The River Remembers - By Glynis Faith Lamberts
Written By: Glynis Faith Lamberts
Category: Romance & Drama
Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026
Glynis Faith Lamberts graces the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 with "The River Remembers," a captivating piece of historical fiction. This work delves into the lives and cultural heritage of the Khoi people, offering a narrative rich in romance and drama. Set amidst the backdrop of South Africa's early colonial history, Lamberts channels the resilience of the Khoi, celebrating their identity and spirit. Through an imaginative lens, this story honors the past while contemplating themes of remembrance and restoration, making it a significant contribution to the competition.
About the Work
"The River Remembers" is a reflective exploration of the Khoi people's history and identity. Glynis Faith Lamberts crafts a narrative that intertwines historical events with imaginative storytelling, creating a vivid tapestry of emotions and cultural reflections. The prose is imbued with a sense of reverence and empathy, capturing the complexities and beauties of human resilience. Through evocative imagery and poignant dialogue, the work invites readers to engage with the enduring legacies of colonialism and cultural memory.
The River Remembers
Original Submission by Glynis Faith Lamberts
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THE RIVER REMEMBERS *A Story of the Khoi*
Copyright © 2026 Glynis Faith All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, storedin a retrieval system, or transmitted inanyform or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior writtenpermissionof the author, except for brief quotations usedin reviews or other uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of historical fiction inspiredbyhistorical people, events, and the cultural heritage of the Khoi people. While groundedinhistorical research, some scenes, dialogue, andpersonal experiences have been imaginedforthe purposes of storytelling.
First edition, 2026.
Written by Glynis Faith
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Dedication
For the First People of South Africa andfor FirstPeoples around the world —
and for those who were taught to carry shamefor wounds they did not create.
May Remembering
become Return .
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EPIGRAPH PAGE
“Judge nothing before the appointed time…He will bring to light
what is hidden in darkness.” — 1 Corinthians 4:5
“Stand at the crossroads and look; ask for the ancient paths…”
— Jeremiah 6:16
The river remembers
what history tried to forget.
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AUTHOR’S NOTE
Krotoa’s life has survived history in fragments.
In colonial records she appears throughthelanguage of governors, clergy, soldiers, court proceedings, and official observation. Sheisdescribed, judged, translated, renamed, andoften reduced by the very systems that shapedand wounded her life.
But archives are not neutral.
And human beings are always larger thantherecords left behind about them.
The River Remembers is a work of historical fiction woven around the fewknowneventsof Krotoa’s life — and around the vast silences thearchives left behind —along with the earlycolonial history of the Cape, oral memory
handed down through generations , spiritual reflection, and the enduring presence of Khoi identity within South Africa.
This novel does not attempt to recreate historyas cold chronology.
It attempts something more human:
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to imagine the emotional, spiritual, and
psychological interior of a young Khoi girl whobecame a bridge between worlds during oneof the most violent cultural transitions inSouthAfrican history.
Many historical accounts have framedKrotoathrough moral judgment, colonial language, ortragedy alone.
This story seeks instead to approach her withdignity.
Not to remove complexity.
Not to romanticize suffering.
But to restore humanity where history oftenallowed only accusation or silence.
While certain characters, events, and relationships in this novel are historicallydocumented, others have been imaginativelyreconstructed in order to explore emotional truths that archives alone cannot fully hold.
Particular care has been taken to honour: the humanity of the First People of this land, the complexity of cultural rupture,
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the long afterlife of colonial displacement,
and the resilience that survives evenwhenidentity is fragmented or misnamed.
At its heart, this story is not only about loss. It is about remembering.
And perhaps, through remembering, return. Not only for the Khoi people—
but for anyone who has ever carried inheritedshame, displacement, silence, or erasure andlonged to discover that beneath what theworldcalled them, something truer remained.
And beneath all forgetting,
beneath all erasure,
beneath all the names history placed uponher—
Presence remembers too.
And now, in our own time,
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perhaps we are finally remembering that God remembers too.
— Glynis Faith
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PROLOGUE
When Faith Became Sight.
Faith had always struggled with believinginwhat she could not see.
She never doubted that God was close—present, near, alive - she had felt Himtoo oftennot toknow. What she could not grasp was that theunseen realm was more real than the onebefore her eyes.
Until the night it did.
It began like a stirring.
Not outside—but deep within her. For weeks, something had been rising inher
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spirit… not loud, not chaotic—but steady. Likeadrumbeat beneath the surface.
