25/08/2024
Dear Rra K,
I remember so well the first time you introduced me to your other half. In her, you saw a homemaker, a friend, a confidant, and the mother of your children.
I’ll never forget the day she welcomed me into your humble home, telling me how much she loved that you were out there working hard for your family. I still recall our conversations about your youngest, Polite, a child more polite than the word itself. She had dreams, and you both supported and prayed for them. You took turns making sure she had everything she needed before heading to school each day. After her mother bathed her, you faithfully walked her to school, affirming your love and care for her dreams.
When the news of your passing broke, we were all shattered, dejected, broken, and hurt. I couldn’t make it to your burial, so I went to your home to pay my last respects. There, I found your friend, your homemaker, wearing a jacket you once wore, playing the songs you used to play. From a distance, I saw little Polite, just waking from her slumber, her eyes swollen and face marked with sadness. Maybe she thought it was all a bad dream, that she could sleep off the nightmare of losing her father. But when she woke, the sad reality was still there—you were gone.
At that moment, I felt their pain, their loss. Who would now offer me fish or Matlhaba di lebane when I visited your home? Who would share their dreams of marrying their fiancée and building a life together? I left your home with a heavy heart, fearing that your legacy might have disappeared just like that. Who would carry on your spirit? Would it be one of your sons or one of your fierce daughters? I worried for Mma K, and I worried for little Polite.
Months passed, and soon we were preparing for our annual National Geographic Okavango Wilderness Project, Delta Crossing. I found myself struggling to take part. Questions flooded my mind. Who would be my poler, my protector, my guardian? Who would be my teacher, my guide, my traditional knowledge encyclopedia? I couldn’t find any answers.
Amid my confusion and sorrow, I received the list of polers for this year’s Delta Crossing. I scanned the Delta East team, recognizing familiar names, but yours was absent. Yet, at the end of the list, I saw a name you had once introduced to me—Mma Bokspits. My heart filled with both joy and doubt. Was it too soon for her to take part in this year’s Delta Crossing? Had she grieved enough for the love of her life? Why hadn’t one of your strong-willed sons taken your place?
As I continued looking at the names, I was told she would be my poler for this year’s expedition. She would take me to the places you once took me, and together we would explore the fauna and flora of the Delta. But I wondered—would she know the way of the Nkashi? Would she recognize the flora and fauna around us? Would she know the names of the islands in the East transect? Would she know anything about the Delta?
The days passed, and on the first of August, we embarked on our mokoro journey from Seronga to Kaporota with Mma K. I was humbled and relieved as she gracefully poled through the waterways of the Okavango Delta with great ease and precision.
In my silence, she would call out, “Karabo! Karabo!” And as I answered, she would show me the places where she had grown up and was born. She pointed out the spots where she and other women gathered grass, fished, and collected materials from the Delta. I asked her, “How do you know so much about this place, Mma K?” She replied, “Morwa ole o mpontsh*tse dilo ka bontsi,” meaning, “That man Bokspits taught me many things.”
At that moment, I realized there was no need to mourn for you or think your legacy had vanished. Amidst the Delta East team, there was a woman who knew all you knew, who poled on the same waters you once did. She knew each tree by name, and knew many of the islands. Every day we poled together, she wiped away my tears through her hard work and commitment to the cause of conservation. I went from sorrow to gratitude, from grief to comfort.
I knew then that she would carry on the dreams and aspirations you had for her and your children. To me and everyone who knows her, our Mma K is not just a homemaker, and a mother but a guardian and Queen of the Okavango Delta.
They don’t call her Mma K or Mma Bokspits, as you and I did. Her name is Tamari.
Rest well, old friend. Your spirit lives on through Tamari, Queen of the Okavango Delta.
🇧🇼 Nkashi BW
Nkashi BW
Botswana Wild Bird Trust