Promise on the Red Soil

It was the evening commute. The subway was crowded, and she was absentmindedly scrolling through YouTube on her phone. With tired eyes, she kept swiping down until one auto-recommended video started playing on its own. “The Red People of Namibia – Life of the Himba Tribe” Bare feet shuffling through dry earth. Skin and hair coated in red clay. Unique attire and body markings. Children and adults laughing in clouds of dust. Women walking confidently with bare chests. But above all, it was their eyes that struck her the most. Unadorned, yet strong. Unfamiliar, yet beautiful. “…Who are these people?” She found herself drawn in without realizing it. She had never seen anything quite like them. A village lit only by natural sunlight, not a single concrete building in sight. Faces that looked… as if nothing had ever been stolen from them. She felt as though she had glimpsed another world entirely. From that day on, she began watching Himba documentaries every night. Their world was so different from Korea. Even in a harsh environment, they cared for each other, accepting male and female roles as natural. But what captivated her most was their skin. A traditional paste called Otjize—a mix of red ochre and butter—was applied to their skin and hair. That red hue was not mere decoration. It was protection against the sun. It was a connection to their ancestors. It was a source of pride as women.

She watched it again and again, as if reclaiming something long forgotten. Meanwhile, her life in Korea repeated endlessly: reports, late nights, a boss who ended every sentence with “Kids these days...,” a rising rent notice, and the constant drip of social media showing her everyone else’s successes. Why am I living like this? And one day, she made a decision. “I’m… taking a vacation. A long one.” Her manager frowned but had no reason to say no. She considered quitting altogether, but for now, she packaged it as “travel.” Two months later, she booked a flight to Africa. From Namibia’s capital, Windhoek, she took an off-road vehicle into the desert toward a remote village. The guide said, “The Himba village is very traditional. You must respect their customs.” She nodded. In fact, the word “tradition” made her heart beat faster. — When she first arrived at the village, she held her breath. Red earth, dry winds, searing sun—and people smiling within it all. A young girl was the first to approach her. Barefoot, red clay smeared across her body, her small chest exposed proudly. She reached out and touched the stranger’s hair, laughing. “Omuronga (guest), come.” The guide interpreted from the side, and she took the girl’s hand. Women gathered around her, running their fingers gently over her pale skin, giggling. She blushed—but oddly, she wasn’t uncomfortable. That evening, she shared a meal with one of the families. Corn porridge, dried meat, and strong local spirits.

They couldn’t speak the same language, but eyes and gestures were enough. A child fell asleep leaning against her leg, and an elderly woman gently braided her hair. In that moment, she thought, “I… feel alive.” — Several days passed like that. She woke to the rooster’s crow, fetched water, played with the children in the dirt, and looked up at a sky filled with stars each night. She forgot her city life. No makeup, no schedules, no phone. She breathed with the earth itself. Each morning, the women rubbed Otjize onto each other's skin, and soon it became her own routine. The sensation of clay coating her skin felt strange at first, but as time passed, it brought her a strange comfort and peace. One day, a young woman from the village named Makari said to her: “Your skin… now looks like ours.” “Maybe your heart… is becoming like ours too?” She couldn’t reply. But she smiled—and nodded. — Then the day came for her to leave. She shared a final meal with the children and women of the village. Her body was covered in red earth, surrounded by warm hands and unfamiliar scents. All of it had become so familiar—and already, she missed it. As she boarded the plane, tears fell from her eyes. Not because the trip was over, but because… “I… don’t want to go back.” She realized it then. She had left behind something irretrievable in that land—

a piece of her that would never quite return. As the automatic doors of Incheon Airport slid open, she realized she had stepped back into a completely different world. Cold air, people moving briskly, the robotic tones of announcements echoing through the terminal. The scene before her was familiar—Korea, her homeland—but it all felt strangely foreign. Her body had returned, but her mind was still on the red soil. “Where did you go?” “Wow, you really tanned. Your skin’s totally damaged~” Back at work, everyone only commented on her appearance. Her darker skin, coarse hair, makeup-free face free of blemishes. She smiled politely, but inside, she felt herself breaking apart. Staring at an Excel sheet on her monitor, her eyes gradually drifted away from the screen. She found herself gazing into nothing. The gray sky outside. The daily loop beneath it. The manager’s nagging, the empty lunch chatter, the background TV noise after coming home exhausted. Every day was suffering. And every day, she thought of them. The children’s laughter. The village paths glowing under the sun. Makari’s warm voice, gently applying red clay to her shoulder. “You’re one of us now.” That sentence began to tighten around her heart, slowly. One night, she had a dream. She was walking through the streets of Korea, her body covered in red Otjize. People averted their eyes, yet she walked calmly—smiling within that red light. She woke drenched in sweat. But she wasn’t anxious. In fact, she felt strangely at peace.