Ancient.
Persistent.
Calling.
She tried to ignore it at first. Life had taught herhow to quiet things, how to survive, howtokeep moving. But this… this would not besilenced.
And then the sound came.
Eh-yaya… Eh-yaya…
It rose from deep within her, not somethingshelearned—but something she remembered.
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A cry.
A chant.
A battle song.
Every time she heard it, she felt it pull at herspirit—like it belonged to a place older thanmemory.
Her chest would tighten, her eyes fill withtearsshe didn’t understand.
Until one night, she stopped resisting.
“Lord… if this is You… then take me whereYouneed to take me.”
That night, she did not enter prayer casually.
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She stepped into it.
Together with two women—sisters inspirit, weathered by life but anchored in God—theysat in quiet surrender.
No performance.
No striving.
Just openness.
And then— The veil lifted.
She was no longer in the room. She was standing on the banks of a river.
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The air was alive.
The earth beneath her feet felt ancient, breathing with memory.
Before her, people moved—beautiful people. Strong.
Whole.
Alive.
They laughed. They worked.
They cared for one another with a tendernessthat pierced her heart.
Children ran freely, their feet knowing theland
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as home.
Women gathered, preparing food, their voicessoft but full of life.
Men stood watch—not in fear, but inwisdom. And above it all— A Presence.
Not distant.
Not silent.
Near.
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Faith felt it immediately. They knew Him. Not by doctrine.
Not by name.
But by relationship.
The Great Spirit.
Living.
Moving.
Breathing among them.
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And for the first time in her life—Faith did not have to try to believe. Because she could see. Then, suddenly, everything changed. The wind shifted.
The air tightened.
And out on the horizon—
Ships.
Large.
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Foreign.
Unfamiliar.
Approaching.
She felt it before she saw it fully—Fear.
It moved through the people like a shadow. Mothers pulled children close.
Elders stood still, their eyes fixed on the waters—knowing something was wrong.
Deeply wrong.
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Then it happened.
Chaos.
Voices.
Screams.
Faith felt herself pulled—no longer just watching.
She was inside it.
On the shore.
On the boats.
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In the bodies of those being taken. She felt the tearing.
The separation.
The violence.
The violation.
And then— The words came.
Not from man. From God.
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“They have violated My people.” The weight of it crushed her. Not just what was done—
But what it meant.
Dignity stripped.
Identity fractured.
Generations wounded before they evenbegan. She turned—desperate—to the shore. And what she saw there broke somethingdeep
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inside her.
Men.
Strong men.
But their eyes— Empty.
Not because they were weak.
But because something had been takenthat could not be defended against.
Their children.
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Gone.
Mothers collapsed to the ground, their cries not just grief—but something deeper.
A tearing of soul.
They beat the earth, as if trying to wake it. As if the land itself could answer them. And then— They cried out.
“Naahneh… Naahneh… Naahneh…”
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Again.
Again.
Again.
And woven into it— “Alele… Alele…”
A hallelujah rising from devastation. A praise that refused to die. Faith fell to her knees.
“I feel it, Lord… I feel all of it…”
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Tears streamed down her face, but she didnot pull away.
“ If You want then take me deeper God..…” And He did.
Across time.
Across generations.
She saw the scattering.
The breaking apart of a people. The loss of language.
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Of land.
Of their way of life.
Of identity.
She saw systems rise that kept wounds open. She saw injustice layered upon injustice.
She saw the weight carried by generations whodid not even know where it began—
Only that it was there.
And then—
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Silence.
Not empty.
Heavy.
And from that silence—God rose.
Not in rage.
But in righteous authority.
“Enough.”
The word shook through everything.
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“They have been scattered…but I will gather.”“They have been stripped… but I will restore.”“The land remembers.”
Faith saw it then— The rivers.
The shores.
The mountain.
Places alive with memory.
Places that had not forgotten.
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Places waiting.
And then she heard it. Clear.
Unmistakable.
“I am raising My people.” “Not in bitterness.” “But in truth.”
“Not in vengeance.” “But in restoration.”
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Faith gasped.
Because she understood.
This was not a story of revenge. This was a story of return.
When she opened her eyes—She was back in the room. But nothing was the same.
Because now— She could see.
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And for the first time in her life—
Faith was no longer something she struggledtohave.
It had become something she had witnessed. And somewhere beyond what eyes couldsee—The story had already begun.
