The Okavango Humanoid: A Boy’s Fear, A Village’s Laughter

A True Encounter

When I was very young—around early 1965—life in the Okavango Delta was simple and untouched. We were surrounded by palm trees, water, and the world we knew. There were no roads, no phones, and no strange visitors. It was just us.

The stories my elders told were our only windows to a world beyond our village.

I remember it like a dream—the day something beyond my imagination happened.

That morning was like any other. I was playing near the water, chasing frogs and watching dragonflies. Then, from a distance, I saw something strange coming down the river. It was a boat—yes, I recognized that. My uncle worked as a crocodile hunter for Bobby Wilmot’s company. Boats were familiar to me.

But what stood at the front of this boat... that was not familiar at all.

There was a figure standing tall at the bow—white. But not the white of fish belly or tree bark. This was glowing, unnatural. I had never seen a human like that. To my young eyes, it wasn’t human at all.

I remember staring, heart pounding, whispering to myself,

“What is that? What kind of creature is this?”

You see, I had never seen a white person before. I didn’t even know they existed. And to be honest, I thought it might eat me.

As the boat came closer, my fear grew. When it finally touched the shore of our island village, I didn’t wait to find out what would happen. I turned and ran—straight into the bush, deep into the dead palm grove. I found a tight, hidden spot beneath thick leaves, curled up, and stayed still like a frightened animal.

From the distance, I could hear the village. My mother was calling, my brothers too. Everyone wanted me to come see the white man—Bobby Wilmot.

But I refused.

“I won’t come out to see that thing,” I told myself.
“That’s not a man. That’s something else.”

I was convinced he had come from the sky, or the river, or someplace people like us weren’t meant to go.

I stayed hidden until I finally heard what I’d been waiting for—the boat leaving. The engine faded into silence. Only then did I slowly crawl out of my hiding place and return to the riverbank. The boat was gone. The village was quiet again.

When I walked back home, my mother burst into laughter.

“Why did you run away like that?” she asked.
“It was just a man! He’s just like anyone else!”

But I couldn’t believe it. Not yet.

For a long time after that, I was uncomfortable around white people. Not because they did anything wrong—but simply because they were unknown to me. Strange. Different.

Of course, time changes many things.

Today, I work with white people. I talk with them, laugh with them. I help them, and they help me. Many of them have become close friends—loving, caring people, just like anyone else. We even sit and share stories from when we were young.

And I still tell this one. I tell them,

“I didn’t like you at first—not because of who you were, but because I didn’t know you were even human.”

That was my first encounter with a white man. And to this day, people still laugh with me when I tell it.

They say,

“You must be the last man who truly never knew white people existed—until you met Bobby Wilmot.”

Maybe I am. Maybe I’m the last one in the Delta who still remembers a time before the world reached our shores.

So if you ever find yourself down here, come and find me—the man who once ran from the front of a boat, thinking he’d seen a ghost.

Because truly, that day, it felt like my life flashed before my eyes.

The End.