CHAPTER ONE TO TWENTY A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING

 

A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING

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CHAPTER ONE

A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING

From the Mountain to the City Lights

The time of being told, “Wake up and go to school,” had finally come to an end. I had just completed Grade Twelve. I was overjoyed. But my happiness was not the same as everyone else’s.

Some of my classmates were simply relieved that school was over. Even those who had failed did not seem to care. They were ready to work anywhere they could find a job,  in a chin shop, in a bar, or any place that would give them money for food. For some of them, life was only about being seen in bars. As long as they were drunk, they felt satisfied.

Other learners came from wealthy families. They already had plans. Some expected to inherit their parents’ properties one day. The boys used to talk about this during lunch breaks or after school. I only listened quietly. I did not have much to say. Between lessons, I would hear them talking about Okabush-Kovahimba and Herero Mall. To me, those sounded like big and exciting places in Windhoek. They also talked about going to UNAM and NUST the following year, the biggest universities in Namibia.

The boys who liked fashionable girls did not pay attention to me. I had no beautiful clothes. I owned only one pair of jeans from a China shop next to Pep Store in Opuwo, and my school uniform. Most days, I wore my uniform so that people would not notice that I had only one pair of jeans.

In our class, there was a boy named Tukondja, also known as Tux. I had a secret crush on him, but he never knew. He dressed very well and always had nice things. Maybe he was one of those boys from a rich family.

But let me tell you why I was truly happy.

I was happy because something I had been waiting for all my life was finally close. I wanted to become a certified lawyer. I did not just want it, I needed it. I was preparing myself for the real world, and in my heart, I believed I was ready.

I am a girl from Ehomba Mountain, also known as Ondundu ya Homba or Ohaikororo, on the outskirts of Omuzenga. If you visit that place, you may feel as if you have entered another world, a world where technology is not everywhere.

There was a small shop owned by Mr. Makinhu called Cuka shop. It had a television. That was where we used to watch Kizomba movies. I once saw an Angolan lady dancing Kizomba, and I admired her. I loved watching Kizomba because we live so close to the Namibian border that sometimes I feel as if I am in Angola.

I come from a poor family. In one of the Kizomba songs, there was a girl who reminded me of myself. She was more beautiful than I was, but she was also poor. That girl gave me hope.

In August, during the second term, I wrote my final examinations. I studied very hard. When the results came out, I had 40 points. I was admitted to study Bachelor of Laws (Honours) at the University of Namibia.

I was accepted at UNAM, the largest university in Namibia.

I was going to the city of lights.

All I could think about was success. I believed in my brain. I believed in my hard work.

Mrs. Kapika, my English teacher, was a humble woman who feared God. She helped me a lot because I was good at English. I did not have the money to make copies of my documents for applications, but she helped me fill in many forms. Without her, I would not have made it this far.

January arrived, and with it came challenges.

One evening, I was sitting outside with my younger brothers and sisters at pomaṱiwa. For us, pomaṱiwa is the outdoor kitchen, an open space where we cook. I was preparing food when my mother joined me.

She was happy that I was going to Windhoek,  a city she had heard about but had never visited.

She said,
“You will stay in Windhoek with a lady named Ngarii. I heard through Kutjee that she lives in Pioneers Park. I want to warn you: do not misbehave in other people’s houses. I also heard that UNAM is nearby. What I want from you is to read a lot.”

She spoke for a long time about being a good girl in Windhoek.

But in my mind, I was already seeing the city of lights. I was finally leaving the village and Opuwo, the dusty and rocky town. I wanted something new. Something fresh.

The next day, it was pension day for elderly people. My mother asked me to go and sell wild food from our mountain. It was good food, natural food from Ehomba.

As I thought about what my mother had said, that I would be staying with Ms. Ngarii, I felt uneasy. The last time I saw her was when she came to Ehomba for a political campaign. She and my mother did not seem to understand each other well. I remember she was driving a Jeep.