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CHAPTER 1 - The Fire That Remembers The land remembers.
Not in words.
Not in books.
But in breath… in soil… in the stories carriedbythose who sit close enough to the fire tohearthem.
The night was still.
Not empty—but listening.
The kind of stillness that comes whensomething important is about to be spoken.
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Even the wind had quieted, as if it too hadtaken a seat among the elders.
The fire burned strong in the center of thecircle.
Its flames rose and fell, casting long shadowsthat moved like memory itself—stretching, bending, returning.
A young man sat just beyond the inner ring.
He did not yet carry the full weight of manhood, but he was no longer a child.
His name was Autshumao.
His ears were known among the people.
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He listened differently.
Not only to what was said—but to what restedbeneath it.
The traders who came by ship had noticedit too. They had begun speaking to himmore often. Testing his tongue.
Measuring his mind.
Tonight, he was not here for them. Tonight, he was here for something older.
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Something that did not belong to the menof ships.
The elders had called for this fire. Not for warmth.
Not for food.
For remembering.
Gai//khamas, the eldest among them, leanedforward.
Time had carved deep lines into his face, but hisvoice still carried the authority of one whohadseen much—and forgotten nothing.
“Before the men who come now,” he began
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slowly, “there were others.”
The fire cracked.
No one moved.
“They wore crosses on their chests. Theyspokea tongue our people did not know. Theycamein ships that did not ask permission fromthewater.”
A pause.
Then the name.
“D’Almeida.”
It did not land like a name.
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It landed like a wound.
Autshumao felt it.
Not as something he remembered—
but as something that remembered him.
“They saw our children,” Gai//khamas continued.
“On the shore. Playing. Free.” His voice did not rise.
It deepened.
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“They did not see sons. They did not see daughters.”
“They saw possession.”
A murmur moved through the circle—low, controlled.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
“They took them.”
The words fell heavily.
No one breathed.
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“They took them from the sand.
From their mothers. Fromthe arms that carriedthem into this world.”
Another elder, !Gari-b, spoke now.
His voice was rough, still carrying the edgeof that day though it belonged to generations before him.
“Our men ran to the water.” His hand moved as if still gripping a spear. “We fought.”
The firelight caught his eyes.
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“We killed many of them. Their chief too. Inthewater.”
A flicker passed through the circle. Not pride.
Not victory.
Something heavier.
“They say we are savages for that,” !Gari-badded.
The word hung in the air. Ugly.
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Foreign.
Gai//khamas exhaled slowly. “They will tell the story that way,” he said. “They will say we killed without reason.” “They will not say why.”
A long silence.
Then— “They will not say the children.” He continued, and now his voice grew
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thinner—not weaker, but sharper, as if truthitself had narrowed into a blade.
“The girls…”
He did not look at anyone when he saidit. “They were used.”
The fire cracked loudly.
“And when the ships grew sick…or whenthemen were done…”
His jaw tightened.
“They threw them to the sea.” No one moved.
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No one breathed.
“Or they sold them,” he continued, “inplaces
where no one spoke our tongue.”
“Where their cries meant nothing to anyonewho heard them.”
He looked into the fire.
“They cried in a language no one understood.”A long pause.
“And the white men laughed…or drank…” His voice hardened.
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“Because that is how men hide fromwhat theyhave done.”
!Gari-b spat into the sand.
A sharp, deliberate act.
“So they call us savages,” he said. “For stopping them.”
“For that,” Gai//khamas replied.
“And they will keep calling us that.” “Every time we say no.”
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“Every time we protect what is ours.”
He turned his gaze fully toward Autshumaonow.
“When you go to Java, boy—remember this.”The fire shifted.
“We are savage when we love our own.” His voice did not rise.
But it carried a weight that would not move. “Do not let them shame you out of it.”
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Autshumao felt something settle inside him. Not anger.
Not yet.
Something steadier.
Something that would outlive anger. “I will listen,” he said quietly.
“I will remember.”
“That is how we survive men who write lies,”Gai//khamas said.
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“By carrying truth where they cannot reach.”And then— it came.
Not from the circle. From beyond it. A sound.
Low.
Breaking.
Rising.
A woman.
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She moved toward the fire slowly. Bent.
Weathered.
But carrying something far greater thanherbody.
Her name was !Gâi-!nâs.
The one who carries the tears of others. She did not walk like one joining a gathering.
She moved like one entering a woundthat never closed.
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No one stopped her. No one would.
