a second lobbying, the land of the Tswana people became the British Protectorate of Bechuanaland (“Botswana”). Though this would protect them, for the most part, from outside forces, it would also serve to make outcasts of those who stuck to the traditions and culture of the indigenous people.
Picture the success of completing a sand castle at the beach, only to watch it meet the inevitable waves that would soon diminish and steal its former glory. That is surely how it must have felt to be a tribal chief during the colonization of Botswana. It was almost too convenient how the Batswana came to terms with their loss of power. At least two chiefs who might have otherwise kept their culture and leadership strong are noted to have died or had short reigns during this time. Though the British were at first reluctant to add Bechuanaland to their empire, once they did, they were strict about enforcing their policies and placing their own officials in control. There was little to no revolt, surprisingly, suggesting the hopelessness that many of the Tswana may have felt. For the sake of stability and general opportunity, the decision made by Tswana leaders to become a British protectorate was arguably the best option. This says something, I think, about the best way to offer international support and how we can do our part to move forward to a global society. In the same way that one cannot force affection on a cat and expect to be appreciated, global powers can not force aid upon people who do not ask for it without causing further divide and conflict. Botswana is a model example of the difference consent can make. But of course, Botswana had much further to go if it were ever to ascend from the title Bechuanaland.
In the early 1940’s, signs of change were coming to Bechuanaland. England was slipping signs of being ready to release the protectorate, which was novel to most of its people. Though they were without clear cut understandings of government structure, political parties and plans for independence began forming (“Botswana”). In 1948 Seretse Khama, chief of the Ngwato (one of the main Tswana tribes), wed a British woman despite the controversy and contempt for his decision. He and his wife were exiled to Britain for six years and were only allowed to return once Khama renounced his position as chief. When he did return, however, he formed the Democratic party. In 1966 Botswana gained independence from Britain, and Khama became the first president (“Royalty”). It was a nearly seamless transition of power, with apparent approval on both sides of the exchange.
However, before we get ahead of ourselves here, it’s worth taking a step back to point out a few things. The conflict and colonization of Botswana served the Tswana people, but it did not serve the people who had lived there before the Tswana. The Khoikhoi and San were more inclined to hold onto their culture and tradition and were very much outcast by the Tswana, who advanced quickly in the modern era. Their numbers dwindled but their protection was never really implemented, and though they exist to this day, they are far, far rarer than they once were (“History”).
The exclusion and general poor treatment of the Khoisan were not the only stains on Botswana’s seemingly perfect history. As previously mentioned, HIV rates have been very high in Botswana. Only a few years ago Botswana held the second highest HIV prevalence rate in the world (“HIV”). However, due to extensive efforts to provide treatment, testing, and information to as many Batswana as possible, there has been great improvement in the country’s situation. The life expectancy rose from 40 years to 58 years in an incredibly short amount of time (“HIV”). Because of their quick recovery, the tactics and response rate of the Batswana has been compared to those of Europeans and Americans. Former president Mogae believed that, “Prevention of new infections should be our priority number one, priority number two and priority number three.” A worthy ambition, certainly, but it is difficult in practice. The issue that comes up now is the simple matter of money. There will not be enough funding to continue to provide AIDS treatment as freely, though it is still very much needed especially in more rural areas. This will be Botswana’s greatest challenge in the next few years, and yet, given their previous triumphs, it is difficult to believe they will do anything but succeed.
Botswana is successful. Its industries and lack of conflict have allowed it to prosper, and it remains today a very hopeful country. On a chaos-filled continent, what can other African nations, or nations seeking to help other nations, learn from the history of Botswana? They might stand to learn the concept of consent. If we want to work together, not as completely separate bodies, but as a unified world, then we must accept that making arbitrary assumptions about the needs of others will not serve us. As a world culture, community, and body this is truly an opportunity to learn something. The countries of our world would do well to start respecting the needs of their fellow powers, or even more legitimately, their people.
