Yithi ozulu

olwemihla

The evening heat clung to Olwemihla’s skin as she returned from umhlonyana, the sun hanging low and heavy in the sky. Her throat was dry, her shoulders aching, and still the clay pots at home waited empty. She had begged her friends to walk with her to the river, her voice small with fear, because the cows drank there in the late hours and their presence unsettled her. But the girls only laughed, waving her off with careless hands. They told her they had fetched water in the morning, when responsible girls did such things, and now it was time to prepare supper. Olwemihla stood alone, shame burning hotter than the sun, realizing she would have to face the river by herself.
One girl, Muhle, laughed the loudest. She tilted her head and smirked, her words sharp and unkind. “Maybe you should stop being lazy and waking up when the sun is already up in your butt,” she said, “if you want to win a place in the royal house.” The others laughed again, and Olwemihla said nothing. She simply turned away, swallowing the sting in her chest, and began the long walk home.
Her home was a large homestead, wide and busy, made up of five round houses arranged carefully across the yard. Each hut belonged to one of her father’s wives. Olwemihla moved through it quietly, used to being unseen. Her mother, the eldest wife, was old and weak now, her body no longer able to keep pace with the demands of the household. Because Olwemihla had only a young brother, much of the work fell on her shoulders—cooking, cleaning, fetching water—tasks that never seemed to end.
Her father had nine sons in total, born of different wives, strong and loud and certain of their place in the world. Olwemihla was the only daughter of the homestead. Among so many boys, she learned early how to make herself small, how to endure, how to work without complaint. No one spoke of her future with expectation or pride. And yet, as she prepared to return to the river that evening, unaware of how fate was already watching her, Olwemihla carried more than just an empty pot,she carried a destiny that had not yet spoken her name.

Olwemihla stepped quietly into her father's yard , greeting her older brother with a soft voice. “Afternoon, Manziokuthula.”
He smiled warmly at her, the kind of smile that made her feel seen in a world where she was often invisible. Their bond was different from the others closer, tender, protective.

Manziokuthula was the son of their father’s second wife, a woman who resented Olwemihla simply for existing. She had never borne a daughter, only three sons, and could not hide her dislike for the girl who seemed to claim space she had never been allowed.
Inside the hut, Olwemihla found her mother carefully sorting beans for dinner. The old woman’s hands were steady despite the weakness in her body. “I’m sorry, Mah, I couldn’t fetch the water this morning,” Olwemihla murmured.

Her mother looked up, her eyes gentle, understanding. “Child, you can only do so much. Don’t be hard on yourself,” she said. The words wrapped around Olwemihla like a small cloak of comfort.
Gathering the black pot, Olwemihla stepped back out into the yard. Her heart thumped at the thought of the river, and she turned to Manziokuthula. “Please… come with me. I’m afraid of the bulls. They’re so big, and I.....”
Before she could finish, the sharp voice of the second wife cut through the air. “Manziokuthula! Come help me!”
Olwemihla froze. She knew exactly what this meant. Her brother’s loyalties were expected elsewhere. With a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and held the pot firmly in her hands. Alone, she stepped toward the river, her fear tempered by quiet determination.

The afternoon sun burned hotter than any day she could remember as Olwemihla trudged along the dusty path, her black pot balanced carefully in her hands. She raised her right hand to shield her eyes, the heat making the world shimmer around her. The path to the river, which had always seemed familiar, now felt long and lonely under the blazing sun.
As she walked, she passed a group of mothers returning from the river, their children strapped to their backs, tiny heads bobbing as they chatted and laughed.

The women’s voices carried easily over the dry earth, but when they noticed Olwemihla, their laughter sharpened.
She greeted them politely, her voice soft but steady. “Sanibonani,” she said.
They only laughed louder. It was a strange kind of ridicule, cruel yet almost amused. A maiden, they seemed to say with their eyes and gestures, would never fetch water at this hour,when bulls roamed the river and men came to wash their bodies. It was dangerous, foolish even, and yet here she was, walking head-on into what everyone else avoided.

Olwemihla’s chest tightened. The women’s laughter burned hotter than the sun on her skin, but she held her head high, gripping the black pot as if it were armor. Each step toward the river reminded her that she was on her own and that courage often meant walking paths others would not dare tread.

Olwemihla finally reached the river, the sun blazing hotter than ever as it began its slow descent toward the horizon. She knew she had to hurry before the men arrived. She had learned to tell time by the sun alone, a skill most maidens only acquired after marriage. if their husbands were clever enough to teach them.

The cows were already at the river, drinking, their sharp horns glinting in the sunlight. Her heart pounded in her chest as she carefully set her pot in a spot where the cattle were close enough to the water but far enough away not to harm her. Hands shaking slightly, she filled the pot, pouring water again and again until it was brimming.

When she lay down in the river, letting the cool water flow over her, a small relief washed over her. She had been careful, but the chill was biting, and she feared she had misjudged the depth. Then, chaos erupted.
One of the cows, locked in a fight with another, broke free and charged straight toward her. In that instant, Olwemihla thought she might finally meet her ancestors. Her breath caught, her eyes wide with terror.

Suddenly, uNgomawamakhosi came rushing in, stepping between her and the bull. But the cow was relentless, still barreling toward her. Panic surged, yet Olwemihla remembered something Manziokuthula had once taught her about the language of cattle. She began to whistle,softly at first, then with more confidence,calling to the beast calmly.
Slowly, the cow’s charge faltered. It stopped, lowering its head, and eventually came close enough for her to brush the top of its head. A laugh of relief and exhilaration escaped her lips. uNgomawamakhosi stood frozen, stunned by the sight.

Then, to Olwemihla’s astonishment, the cow’s mother appeared, bowing gently before her as if in gratitude for protecting her calf. The cattle, finally pacified, returned to drinking, leaving Olwemihla standing in the river, heart racing, yet smiling at the strange, miraculous moment.