Before the terrible day of the well, my brother Kimani was my best friend. We did everything together. Kimani had already seen ten summers. I had seen seven summers. 

“Come, Simba,” Kimani would encourage me. “Let us make many cows for the boss today. There is so much clay. If we finish making cows early, we may have time to hunt birds.” 

We sat under a shady bush, close to the well. Kimani fetched the bucket for collecting water from the well. I tied a rope onto the bucket handle, then dropped the bucket into the well. Together we pulled the rope upwards, taking care not to spill any of the clear water. 

The Boss, Mister Dolf, had warned us about the danger of falling into the well. The water was very, very deep. If we did fall in, we would drown. We tied an extra-long rope to the bucket because there was no ladder reaching down to the water. Without the use of the well water, we would have to walk far away for water, past the vegetable garden and the big watchdog, Rufus. Rufus was fierce. I was afraid of him. 

Kimani was fearless. “Simba,” he would say. “Your name means lion, so you are more powerful than Rufus or any other dog.” 

We used a wire strainer to mix the clay with red and yellow ochre (a natural pigment) and water from the well. Mixing was hard work for me. It was easier for Kimani because his muscles were stronger than mine.  

After the different kinds of clay had been mixed and it felt like thick, sour milk between our fingers, I was ready to shape clay cows with long horns. Kimani smoothed the horns and hoofs. He made spotty patterns on the bodies. We used sticks to make little holes for eyes and noses.  

Finally, we had to make a hole under each tail. We worked very fast because the clay would quickly become too hard to use.  

The finished cattle were lined up on a long plank to dry. Our clay cattle hardened quickly, without using any fire. After the holes under the tails had been blocked, we marked them. 

“Kimani and Simba, you are very good at making clay cattle trinkets,” Mister Dolf would say.  

That made us feel very happy. We would have enough to eat for another day. Sometimes we were given money, too. Mister Dolf is a good Boss. 

One day, Boss Dolf asked Kimani and me about our family and where we had come from. I remember our mother and father very well. Not wanting to seem like a baby, I coughed many times to hide my tears before I was able to answer the Boss. 

Our Baba had worked far from home while we lived with our Mama near Hwali in Matabeleland, Zimbabwe. Baba Shenzi had worked hard, digging big holes in the ground at Legion Mine. Every time he came home, he gave money to Mama Shenzi. 

One Friday night, Baba and Mama Shenzi paid a taxi driver to take them to a funeral. But they never attended the funeral. The taxi driver fell asleep behind the steering wheel and crashed into a tree. The taxi was found on its head. Our parents were dead. On Sunday morning, the police came to tell us what had happened. They took us to Mama’s sister, Aunt Mavis. 

The next day, Aunt Mavis, wailing loudly, pointed to the doorway. “Go!” she cried. “I have no food to share with you. Go!” 

We stared at Aunt Mavis in disbelief. Then, bravely, Kimani dared to ask, “If you need food, why don’t you sell Mama’s pots, pans, and blankets that you have here?” 

“Go!” Aunt Mavis shouted in reply. When she turned to reach for a broomstick, we fled, our ears ringing with the echo of her shouting. “Go! Go! Go!” 

A van, smoking and puffing like Baba would smoke and puff on his pipe, stopped along the road. The driver offered us a lift. He dropped us off at the main gate to Tuli Safaris. After giving us a plastic bottle filled with water, he waved a friendly farewell. 

Just as daylight was fading, Kimani pulled a catapult from his pocket and shot a quail. We could not make a fire, but we had eaten uncooked birds before. We walked until it was too dark to see where we were placing our feet. Mindful of grey puff-adders, which are venomous snakes, we crawled into a concrete road-pipe. Later that night, it became very cold, but we pressed our bodies close together. 

Early the next day we walked on, keeping the sun at our left side until it was above our head. Then the sun would go to sleep on our right side.  

Nearby, we could see the Shashi River. There Kimani tried, but failed, to shoot a bird. Before darkness fell, we came across a shed that was falling to pieces. Being very careful, we spent a long time lying flat on the ground near the shed. We listened for sounds of life. I almost fell asleep, but then Kimani bumped me. 

“It is safe. Keep low and run in as fast as you can,” he whispered.  

At first my leg muscles did not want to obey me, for they had walked all day. But Kimani pulled me to my feet. I could not run at all. I felt like a very old man, taking each painful step slowly. It turned out to be a good thing because, if I had been running, I would not have seen the snake. 

“Snake!” I screamed. Before we could react, the snake slithered out of sight into long grass. I think it was more frightened than I was. 

We entered the shed and looked around. We took great care where we placed our hands and feet. We strained to listen for the slightest sound because the ears are more useful than the eyes after the sun has gone to sleep.  

Joyfully, we made a little heap of the helpful items we found there. A sack contained an axe, a knife, and a frying pan without a handle—what luxury! They were like the luxury sweets that Baba Shenzi brought home every payday.  

In a small wooden box, we found a candle, cigarette lighter, thin fishing line, and four rusty fishing hooks. Gazing with wonder at our luxury heap, we almost missed the whoosh through the rotting hay at our feet. This time Kimani was wide-awake. Grabbing the axe from our heap, he slammed it down onto the snake.  