My mother told me that Ngarii was her younger sister, which made her my aunt. But they did not grow up together. I did not speak much to her that day because she was busy with politics.

Later, I heard that she had married a well-known businessman who paid for her degree. But their marriage did not last. They divorced.

How would she treat me?

My cousin Vemuu came to visit us during the holiday. She loved talking,  and she told me everything about Windhoek.

I called it the city of lights.

She called it the city of honey and milk, a city where everything a human being needs can be found.

I asked her about my aunt Ngarii because she had once stayed with her during her first year at UNAM.

My cousin was very kind, but also very funny. She told me her own story. She had never met her father. He left for work when she was only one month old. Up to this day, they have never met. People say he married another woman in Khorixas and never returned to Okanguati.

Her mother, my mother’s older sister, died when my cousin was still young. My mother raised her. Even though she was three years older than me, I saw her as my elder sister.

She was now a third-year student at the University of Namibia studying Accounting.

She dressed beautifully. She wore expensive clothes with big names. She had an iPhone 13 Pro Max. I was sure she would help me once I reached Windhoek.

My mother used to call her Ndjona-Top, which means “the lamp on top.” She always shone brightly.

She wore Brazilian hair, 24 inches long. I once thought she had a rich boyfriend because she always looked expensive. But she told me she was the chief accountant at Tereka Trading CC and also the personal secretary to the Managing Director. He was much older than her, but he paid her well.

Then she told me something that confused me.

“You can get everything you want,” she said, “if you do a small favour.”

I did not ask her what that favour meant.

My cousin worked hard at home whenever she visited. My mother loved her very much. I saw her as the firstborn of our family. She had worked hard to reach where she was.

But even for her, life was not always easy. If things did not go well with Aunt Ngarii, she would have to look for another place to stay.

She was my mentor.

She would guide me in Windhoek.

I was excited.

But deep inside, I was also afraid.

What if Aunt Ngarii mistreated me?

The End of Chapter One

Wait for Part Two as A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING continues…

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CHAPTER TWO

A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING

From the Mountain to the City Lights

The next day, I travelled to Windhoek.

Before I left, my mother cooked goat meat from our neighbour’s house and maize porridge for me. That was our daily food. It was simple, but it was home. She wanted me to eat well before my long journey.

It was my first long trip away from Ehomba Mountain. I was excited, but also tired. The journey felt endless. When we finally reached Windhoek, I was asleep.

A man wearing a brown jersey with the words Big-Boys woke me up.

“Wake up, we are in Windhoek,” he said.

I opened my eyes slowly, and there they were.

Lights everywhere.

The city of lights.

My heart jumped. The buildings, the noise, the cars, everything felt big and fast. It was nothing like Ehomba or Opuwo.

Because I did not have a phone, my mother had given the bus driver, Mr. Mai, my aunt Ngarii’s phone number. The plan was simple: once we arrived at Windhoek–Okabashu-kovahimba, he would call her to come and fetch me.

The driver started calling.

No answer.

He called again.

Still no answer.

He tried ten times.

Then he became angry.

“I am going,” he said. “I was not hired to wait for your aunt.”

And just like that, he left me there.

Alone.

I had no phone.

I did not know where my aunt lived.

I did not even know where Pioneers Park was.

The man in the brown Big-Boys jersey looked at me carefully. I could see he had noticed something, maybe that I was lost.

He spoke English in a deep voice, using difficult words. The only words I clearly understood were “Windhoek” and “Okabashu-kovahimba.”

He came closer.

“Are you waiting for someone?” he asked.

I told him everything.

He offered me his phone. I suddenly remembered that I had written Vemuu’s number somewhere in my notebook. My hands were shaking as I searched for it.

I called.

No answer.

I tried again.

Still nothing.

I felt confused. I did not know whether to cry or to stay strong.

I sent messages telling them to meet me at Okabashu-kovahimba.