Julia Hewitt & Lee Penniman
Contemporary Issues
26 March 2013
The Botswana Success Story:
How International Efforts Can Successfully Make A Difference
Botswana is rarely in today’s news, probably because as far as African countries go, it is a rather successful one. In terms of education expenditure, Botswana ranks the eighth highest in the world spending 8.7% of the country’s total GDP on education. To show for that, the 2010 estimates of the Botswana literacy rate is 84% and the school life expectancy is twelve years for both girls and boys (“Central”). It is much harder to find the same sorts of blood curdling stories that you might find in a more volatile part of Africa, and so what you know of Botswana today may be very limited. Botswana agriculture produces livestock, sorghum, maize, millet, beans, sunflowers, and groundnuts. However, the industries of Botswana are even more important to the economy, the most important industries being diamonds, copper, nickel, salt, and so on (“Central”). Botswana is a completely landlocked country, and almost entirely flatland or desert. Not much of the land is good for crops, and the majority of the country’s population lives on the eastern side of Botswana, further from the Khalahari desert. Botswana has 120,000 internet users, 149,600 main telephone lines in use, and 2.9 million mobile cellular devices in use ("Central"). By world standards all these numbers are relatively average. When it comes to population, growth rates and death rates, Botswana is pretty average. The latest estimate supposes Botswana is just above two million. Though people aren't dying faster than one would expect, the HIV positive estimate of 2009 says that 24.8% of the adult population has AIDS ("Central"). This is likely one of the key issues in Botswana today and may yet continue to be one the issues the country will struggle with.
Like all but one African country, Botswana was subject to colonization. Colonization appears to be the root cause of much of the strife in African nations, and today there is a lot of debate over whether or not it’s possible to amend the past and aid the people that struggle. However, in Botswana colonization was not, directly at least, the root cause of its conflict. The story of Botswana suggests a simple truth from which we might all benefit. External help can improve the general well being of an individual or group, but only if this collective or individual consents to the aid being offered. In so many African nations, colonization, aid institutes, even the creation of separate countries were forced upon the land. What a difference it made in Botswana that its leaders asked first, before being colonized with out any form of consent. But the story of Botswana’s people begins long before the British had anything to do with Africa.
Herders and farmers define most people of 200-500 CE Botswana. The Khoikhoi and San people were, for a long time, the dominant peoples. They lived in relative harmony, freely trading and marrying amongst each other. During the 14th century, the Tswana people moved into the same area and the KhoiKhoi and San people. However, the Tswana moved in as three distinct branches of the same people, under the sons of chief Malope (Bennett). They were successful in creating new and abundant tribes, so successful, in fact, that their descendants would one day make up 80% of Botswana’s population (“Botswana”). The Zulu nation, however, would threaten this, for during the height of their power, they were aggressive in territory expansion, and forced the Tswana tribes to move to the Khalahari desert. When the Zulu nation retreated, leaving behind the old Tswana territory, the Tswana people returned, but the peace was brief (“Brief”). Shortly after their return home, the Tswana people were threatened by the Boers (descendants of Dutch settlers in South Africa) who also wanted the Tswana territory for their own purposes (“Boer”). Unwilling to experience the same loss of home twice, two major chiefs from Tswana tribes went to Britain to appeal for protection. The British were unenthusiastic about the idea, because at the time the Tswana territory was not considered valuable, and Britain did not agree to take the Tswana tribes under their wing until a few years later. In 1885, after a second lobbying, the land of the Tswana people became the British Protectorate of Bechuanaland (“Botswana”). Though this would protect them, for the most part, from outside forces, it would also serve to make outcasts of those who stuck to the traditions and culture of the indigenous people.
Picture the success of completing a sand castle at the beach, only to watch it meet the inevitable waves that would soon diminish and steal its former glory. That is surely how it must have felt to be a tribal chief during the colonization of Botswana. It was almost too convenient how the Batswana came to terms with their loss of power. At least two chiefs who might have otherwise kept their culture and leadership strong are noted to have died or had short reigns during this time. Though the British were at first reluctant to add Bechuanaland to their empire, once they did, they were strict about enforcing their policies and placing their own officials in control. There was little to no revolt, surprisingly, suggesting the hopelessness that many of the Tswana may have felt. For the sake of stability and general opportunity, the decision made by Tswana leaders to become a British protectorate was arguably the best option. This says something, I think, about the best way to offer international support and how we can do our part to move forward to a global society. In the same way that one cannot force affection on a cat and expect to be appreciated, global powers can not force aid upon people who do not ask for it without causing further divide and conflict. Botswana is a model example of the difference consent can make. But of course, Botswana had much further to go if it were ever to ascend from the title Bechuanaland.
