Serowe en el norte de Botswana se puede considerar la cuna de la patria y del gran Seretse Khama, primer Presidente de la República, del que otro día daré cuenta. Además y sólo por esto merece ya una reseña, Serowe es el lugar donde está enterrada y tiene un Museo ,la escritora, Bessie Head.
Imaginaos que con 14 años un día llega el director de la escuela y te suelta sin más:
“Tu madre estaba loca. Si no te cuidas te volverás loca como tu madre. Tu madre era una mujer blanca. La tuvieron que encerrar ya que iba a tener una hija con el chico del establo que era un nativo negro”
Bessie Head nació el 6 de Julio de 1937, en una institución mental de Pietermaritzburg, (Sudáfrica) adonde su madre había sido trasladada cuando su familia descubrió que estaba embarazada del palafrenero negro. No era la primera vez que internaban a la madre por sus problemas mentales. Murió cuando Bessie tenía 6 años.
Sola en el mundo, puesto que nunca le revelaron la identidad del padre, y fue rechazada por otras familias blancas al saber la historia, fue recogida por el orfelinato de la misión anglicana.
Allí recibió educación y fue formada como profesora de escuela primaria. Sin embargo después mostraría su amargura por el entorno represivo de la educación religiosa recibida y dijo que nunca más volvería a pisar una Iglesia.
Bessie, inquieta y temperamental, viéndose dotada para la escritura comenzó a trabajar como periodista en Ciudad del Cabo.
Con 23 años se enamoró de un colega periodista, y como siempre demostró, no se quedó quieta esperando; se desnudó ante él, en una sala del centro comunitario en que él prestaba sus servicios. Pronto se casarían pero su matrimonio, como su vida fue turbulento.
Fue madurando como escritora tocando temas inspirados en su propia autobiografía, por ejemplo el incesto.
Dado que no conocía la identidad de su padre, estaba atormentada por la idea que podría un día encontrarlo y hacerse su amante. Cuando su propio matrimonio naufragó, y con un hijo, aceptó un trabajo en Botsuana , como profesora, dejando Sudáfrica en Marzo de 1964 . Dado que estaba afiliada al Congreso Panafricano y mantenía sus amistades con activistas de izquierdas, le denegaron el pasaporte sudafricano y tuvo que cruzar la frontera con un permiso de salida, que le prohibía regresar a la República.
Nunca más regresó a su país de nacimiento.
Cuando perdió su trabajo como profesora (al parecer como resultado de un acoso sexual por parte del director de la escuela), se convirtió en refugiada política y obligada a comparecer en la comisaría todos los días.
Fue en este momento crítico cuando respondió a la invitación de un editor americano para escribir una novela sobre Botsuana y ahí nació: When Rain Clouds Gather (1968), que trata de la comunidad de refugiados en Botsuana.
Al año siguiente comenzaron sus problemas mentales, que se fueron repitiendo con intermitencia. En su novela “A Question of Power” de 1973 se describe este proceso inquietante de recaídas mentales -Recuperó estabilidad a lo largo de los 70, y aunque su éxito literario se extendió, nunca logró superar las cotas que la crítica atribuyó a las dos primeras novelas citadas.
Bessie era el peor enemigo de Bessie, supersensible, variable, sarcástica, imposible de establecer relaciones amistosas durante mucho tiempo.
La mujer que vivió pobre y desesperada, es considerada hoy la mejor novelista de Botsuana, y un icono de mujer resistente y aguerrida muy desconocida en España.
En su honor que suene hoy la borinkana, una de las danzas tradicionales de Botswana:
Y que mejor que acabar con un relato corto suyo:
Looking for Rain God
It is lonely at the lands where the people go to plough. These lands are vast clearings in the bush, and the wild bush is lonely too. Nearly all the lands are within walking distance from the village. In some parts of the bush where the underground water is very near the surface, people made little rest camps for themselves and dug shallow wells to quench their thirst while on their journey to their own lands. They experienced all kinds of things once they left the village. They could rest at shady watering places full of lush tangled trees with delicate pale-gold and purple wild flowers springing up between soft green moss and the children could hunt around for wild figs and any berries that might be in season. But from 1958, a seven-year drought fell upon the land and even the watering places began to look as dismal as the dry open thorn-bush country; the leaves of the trees curled up and withered; the moss became dry and hard and, under the shade of the tangled trees, the ground turned a powdery black and white, because there was no rain. People said rather humorously that if you tried to catch the rain in a cup it would only fill a teaspoon. Towards the beginning of the seventh year of drought, the summer had become an anguish to live through. The air was so dry and moisture-free that it burned the skin. No one knew what to do to escape the heat and tragedy was in the air. At the beginning of that summer, a number of men just went out of their homes and hung themselves to death from trees. The majority of the people had lived off crops, but for two years past they had all returned from the lands with only their rolled-up skin blankets and cooking utensils. Only the charlatans, incanters, and witch-doctors made a pile of money during this time because people were always turning to them in desperation for little talismans and herbs to rub on the plough for the crops to grow and the rain to fall.