The man in the brown jersey said,
“Stay here. If your aunt calls, I will tell her to come and pick you up. If she does not come, I will fetch you after I get my car from my younger brother.”

It was around 21h00.

That was when fear started to enter my heart.

I remembered the stories I had heard about Windhoek, about people being robbed, about young women being beaten, about phones and bags being snatched by force.

Next to me were some boys speaking a language I did not understand. I thought it might be Afrikaans because I heard words like “jy.”

Suddenly, stones were being thrown.

Municipal police were trying to stop the fight. One stone hit a taxi.

My heart began to race.

What if they turned and came for me?

What if this was how my life in the city ended?

I went inside a bar nearby because I was scared to stand outside.

Inside, a man started disturbing me.

“Give me your number,” he said. “If you give me your number, I will take care of you. This is Windhoek, do not joke.”

His voice made me uncomfortable.

I asked him if I could use his phone to call my aunt.

He said,
“I will only give you if you give me your number.”

I had no phone.

So I gave him a wrong number just so he could hand me his phone.

But when he gave it to me, the phone was off.

“I want to talk to you tomorrow,” he said. “I have something to tell you.”

I did not care about his words. All I wanted was to reach my aunt or my cousin.

I tried again.

My cousin’s phone was off.

My aunt did not answer.

Again.

And again.

At 23h00, two hours later, the man in the brown Big-Boys jersey returned.

This time, he came in a Volkswagen Golf 7. Another man was sitting in the passenger seat.

I did not know his name, so in my heart I called him Mr. Brown Jersey.

He stepped out of the car.

“Baby-Girl,” he said, as if he knew me. “They have not called yet. Just come with me. I will drop you home.”

When he came close, I hoped he would say that my aunt or my cousin was on the way.

But he did not.

He said we would drive around for a while, and if my aunt called, he would drop me off.

I told him, “My aunt stays in Pioneers Park.”

The truth was, I had no idea where Pioneers Park was.

I know what you are thinking.

Why did I get into a stranger’s car?

He was older than my father.

But what choice did I have?

The boys outside were throwing stones.

The man in the bar was harassing me.

I was alone.

At least this man had travelled on the same bus. Maybe he had seen that I had no option.

Sometimes, when you are far from home, you are forced to put your life in the hands of strangers.

Tell me,

What would you have done?

That was my welcome to the city of lights.

As the car door closed and we drove into the bright Windhoek night, I whispered to myself:

“Welcome to the city… A Girl from Ehomba Mountain.”

The End of Chapter Two

Wait for Part Three as A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING continues…

 

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CHAPTER THREE

A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING

From the Mountain to the City Lights

I was sitting in the back seat of a Volkswagen Golf 7 in the city of lights — mbwae. (Mbwae means “my dear.”)

I had never sat in such a comfortable car before. Only a few hours earlier, I had been sitting at the back of Mr. Mai’s Quantum taxi from the rocky and dusty town of Opuwo. My body was still sore from that long journey.

Mr. Brown Jersey turned slightly and said,
“We are just chilling for a bit, then we will go to Pioneers Park to look for your aunt’s house.”

I trusted him,  just a little. I did not know whether I was doing the right thing. I kept hoping we would soon reach my aunt’s house.

But instead, we stopped at a pub on the famous Clemens Kapuuo Street.

That was our “first stop.”

Inside, he ordered a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, lemon soda, and lime. For me, he ordered a Coke. We sat there for almost an hour. It was already past midnight.

He bought me a second Coke.

Then a third one.

After a few sips of the third Coke, I started feeling strange. My head became heavy. The room began to spin. The lights looked blurry.

I started leaning toward Mr. Brown Jersey without even realising it.

I felt his hands on me, on my breasts, on my body. I heard voices, fading in and out:

“I will deal with her today… This is Windhoek… the city with many streets…”

Everything felt far away. I wanted to move. I wanted to speak. But I could not.

The next thing I remember, I was standing. A strong arm was holding my back. I was being walked toward the car.