In the early 1940’s, signs of change were coming to Bechuanaland. England was slipping signs of being ready to release the protectorate, which was novel to most of its people. Though they were without clear cut understandings of government structure, political parties and plans for independence began forming (“Botswana”). In 1948 Seretse Khama, chief of the Ngwato (one of the main Tswana tribes), wed a British woman despite the controversy and contempt for his decision. He and his wife were exiled to Britain for six years and were only allowed to return once Khama renounced his position as chief. When he did return, however, he formed the Democratic party. In 1966 Botswana gained independence from Britain, and Khama became the first president (“Royalty”). It was a nearly seamless transition of power, with apparent approval on both sides of the exchange.
However, before we get ahead of ourselves here, it’s worth taking a step back to point out a few things. The conflict and colonization of Botswana served the Tswana people, but it did not serve the people who had lived there before the Tswana. The Khoikhoi and San were more inclined to hold onto their culture and tradition and were very much outcast by the Tswana, who advanced quickly in the modern era. Their numbers dwindled but their protection was never really implemented, and though they exist to this day, they are far, far rarer than they once were (“History”).
The exclusion and general poor treatment of the Khoisan were not the only stains on Botswana’s seemingly perfect history. As previously mentioned, HIV rates have been very high in Botswana. Only a few years ago Botswana held the second highest HIV prevalence rate in the world (“HIV”). However, due to extensive efforts to provide treatment, testing, and information to as many Batswana as possible, there has been great improvement in the country’s situation. The life expectancy rose from 40 years to 58 years in an incredibly short amount of time (“HIV”). Because of their quick recovery, the tactics and response rate of the Batswana has been compared to those of Europeans and Americans. Former president Mogae believed that, “Prevention of new infections should be our priority number one, priority number two and priority number three.” A worthy ambition, certainly, but it is difficult in practice. The issue that comes up now is the simple matter of money. There will not be enough funding to continue to provide AIDS treatment as freely, though it is still very much needed especially in more rural areas. This will be Botswana’s greatest challenge in the next few years, and yet, given their previous triumphs, it is difficult to believe they will do anything but succeed.
Botswana is successful. Its industries and lack of conflict have allowed it to prosper, and it remains today a very hopeful country. On a chaos-filled continent, what can other African nations, or nations seeking to help other nations, learn from the history of Botswana? They might stand to learn the concept of consent. If we want to work together, not as completely separate bodies, but as a unified world, then we must accept that making arbitrary assumptions about the needs of others will not serve us. As a world culture, community, and body this is truly an opportunity to learn something. The countries of our world would do well to start respecting the needs of their fellow powers, or even more legitimately, their people.
Things Fall Apart
Cypress Makara
Julia Hewitt and Lee Penimen
Humanities
17/1/13
Things Fall Apart Comparative Essay
In Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart we observe the shift from traditional living in Nigeria to the rise of Imperialism. Where once order was dictated by cultural tradition, foreigners intervened bringing their religion and driving the community apart. While some clung to the old ways, others jumped to join the new faith. This split allowed the foreigners to gain power in Nigeria, and make the country into what it is today. But what has Nigeria come to today?
Nigeria has the highest population of all the countries in Africa, and the seventh highest population in the world. The population is only growing, with an average of five children being born to the typical woman. The life expectancy is still just 52 and 70% of the population lives below the poverty rate. The literacy rate is just 61% and women especially have shorter school-lives. For all that, Nigeria is rich in culture and resources. There are over 250 ethnic groups residing in Nigeria. Steel, crude oil, cement, and many other industries are plentiful in Nigeria. In addition their agriculture yields cocoa, cotton, yams and much more. Nigeria, however, could not have become Nigeria were it not for the imperialism that overtook their land and divided them into a country.