I think it was the same snake that had frightened us outside. I felt quite sorry for the snake. It was only trying to enter the shed for warmth, having the same needs that we did. 

Kimani showed no such feelings. Using the knife, he took off the head and skin while I prepared a fire. We roasted the meat. When strength flowed back into my muscles, I forgot all about feeling sorry for the snake. We put out the fire and fell into a deep sleep, gathering power to walk further. How much further, we did not know. 

In the days that followed, Kimani had better success with his catapult. We cooked birds and birds’ eggs in the pan. But the pan had a thin bottom. It had not been made to sit on fires. 

Even when we had nothing to cook, we made fires because the nights were becoming much colder. We did not try to catch fish in the river. There was nothing juicy to put onto the rusty hooks. 

Four days later, we arrived at the Limpopo River, the line between Zimbabwe and South Africa. A woman, washing clothes in a pool, lifted her head to watch us crossing dry patches of the riverbed. The woman was very old. Maybe she had already seen fifty summers, but she was kind to us. She invited us to share her mealie porridge in her warm hut.  

We were very happy on our first night in South Africa. Before we fell asleep on a mat, the old woman warned us to go back home to Zimbabwe, for we would be in trouble with the South African police. We told her about Baba and Mama Shenzi, and about the taxi and Aunt Mavis. 

She stared into the embers of the fire, shaking her head sadly. “Hau…hau…hau,” she said, over and over. Her words sounded soft, like the goodnight song Mama Shenzi had sung to us at bedtime. We were comforted by the sound of the new word and soon fell asleep. 

The next morning, we were in no hurry to leave the old woman’s hut. But we noticed that her mealie porridge was in short supply. Taking off the shawl wrapped around her bony shoulders, she handed it to us. She pointed the way to the nearest town, Musina. 

The sun was climbing fast to the place above our heads when a red tractor, pulling a trailer loaded with logs, stopped. The driver was a white man. But the sun had made him a brown man up to the lines of his shirt-sleeves. Pointing backwards with his thumb, he signaled for us to sit on top of the logs. We looked into his blue eyes and decided that he was a kind person. When he stopped at a pile of logs, we helped load them onto the trailer. 

The logs were heavy, and the sun made the sweat sting our eyes. Before the sun went to sleep, there was still another pile of logs waiting for us. And then another, and another, and then one more. 

The brown man stopped near the Limpopo River. When he took off his hat, we saw the white part of his skin. It looked so funny that we nearly laughed, but we knew that would be very rude. We coughed instead while the brown man patted us on our backs.  

“All day long in the dust is not good for the lungs,” he muttered. When we had stopped coughing and had pulled our faces straight, he said, “Call me Tom.” 

Tom took one look at our fishing line and four hooks, then went digging for worms on the river bank. Within minutes he caught a barbel. We were excited. Tom lay the fish on a tree trunk, then pulled off the skin from the neck to the tail. We hurriedly prepared a fire.  

The fish-meat had plenty of its own fat, so it tasted very good. While we were eating, we turned our eyes away from the barbel’s head—it was ugly and had a beard like that of a grandfather. We did not like to think we were eating a grandfather fish. We had been taught to show respect to all grandfathers with beards. 

That night, Tom put up a small tent for himself. We went to sleep on a pile of sacks under the trailer. Watching the fire die, I thought of the kind old woman who had shared her hut and porridge with us. 

“Hau…hau…hau,” I said softly to Kimani. It was all we needed to fall asleep.  

“Hau!” said Tom the next morning. The new word did not sound soft any more—it sounded like a big surprise. “Hau!” he continued. “We have all slept too long! I will be late delivering the logs in Musina.” 

A fire was made. While we ate mealie porridge with sour milk, Tom told us about a man who took care of many children at the Musina Mission. The man was also a teacher. Tom said we would be safe because the mission was owned by God, who would take us under His wing. 

“Hau!” Kimani cried. “We will see a bird with big wings to protect many children! Hau!” It was a big surprise. At last we were using the new word in the right way. 

Soon after leaving the Limpopo River, we arrived in Musina. The tractor stopped at a pole with a shiny red eye. We prepared to jump off the trailer, but then the pole showed us a shiny green eye. We moved forward with a jerk. 

Hau! What a frightening town—so many vans, taxis, and people moving about in a great hurry. Where were they all going? Most of the women wore long, colorful skirts. Some children were dressed in dirty, torn clothing like ours. We were amazed to see a group of men wearing long white dresses and little round hats. 

Three young men were waiting to unload the logs in a fenced-off area. They chased us away when we offered to help. They had no need for us. For a few minutes, we watched what muscles can really do when they are in grown men’s arms. When the trailer was empty, an older man came out of a wooden hut to pay Tom. 

When we arrived at the mission, we did not immediately jump off the trailer. We did not feel welcomed by the tall, thin man who appeared at the door. Although he was a man, I was reminded of Aunt Mavis.  

He asked Tom many questions about us. Tom made our sad story much longer than it really was. The mission man was shaking his head, but Tom talked faster. He told the man that we were smarter and more helpful than we really were. Without wasting any more time, Tom called us over. “See how quickly they obey?” Tom bragged. 

Fearfully, we looked up at the tall man. He did not smile. We did not see a bird with big wings to protect us.