I was helpless.

And then,

I heard someone shouting my name.

“Nguaendomuua! Nguaendomuua! Nguaendomuua!”

Yes.

Now you know my name.

Nguaendomuua Muuaa wa Homba.

And this is my strange story.

The voice came closer.

It sounded familiar.

Through my blurred eyes, I saw her face.

It was my cousin.

And she was furious.

I had never seen her that angry before.

Suddenly, I was in the middle of a struggle.

On one side, my cousin was pulling my arm.

“Leave my cousin alone!” she shouted. “Do you want to rape her? You look like criminals!”

On the other side, Mr. Brown Jersey was still holding me.

For a moment, it felt like a battle over my life.

But Vemuu knows how to make a scene.

She shouted loudly. People started looking. The man finally let go of me.

Relief washed over me.

I was saved.

Although I was so dizzy that I thought I saw two Vemuus standing in front of me.

That is when I knew I had been drugged.

One of the men said,
“Ndjona-Top, leave your cousin in the car. She is fine. It has been a while since we chilled here on Clemens Kapuuo Street.”

Ndjona-Top, that is what her friends call her. My mother calls her that too. It means “the lamp on top.”

Another man said,
“Ndjona-Top, let’s go. We can lock your cousin in the car. I will keep checking.”

My cousin ignored them.

She helped me into her car.

“Sleep,” she whispered. “I am here.”

Those were the last words I remember before everything went dark.

I woke up in the early morning in a house I did not recognise.

I could hear Herero music playing loudly.

“Muatje kaminikirire… muatje kaminikirire…”
(Muatje kaminikirire means “child, greet for me.”)

My head was heavy.

After some time, I stood up and washed my face.

An hour later, I heard loud sounds from my cousin’s room, bang bang, boom boom.

Soon after, I saw her walking a man to his car.

“Don’t forget to e-wallet N$1500,” she said. “I need to buy things… maybe something for my cousin.”

The man got into his Golf 7 R and said,
“Okay, darling. I will e-wallet now.”

When my cousin later told me that the men I was with the night before were drug dealers, I understood what had happened.

I had been drugged.

I had not even spent one full day in Windhoek, and already I felt homesick.

So this was the city of lights?

Ndjona-Top had a flatmate named Kenaa.

She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.

We greeted each other politely. That was all.

But remember her, she will appear again in this story.

My cousin came and sat next to me.

“What happened last night before I found you?” she asked.

I told her everything , from the moment I got off the bus.

She shook her head.

“That is why I do not go out with my iPhone,” she said. “Those bandits on Clemens Kapuuo Street steal phones. Even mine, mbwae tjiri.”
(Mbwae tjiri means “my dear, seriously.”)

When my cousin visited home, she spoke Otjiherero-Tjautua, the central Namibian accent. But here in Windhoek, she mixed Otjihimba and Otjiherero-Tjautua. You know that okusipera language, okusipera means a language accent.

I reminded her that I needed to go to Aunt Ngarii’s house before she changed her mind about letting me stay there.

Let me tell you something.

I am a beautiful girl.

Dark skin that shines.

If I dressed like my cousin and wore Brazilian hair like hers, you would think we were twins. Boys in my village used to stare at her whenever she came home for holidays.

Before we left, she gave me a small Nokia phone, okasaru or okandotja.
(Okasaru/okandotja means a simple phone.)

I did not care what type of phone it was. I just needed one.

We called my aunt and took a taxi to Pioneers Park.

As we drove, I asked myself,
“What am I going to say to my aunt?”

Ndjona-Top told me,
“Keep quiet. I will talk. Your aunt is not an easy woman.”

When we entered the house, my aunt was furious.

“Listen,” she said to my cousin, “what you are teaching Nguaendomuua is wrong. I do not like it. You expose her to men. Do you want her to behave like you?”

My cousin did not stay silent.