The take over by England was not immediate. It began peaceably enough, with missionaries satisfied after they had set up their houses of worship. In Things Fall Apart, Okonkwo says, “The white man is very clever. He came quietly and peaceably with his religion. We were amused by his foolishness and allowed him to stay. Now he has won our brothers and our clan can no longer act like one. He has put a knife on the things that held us together and we have fallen apart” (Achebe 124). This is both a reference to the title and an explanation of how imperialism began, in a very concise manner. Religion and beliefs have always held people together, but they have split people apart just as easily. The Christianity brought by the English took in many people who had lived all their lives with the traditions they inherited from their elders. Today the most common religion in Nigeria is not Christianity, but in fact Islam. Christianity is practiced by approximately 40% of the population while indigenous beliefs are practiced by only 10%. In this way, it would seem much of Nigeria has moved on from the past. However, Nigeria has not forgotten all of its old values.
Like many cultures, the Umuofians had the unfortunate habit of treating women as lesser. Considered to be weak, powerless and of poor judgement, women were assigned to certain tasks and lived out their lives as wives and mothers, never as warriors or leaders. They were of course, married off, paid for, beaten when they did something wrong, and essentially made to do as they were told at all times. And today in Nigeria, this situation seems to be mirrored. Most women still have many children. They get less education, but live longer. Their literacy rate is lower, but there are more women in Nigeria than men. With less education, comes less pay, and less independence. Essentially, the majority of the country is being treated unfairly.
Umuofia described in Things Fall Apart is, although very different from here, a peaceful and successful land to live in. Some rules seem harsher that we are accustomed to, some seem more lenient. The point is, that Umuofia had a system, and a system that worked well for it’s people. In contrast, today Nigeria is notorious for crime, chaos and corruption. “A cauldron of superlatives all fighting each other, a frenzy of hustling humanity scrabbling for survival” (Dowden 439) Richard Dowden says of Lagos, Nigeria’s capital city. Despite it’s chaotic nature, Nigeria has an abundance of resources that could pull the country into a state of incredible prosperity and innovation. Alas, it will take time, and careful governing.
Africa as a whole, was subject to massive amounts of imperialism, from many different countries. The point of this process was to use the land a resources they found to further the industries of their respective countries. To legitimize this action, representatives from Europe, “agreed to carve up Africa by drawing lines on maps” (Dowden 54). Africans were pushed around for years before they really stood up for themselves, but when they did, they may not really have been ready to provide for themselves or function as countries in the modern world. This led to an unhappy state of much struggle. In Nigeria, it became a complete mess. A mess, but still somehow a productive mess. For as terrifying and complicated as Nigeria may be, it does not collapse. How is such a feat possible? Dowden reasons, “The secret lies in the layers of millions upon millions of networks, personal ties, family links, ethnic loyalties, school fraternities, Church connections and scores of other unrecorded, informally organized bonds of trust” (Dowden 440-441). So perhaps imperialism has not won over the people of Nigeria at all. They live, a monument to the past, a mockery to the present, and a promise for the future. In Nigeria, it is not the government, or the economics, or the crime that keeps systems running. It is the people. They have lived on, for better or worse. And if anything, that’s worth admiring.
Works Cited
"Central Intelligence Agency." CIA. N.p., 7 Jan. 2013. Web. 17 Jan. 2013.
Dowden, Richard. Africa: Altered States, Ordinary Miracles. New York: Public Affairs, 2009. Print.
Achebe, Chinua. Things Fall Apart. New York: Anchor, 1994. Print.
Julia Hewitt and Lee Penimen
Humanities
17/1/13
Things Fall Apart Comparative Essay
In Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart we observe the shift from traditional living in Nigeria to the rise of Imperialism. Where once order was dictated by cultural tradition, foreigners intervened bringing their religion and driving the community apart. While some clung to the old ways, others jumped to join the new faith. This split allowed the foreigners to gain power in Nigeria, and make the country into what it is today. But what has Nigeria come to today?
Nigeria has the highest population of all the countries in Africa, and the seventh highest population in the world. The population is only growing, with an average of five children being born to the typical woman. The life expectancy is still just 52 and 70% of the population lives below the poverty rate. The literacy rate is just 61% and women especially have shorter school-lives. For all that, Nigeria is rich in culture and resources. There are over 250 ethnic groups residing in Nigeria. Steel, crude oil, cement, and many other industries are plentiful in Nigeria. In addition their agriculture yields cocoa, cotton, yams and much more. Nigeria, however, could not have become Nigeria were it not for the imperialism that overtook their land and divided them into a country.