The rains were late that year. They came in early November, with a promise of good rain. It wasn’t the full, steady downpour of the years of good rain, but thin, scanty, misty rain. It softened the earth and a rich growth of green things sprang up everywhere for the animals to eat. People were called to the village kgotla to hear the proclamation of the beginning of the ploughing season; they stirred themselves and whole families began to move off to the lands to plough.
The family of the old man, Mokgobja, were among those who left early for the lands. They had a donkey cart and piled everything onto it, Mokgobja – who was over seventy years old; two little girls, Neo and Boseyong; their mother Tiro and an unmarried sister, Nesta; and the father and supporter of the family, Ramadi, who drove the donkey cart. In the rush of the first hope of rain, the man, Ramadi, and the two women cleared the land of thorn-bush and then hedged their vast ploughing area with this same thorn-bush to protect the future crop from the goats they had brought along for milk. They cleared out and deepened the old well with its pool of muddy water and still in this light, misty rain, Ramadi inspanned two oxen and turned the earth over with a hand plough.
The land was ready and ploughed, waiting for the crops. At night, the earth was alive with insects singing and rustling about in search of food. But suddenly, by mid-November, the rain fled away; the rain-clouds fled away and left the sky bare. The sun danced dizzily in the sky, with a strange cruelty. Each day the land was covered in a haze of mist as the sun sucked up the last drop of moisture out of the earth. The family sat down in despair, waiting and waiting. Their hopes had run so high; the goats had started producing milk, which they had eagerly poured on their porridge, now they ate plain porridge with no milk. It was impossible to plant the corn, maize, pumpkin and water-melon seeds in the dry earth. They sat the whole day in the shadow of the huts and even stopped thinking, for the rain had fled away. Only the children, Neo and Boseyong, were quite happy in their little girl world. They carried on with their game of making house like their mother and chattered to each other in light, soft tones. They made children from sticks around which they tied rags and scolded them severely in an exact imitation of their own mother. Their voice could he heard scolding the day long: “You stupid thing, when I send you to draw water, why do you spill half of it out of the bucket!” “You stupid thing! Can’t you mind the porridge-pot without letting the porridge burn!” And then they would beat the rag-dolls on their bottoms with severe expressions.
The adults paid no attention to this; they did not even hear the funny chatter; they sat waiting for rain; their nerves were stretched to breaking-point willing the rain to fall out of the sky. Nothing was important, beyond that. All their animals had been sold during the bad years to purchase food, and of all their herd only two goats were left. It was the women of the family who finally broke down under the strain of waiting for rain. It was really the two women who caused the death of the little girls. Each night they started a weird, high-pitched wailing that began on a low, mournful note and whipped up to a frenzy. Then they would stamp their feet and shout as though they had lost their heads. The men sat quiet and self-controlled; it was important for men to maintain their self-control at all times but their nerve was breaking too. They knew the women were haunted by the starvation of the coming year.
Finally, an ancient memory stirred in the old man, Mokgobja. When he was very young and the customs of the ancestors still ruled the land, he had been witness to a rain-making ceremony. And he came alive a little struggling to recall the details which had been buried by years and years of prayer in a Christian church. As soon as the mists cleared a little, he began consulting in whispers with his youngest son, Ramadi. There was, he said, a certain rain god who accepted only the sacrifice of the bodies of children. Then the rain would fall, then the crops would grow, he said. He explained the ritual and as lie talked, his memory became a conviction and he began to talk with unshakeable authority. Ramadi’s nerves were smashed by the wailing of the women and soon the two men began whispering with the two women. The children continued their game: “You stupid thing! How could you have lost the money on the way to the shop! You must have keen playing again!”
After it was all over and the bodies of the two little girls had been spread across the land, the rain did not fall. Instead, there was a deathly silence at night and the devouring heat of the sun by day. A terror, extreme and deep, overwhelmed the whole family. They packed, rolling up their skin blankets and pots, and fled back to the village.
People in the village soon noted the absence of the two little girls. They had died at the lands and were buried there, the family said. But people noted their ashen, terror- stricken faces and a murmur arose. What had killed the children, they wanted to know? And the family replied that they had just died. And people said amongst themselves that it was strange that the two deaths had occurred at the same time. And there was a feeling of great unease at the unnatural looks of the family. Soon the police came around. The family told them the same story of death and burial at the lands. They did not know what the children had died of. So the police asked to see the graves. At this, the mother of the children broke down and told everything.
Throughout that terrible summer, the story of the children hung like a dark cloud of sorrow over the village and the sorrow was not assuaged when the old man and Ramadi were sentenced to death for ritual murder. All they had on the statute books was that tribal murder was against the law and must be stamped out with the death penalty. The subtle story of strain and starvation and breakdown was inadmissible evidence at court; but all the people who lived off crops knew in their hearts that only a hair’s breadth had saved them from sharing a fate similar to that of the Mokgobja family. They could have killed something to make the rain fall.