“Aunty Ngarii, I am working. I am a chief accountant at Tereka Trading CC. How would you know how well I am doing if you chased me out of your house? Sometimes we have meetings with clients.”

My aunt said nothing more to her.

After my cousin left, my aunt called me into the sitting room.

“So where were you last night?”

I felt my heart drop.

I told her that Vemuu came to pick me up.

She looked at me with disgust.

“You will not tell me what to do in my own house. Your mother sent you here to study — not to sleep around.”

By then, my throat was dry.

“I called every number you gave me,” she continued. “One driver said he dropped you at Okabashu-Kovahimba. A security guard said you left with a grown man in a Golf. Do I look like an idiot?”

One of those numbers must have been Mr. Brown Jersey’s. He never answered.

I had made a terrible mistake.

This was not the first impression I wanted to give my aunt.

As I stood there, drowning in shame, she told me to go to the garage.

“There is a mattress there. Clean the kitchen first. You will sleep in the garage. I do not allow liars and whores to sleep inside my house. Your mother had to beg me to let you stay.”

She walked to her room and closed the door.

I stood there quietly.

Is this what I dreamed about?

Is this the life I imagined when I thought about the city of lights?

Tell me,

What would you have done?

As I lay on the mattress in the garage, staring at the dark ceiling, I whispered to myself:

“Welcome to the city… A Girl from Ehomba Mountain.”

The End of Chapter Three

Wait for Part Four as A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING continues…

 

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CHAPTER FOUR

A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING

From the Mountain to the City Lights

I had only been in Windhoek for 24 hours.

In just one day, I had already travelled with strangers, been drugged, and nearly lost myself. My head was still aching, my stomach was painful, and I could still feel the effects of whatever had been put into my drink. If the police had tested me, I am sure they would have found drugs in my blood.

And now, I was in my aunt’s house, or rather, her garage.

I had not eaten anything in her house. I had not even been offered water. Instead, I was cleaning her kitchen like a servant.

“Is my aunt turning me into her maid… or her slave?” I asked myself.

I went back to the garage and lay down on the thin mattress, covering myself with a small blanket. Then I remembered the food in my bag, otjisema and omaere.

(Otjisema means porridge, and omaere means sour milk.)

At least, I would not sleep hungry.

I only had two days left before I had to register at UNAM.

And already, I felt like I was living in hell.

As I lay there, trying to rest, something suddenly moved.

I jumped.

It was the vibration of the small phone, okasaru or okandotja, that my cousin had given me.

It was Ndjona-Top.

I answered.

She asked how I was coping.

When I told her I was sleeping on a mattress in the garage, she became quiet for a moment.

“Living with Aunty Ngarii will not be easy,” she said.

I told her the truth.

“If I do not get a place in the hostel, I will be stuck here. I cannot afford to rent a place in Windhoek. I will have to live in this house… and face your aunt every day.”

I also told her that my aunt had found out I was not with her the previous night.

“A security guard told her,” I said.

She felt sorry for me, but there was nothing she could do. She already shared a small flat with Kenaa. There was no space.

Suddenly, I heard my aunt’s car.

I looked through the small garage window.

She was leaving.

I quickly told Ndjona-Top.

She asked, “Has she gone to sleep?”

“No,” I said. “She just left.”

Then she said something that shocked me.

“Get up. I am coming to take you out.”

I was afraid.

After what had happened the previous night, I could not risk it again.

“No,” I said. “I will sleep.”

But Ndjona-Top is not someone who takes “no” for an answer.

As my mother says, “ngu hari ovikurya mbya rara.”

(It means she does not eat yesterday’s food, she always wants something new.)

She convinced me.

She said she had lived in this house before. She knew everything. She knew how to move without being seen.

I fell asleep for a short time.

Then suddenly, she woke me up.

“Get dressed,” she said. “Let me take you out of this pitiful garage.”

I was shocked.

“How did you get in?” I asked.

She smiled.