She reached the fire—and fell to her knees. Her hands struck the earth. Once.
Twice.
Again.
Again.
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The sound echoed through the night. Grief returning to the ground.
And then she cried out—
“Naahneh!”
The Name tore from her. Not spoken.
Released.
“Naahneh!”
Again.
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Stronger.
“Naahneh!”
“Aleh leh!”
The words rose through the grief like light through storm.
“Aleh leh!”
Praise that refused to die. The fire leaned.
The night listened.
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Autshumao felt it.
Not as understanding—
but as Presence.
As something holy moving through brokenness. She lifted her arms.
Trembling.
Calling again.
“Naahneh… Naahneh…” Again.
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Again.
Again.
No one spoke.
Because nothing could be added to that. And just beyond the edge of the firelight—another listened.
A girl.
Still.
Quiet.
Watching.
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Her name was |Uma.
She heard the Name.
Not as sound alone— but as something alive.
Carried through generations.
Through grief.
Through memory.
And something inside her answered. He heard them then.
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He hears them now. He will hear them still. Her hand rested against her chest. And within her— the Name formed.
Soft.
Certain.
Naahneh.
The fire burned.
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The elders sat.
The past stood among them. And the story— was no longer only being told. It was being carried.
Because the land remembers.
And so do its people.
Even when the world tries to make themforget.
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CHAPTER 2 - The Day the Horizon Opened∼1630 — Before Java The sea was calm.
Too calm.
Even the gulls moved differently that morning, circling low over the water as if uncertainwhat the day intended to become.
Hoerikwaggo stood without cloud.
Watching.
Autshumao stood at the shoreline withhis feet buried slightly in the wet sand, the coldtidefolding around his ankles before slippingback
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again.
He was still young then.
Not yet the man the settlers would one daycall Harry.
Not yet interpreter.
Not yet bridge.
Only a son of this land standing before ahorizon that had begun calling his name.
Behind him, the village stirred slowly awake. Smoke rose thinly into the morning air.
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Women prepared food.
Children chased one another betweenthehuts. Dogs barked somewhere inland. Ordinary sounds.
But beneath them moved something else. Something tightening.
As if the world itself knew that once he crossedthe water, nothing would return unchanged.
Behind him, footsteps approached softly.
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!Nau-i.
His sister.
She carried her child against her hip, wrappedsecurely in softened hide.
The little boy rested sleepily against her shoulder, one tiny hand curled into the edgeof her karos.
In her other hand she crushed buchuleavesbetween her fingers absentmindedly, releasingtheir sharp medicinal scent into the air.
She stood beside him without speaking at first. Together they watched the ship.
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Foreign.
Towering.
Wrong against the shoreline.
Its wooden body groaned softly in the tidelikesome great creature waiting to feed.
“I am going,” Autshumao said at last. Nau-i gave a small breath through her nose. “With the sea-men,” she replied. Not a question.
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He nodded.
Neither of them spoke of fear directly.
Among their people, fear was rarely announcedaloud.
It was carried.
Shared silently between breaths.
“They say I will learn their language,” Autshumao said.
“How they trade. How they count. Howtheyspeak to other lands.”
“And why must our son learn the tongueof men who arrive armed?” she asked quietly.
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He smiled faintly.
“Because they are not leaving.” The truth of it settled heavily betweenthem. !Nau-i looked again toward the ship. Its sails shifted slightly in the wind. Then she turned back to her brother. “Then leave your cattle with me,” she said. “And your name.”
A brief laugh escaped him.
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"I will bring it back.”
But she did not smile.
She stepped closer instead and pressedher hand firmly against his chest.
Grounding him.
Anchoring him to something older thanoceans. “Bring back your eyes,” she said softly. “That is all.”
Something moved through himthen.
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Not fear.
Not certainty either.
Something stranger.
The feeling that he stood at the edge of adoorway that would not close once crossed.
The child on her hip stirred slightly. Autshumao touched the boy’s foreheadgently.
“When he is older,” he said quietly, “tell himI walked toward the water still remembering
who I was.”
!Nau-i’s eyes softened then.
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For one brief moment she was no longer onlyhis sister.
She was the keeper of what he might lose.
“I will remind you,” she said. If the sea tries to take it.”
The wind shifted.
The sailors were calling now. Impatient.
Sharp voices carrying across the shore. Autshumao looked once more at Hoerikwaggo.
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At the land.
