- My name is Vee., and I will be competing to win this red beauty!
• Khethiwe • female • Namibia, South Africa •
- → An African name meaning 'chosen,' pronounced 'keth-EE-way'
The air is dry and thick with dust. Waves of heat shimmer on the edges of the world, creating a distorted view of what is really there. Cicadas hiss ceaselessly in protest of the heat, a constant vibration on the wind. Clusters of tall, flaxen grasses are spread across the red clay among the occasional thorned acacia tree, breaking up the otherwise flat and barren landscape.
Perfect conditions for a kill.
This is the moment she has been training for her whole life. Ever since she was a kit, she has been primed for the life of a warrior, a hunter, a killer. She can strike a clay target down out of the sky with a spear. She can outrun an ostrich and has the reflexes of a cobra. She is undefeated in hand-to-hand combat. No other plumerian has ever been able to keep a hold on her; she can wriggle her way out of any grip. She has studied the hunting tactics of lions, vipers, hawks, and crocodiles, and been taught to withstand and ignore the harshest of African weather conditions, as well as her own hunger, dehydration, and pain. Through all of this she has always excelled, always pleased the elders and been the most popular young inductee among the older, more experienced warriors in her village.
Khethiwe is ready. This is her moment.
It is the third day of her trial, and the final day for her to prove herself. If she does not return by morning with her first kill, she cannot become a warrior. To fail means weakness. Warriors cannot be weak. Warriors cannot fail.
With a gaze sharp enough to put the mighty eagle to shame, Khethiwe stares out across the land before her. She has not seen a single worthy target so far, and she needs to hurry. As her eyes sweep the desolate desert, her eyes at last catch a flash of movement, wavering on the edges of her vision. It is too far away for her to identify, and a long stretch of lifeless earth lies between her and her quarry. But she must go. Without another thought, the huntress slithers between the bits of brush, crawling with her body just inches from the ground, moving fluidly, silently. The red blush of her fur blends well with the clay below her, while blotches of cream help to break up her shape. These are the colors of her tribe, who have evolved over hundreds of years to camouflage seamlessly with their world.
A scent wafts to her nose, the scent of grazers, of prey. Khethiwe stops, listens. She can hear stamping hooves, fly-swatting tails. She is close. Maybe just a hundred meters or so. She cannot raise her head to see what lies ahead; the risk of being spotted is too great. Her heart beats hard against her ribcage, filled with adrenaline. Carefully, Khethiwe slinks forward, her movements calculated, slow, deliberate. She pauses each time she hears the thud of a hoof on the ground, or a dust-clearing snort. Her mind dances with the possibilities of what she is about to face, recalling the massive water buffalo Luzuko brought down during his trial the previous year, how ecstatic and awestruck the tribe was.
She spots the sparse branches of an acacia tree to her right. Changing her course slightly, she positions herself behind its trunk, concealing herself in the meager shade, and gathers herself. This is it. She grips her spear in her hand, traces the wood grain with a claw to steady herself. Khethiwe turns her head and slowly, slowly, peeks around the trunk—
—and her body freezes as she stares into a sea of black and white stripes.
Zebra.
She cannot believe her eyes. There haven’t been zebra in her tribe’s territory for generations. Khethiwe has never seen one before, only heard tales, only imagined these mythic beasts in her wildest dreams. Their pelts captivate her, remind her of the pale pink streaks across her own body, and she can’t move. This is her only chance to become what she was chosen to be, and she can’t move.
As she watches, one of the animals takes a few steps forward, and reveals to her a small, gangly foal, struggling to its feet. It can’t be more than a few days old, awkwardly trying to maneuver its frail body. Khethiwe is mesmerized by the small animal’s helplessness, how unaware it is of the danger it is in, how easily she could strike out and take its life.
Suddenly she feels wrong. She feels so far removed from the tactical assassin she had been just seconds ago. She feels powerless. But now, as she crouches in the shadows, she falters. How could she possibly take one of these sacred lives?
But how can she not? This is the life she’s been cultivated for, it’s all she knows. There is no other option for her. Khethiwe has never been very emotional, but she feels tears sting her eyes as she struggles internally with something she does not truly understand.
Her people do not need this kill to survive. Yet it is required of her to be considered a true warrior. This is killing for the sake of killing, and Khethiwe realizes in this moment—her moment—that everything she has ever known is wrong. Her people are wrong. And she cannot bear to be among them any longer.
In the most important moment of her life, Khethiwe stands, and in one fluid motion, thrusts her spear—
— Not into the crowd, but down over her knee, snapping it in two.
The zebra bray wildly, shrieking in fear, and stampede away, dissipating in a cloud of dust. The newborn foal is ushered away quickly by its mother, leaving the failed huntress behind.
In the fading orange light of the African plains, a young woman sets out alone. For the first time in her life, she has no idea what lies ahead.
This is her moment.
(1000/1000 words)
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