The take over by England was not immediate. It began peaceably enough, with missionaries satisfied after they had set up their houses of worship. In Things Fall Apart, Okonkwo says, “The white man is very clever. He came quietly and peaceably with his religion. We were amused by his foolishness and allowed him to stay. Now he has won our brothers and our clan can no longer act like one. He has put a knife on the things that held us together and we have fallen apart” (Achebe 124). This is both a reference to the title and an explanation of how imperialism began, in a very concise manner. Religion and beliefs have always held people together, but they have split people apart just as easily. The Christianity brought by the English took in many people who had lived all their lives with the traditions they inherited from their elders. Today the most common religion in Nigeria is not Christianity, but in fact Islam. Christianity is practiced by approximately 40% of the population while indigenous beliefs are practiced by only 10%. In this way, it would seem much of Nigeria has moved on from the past. However, Nigeria has not forgotten all of its old values.
Like many cultures, the Umuofians had the unfortunate habit of treating women as lesser. Considered to be weak, powerless and of poor judgement, women were assigned to certain tasks and lived out their lives as wives and mothers, never as warriors or leaders. They were of course, married off, paid for, beaten when they did something wrong, and essentially made to do as they were told at all times. And today in Nigeria, this situation seems to be mirrored. Most women still have many children. They get less education, but live longer. Their literacy rate is lower, but there are more women in Nigeria than men. With less education, comes less pay, and less independence. Essentially, the majority of the country is being treated unfairly.
Umuofia described in Things Fall Apart is, although very different from here, a peaceful and successful land to live in. Some rules seem harsher that we are accustomed to, some seem more lenient. The point is, that Umuofia had a system, and a system that worked well for it’s people. In contrast, today Nigeria is notorious for crime, chaos and corruption. “A cauldron of superlatives all fighting each other, a frenzy of hustling humanity scrabbling for survival” (Dowden 439) Richard Dowden says of Lagos, Nigeria’s capital city. Despite it’s chaotic nature, Nigeria has an abundance of resources that could pull the country into a state of incredible prosperity and innovation. Alas, it will take time, and careful governing.
Africa as a whole, was subject to massive amounts of imperialism, from many different countries. The point of this process was to use the land a resources they found to further the industries of their respective countries. To legitimize this action, representatives from Europe, “agreed to carve up Africa by drawing lines on maps” (Dowden 54). Africans were pushed around for years before they really stood up for themselves, but when they did, they may not really have been ready to provide for themselves or function as countries in the modern world. This led to an unhappy state of much struggle. In Nigeria, it became a complete mess. A mess, but still somehow a productive mess. For as terrifying and complicated as Nigeria may be, it does not collapse. How is such a feat possible? Dowden reasons, “The secret lies in the layers of millions upon millions of networks, personal ties, family links, ethnic loyalties, school fraternities, Church connections and scores of other unrecorded, informally organized bonds of trust” (Dowden 440-441). So perhaps imperialism has not won over the people of Nigeria at all. They live, a monument to the past, a mockery to the present, and a promise for the future. In Nigeria, it is not the government, or the economics, or the crime that keeps systems running. It is the people. They have lived on, for better or worse. And if anything, that’s worth admiring.
Works Cited
"Central Intelligence Agency." CIA. N.p., 7 Jan. 2013. Web. 17 Jan. 2013.
Dowden, Richard. Africa: Altered States, Ordinary Miracles. New York: Public Affairs, 2009. Print.
Achebe, Chinua. Things Fall Apart. New York: Anchor, 1994. Print.
Africa Info graphic Bibliography
Bibliography
"Central Intelligence Agency." CIA. N.p., n.d. Web. 17 Dec. 2012.
"Zimbabwe Facts." National Geographic. N.p., n.d. Web. 17 Dec. 2012.
"Central Intelligence Agency." CIA. N.p., n.d. Web. 17 Dec. 2012.
"Zimbabwe Facts." National Geographic. N.p., n.d. Web. 17 Dec. 2012.