At the water shining beneath morning light. He tried to hold it all inside himself. Every ridge.
Every smell.
Every sound.
As if memory alone could tether himtohome.
Then he stepped into the small boat waitingnear the shore.
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The water pulled him outward slowly. !Nau-i remained where she stood. Watching.
Always watching.
She did not wave.
Did not cry out.
She simply stood with the child in her arms while the distance widened betweenthem.
And somewhere deep within herself, somethingwhispered that the crossing before her brotherwas larger than sea alone.
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The horizon opened.
And swallowed him whole. Three Years Later
The ship returned at dusk.
A dark shape against burning sky.
Children ran first, shouting toward the settlement.
Men emerged from the shoreline paths.
Women shaded their eyes against the sinkinglight.
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And !Nau-i came walking slowly downtowardthe water.
The child beside her no longer rode onher hip.
He ran ahead now, laughing barefoot throughthe sand.
Autshumao stepped fromthe boat carefully.
For one suspended moment he simply stoodthere.
Home.
But not untouched by elsewhere.
His shoulders had broadened.
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His skin carried new scars.
His clothing sat differently on himnow—stitched cloth mixed uneasily with animal hide.
And his eyes— his eyes had seen too much distance. !Nau-i reached him first. This time she did not remain still. She embraced him fiercely. Both arms around him.
As if confirming he had truly returnedinfleshand not merely memory.
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For a moment, he held her just as tightly.
The years between themcollapsing like loosened rope.
When she finally pulled back, she studiedhisface carefully.
Searching.
Not for change.
For what remained.
“Your eyes,” she said quietly.
Autshumao looked at her.
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And something inside himsoftened for thefirst time since leaving.
“I brought them back.” The child peered up curiously at him. “Is he the sea-man?” he asked.
A rough laugh escaped Autshumao then.
“No,” !Nau-i answered gently before he couldspeak.
“He is ours.”
The words settled deeply into him.
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Ours.
Not lost.
Not yet.
That night, the elders called for fire. Not celebration.
Not ceremony.
Something else.
Something waiting.
And as darkness gathered around the circle, the
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world itself seemed to lean closer.
Because the boy who had crossed the seahadreturned carrying more than language.
He had returned carrying warning. And beneath it all— not loudly,
not violently,
but steadily— Light pressed.
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Darkness watched.
And between them— a people remained.
Still listening.
Still remembering.
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CHAPTER 3 - The Man Who Returned withWords
∼1633 — Autshumao returned fromJava. The fire was smaller this time.
Careful.
Measured.
This was not a night for memory.
This was a night for truth.
Only the elders sat close.
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The flames moved low against the dark, theirlight held tightly within the circle as thougheven fire itself understood the weight of what would be spoken there.
Beyond the reach of the flames, |Uma sat grinding buchu leaves slowly betweensmoothstones.
The rhythm gave her reason to remain. To listen.
She was no longer the quiet child who hadonceheard the Name rise through grief.
She had become a woman now. Still young.
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Still watchful.
And her silence carried its own authority. Autshumao stood at the edge of the gathering. He did not sit immediately.
The sea still lived inside his body.
The movement of ships lingered in his bones. Foreign rooms lingered in his eyes. “I went,” he said at last.
His voice carried differently now.
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Not louder.
But sharpened by distance.
“I learned their ways.”
Gai//khamas nodded slowly.
“Sit,” the elder said gently.
“You are home.”
Autshumao lowered himself beside the fire. But first his hands pressed against the earth. As if confirming it remained beneathhim.
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As if confirming he still belonged to it. “They taught me numbers,” he said. “Paper. Tides. Maps.”
“I can write my name.”
A murmur passed quietly through the elders. Useful.
That had always been the hope. “It is not all I learned.”
The fire shifted softly.
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About the Competition
The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious event celebrating diverse voices and narratives across the globe. It provides a platform for writers to showcase their creativity, exploring themes that resonate with audiences worldwide. Participants are encouraged to weave stories and poems that reflect personal, historical, and cultural identities, contributing to a rich tapestry of global literature.
We extend our heartfelt gratitude to Glynis Faith Lamberts for her profound contribution to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. "The River Remembers" is a testament to the power of storytelling in preserving and celebrating cultural heritage. We hope her work continues to inspire and engage readers, fostering a deeper understanding of history and identity. Thank you, Glynis Faith Lamberts, for sharing this poignant narrative with us.
About Hashtag Kalakar
Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.
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