From that morning on, she began applying red pigment to her wrists each day, like a ritual. It was only a powder-based imitation of Otjize, but even that brought her comfort. Yet that feeling didn’t last long. At work, people started calling her “odd.” She lost focus. Sometimes, she’d unconsciously play Namibian videos. She even found herself muttering the name “Makari” during conversations. And then, one morning— while riding the subway, she caught her reflection in the window and muttered: “This… isn’t where I belong.” “I have to go back.” That afternoon, she handed in her resignation. “Why so suddenly?” “Get a grip. Still got travel fever?” They scoffed, but her decision was firm. That night, she pooled her remaining savings and purchased a one-way ticket to Namibia. — Two months later, she returned to the village. Through roaring sandstorms, the truck came to a halt. Small dusty huts, red-stained earth. There—stood Makari. Her eyes widened in delight as she ran over. Grabbing her hands tightly, she said: “You… really came back.” “You’re not alone anymore.” That night, the village celebrated her return. They lit fires, grilled meat, and laughed beneath the stars. She sat among them. No one called her “foreigner.” No one asked where she came from. She began applying real Otjize again— red clay and butter, covering her cheeks, arms, chest. Someone braided her hair the traditional way. She looked in a mirror. The office worker from the city was gone.

Red skin, thick braids, bare chest, and steady gaze. What stared back… was a Himba woman. — Days passed. She grew more accustomed. Fetching water. Teaching children names. Singing old songs by the fire with the elder women. One evening, Makari called her softly. She led her to a rocky hill outside the village. Beneath a star-laden sky, on a plain of red dust, Makari asked: “Do you… really want to stay here?” “Can you give up your home, your family, your civilization, your phone, your city—everything?” She drew in a deep breath. That question was, in truth, one she had long been asking herself. Silence. Then she answered: “I’m not giving them up. They’re… already gone.” Makari smiled, taking her hand. “Good. Then it’s time… for you to receive your true queen’s name.” On top of the rocky hill, the wind stirred clouds of red dust. Makari opened a small jar wrapped in crimson cloth. Inside was a thick, pungent mixture—Otjize, made from clay, animal fat, and crushed herbs. A sacred blend. She silently lifted the jar and said, “This… isn’t just something you put on your body. It’s a name. An identity. A destiny. It’s your new blood.” Without a word, she knelt. Makari dipped her fingers into the jar and dabbed a dot of the paste onto her forehead. Then her cheeks, her chest, her shoulders, her arms and legs. Her whole body was covered in deep red.

As the clay mixed with sweat and dried into a firm layer, it felt like the warmth of a womb—comforting and enclosing. She closed her eyes and let out a slow breath. The sound of the wind. Leaves rustling. Distant drums. And with that, she took a step further away from everything— The apartments in Korea, the gray buildings, the utility bills, the smartphone, the crowds on the subway. “Now, you need a new name,” Makari said. “Who you were… doesn’t matter anymore. Here, we give names to those who accept a new life.” She nodded gently. “From this moment forward, your name is Kawere— the woman who first embraced the red sun.” She whispered it aloud. “Kawere… Kawere.” At first, the name felt foreign. But gradually, it began to feel like her own. As if calling forth a version of herself buried for years. — A few days later, the initiation ceremony was held. The village women gathered, all dressed alike. Their upper bodies bare, skin covered in red Otjize, adorned with traditional necklaces and waist ornaments. Kawere—she too was one of them now. The breeze brushing against her bare skin no longer brought shame. It was simply nature. And this was how she was meant to be. When night fell, the ritual began. Drums beat steadily. The women sang in a circle, dancing around Kawere. The lyrics were in an ancient tongue, but she somehow understood.

It was a blessing for the newly born, a funeral for a name returned to the soil. Kneeling on the earth, she slowly wrote her Korean name in the dirt with her finger. Her old name— a trace of the life she had lived. Makari handed her a small red jar. “Drink. This is the water that returns memory to the soil.” Kawere nodded, lifting the jar slowly to her lips. It was bitter, earthy, sharp on the tongue. But within it—was freedom. One sip, then another. And she closed her eyes. — From that day on, she lived as Kawere. At dawn, she fetched water with the other Himba women. She pounded corn, looked after children, learned the rhythm of the land. She no longer needed a translator—she understood, she laughed, she belonged. One day, Makari asked her, “Do you… miss Korea?” Kawere shook her head. “No. That country feels like a dream now. Sometimes… I wonder if I ever really lived there.” Makari smiled and gently braided her hair again. “You’re one of us now.” Seasons passed, and Kawere was no longer seen as an outsider. The elders taught her the uses of herbs. The children curled up in her lap at night. The younger women called her sister. — Then, one night, under a sky glittering with stars, Makari called her once more to the hill. There, under the starlight, Makari took her hand without a word. In a low voice, she spoke:

“Kawere… if you truly wish to live here forever, it means you accept that one day, your body will return to this soil.” Kawere smiled. Red earth sifted between her toes. “Yes. I was born on this soil. And I want to be buried in it.” — Her second life began like that. Her name was Kawere. Her land, the red home of the Himba. And she no longer thought of a place to return to. Because now— she had already arrived.