“I know this house,” she said. “When Aunty leaves, she does not check the garage. We will make it look like you are sleeping.”

She arranged pillows under the blanket.

Then she gave me a short dress and high heels.

“Wear this,” she said.

Before I could think twice, we had already left the house.

Outside, a black BMW was waiting.

Inside were two men.

They were older. Well dressed. Wearing gold chains and expensive watches.

“These are businessmen,” Ndjona-Top said. “They like to be entertained. They have money.”

I looked at them and felt uneasy.

“Come on, hurry,” one of them said. “We will be late.”

We got into the car.

As we drove, I started to get angry.

“What if my aunt comes back and checks the garage?” I asked. “What if she finds I am not there? I will be homeless.”

But then something happened that changed everything.

The driver handed Ndjona-Top a bag full of money.

N$200 notes.

So much money.

More than I had ever seen in my life.

Then he looked at me and said,

“Como estás, bonita?”

(How are you, beautiful?)

“My name is Vintolinio,” he continued. “But you can call me Ma-Cups. You look beautiful. We will have a good time tonight. This money is yours.”

At that moment, my fear changed.

Into excitement.

I forgot about the garage.

I forgot about my aunt.

The truth is, I had no money.

Only N$300 that my mother had saved for me.

And it was clear that my aunt was not going to support me.

So even though I knew it was wrong…

It felt good.

Ndjona-Top showed me how to sneak in and out of the house. She still had copies of the keys from when she lived there.

When we reached town, I asked where we were going.

“Avani Hotel,” she said. “One of the best places.”

And truly, it was beautiful.

The place looked better. It smelled better. It felt different.

Nothing like the bar I had seen the previous night.

When we entered, people greeted the man.

“Cota Vintolinio Ma-Cups! Como você está?”

“Tô bem,” he replied.

(I am fine.)

“Tá fixe,” someone said.

(It is good.)

He was clearly important.

I thought about my mother.

If she could see me now…

She would be heartbroken.

But I was also seeing another side of my cousin.

A side I had never known before.

The way she walked. The way she spoke. The way she smiled at the men.

She was confident.

Like a lioness.

I wondered about the man from the previous night, the one with the Golf 7 R. But I did not ask.

Ndjona-Top disappeared for a while.

I sat alone in the VIP section.

I did not drink alcohol. I did not behave like the others. My hair was simple. All the other girls had long Brazilian hair.

I felt out of place.

Around me, people were laughing loudly.

A girl was sitting on a man’s lap, kissing him.

I felt uncomfortable.

So, for the first time in my life, I tried alcohol.

Just to fit in.

After some time, I went outside to look for my cousin.

I found her with one of the men.

I returned inside.

Then Ma-Cups held my hand.

“We are leaving,” he said.

We drove to a place called Academia.

A rich neighbourhood.

There were many cars following us.

When we arrived, I was amazed.

The house was huge.

There was even an indoor swimming pool.

I had never seen such a place before.

For a moment, I forgot everything.

The music.

The drinks.

The money.

Everything made me feel like I belonged.

But deep inside, something did not feel right.

People were disappearing into rooms.

Coming back.

Laughing.

Touching.

I realised that the money we received… was not just for nothing.

Fear returned.

“I want to go home,” I told my cousin.

But no one opened the doors.

I felt trapped.

“What have I done?” I asked myself.

Then suddenly,

Police lights flashed outside.

My heart came back to life.

The police entered and told everyone to leave. The neighbours had complained about noise.

I begged them,

“Please take us home.”

One policewoman looked at us and said,

“You are drinking too much with those men, and you are dressed badly. You are bringing shame.”

Her words hurt me.

But another police officer agreed to take us home.

He knew my cousin.

But she was too drunk to recognise him.

He dropped her first.

Then he drove me to my aunt’s house.

“You know,” he said, “I know your aunt. She would not allow you to be out this late.”

I answered quietly,

“No… she would not.”

When we arrived, he took a picture of me at the gate.

I was shocked.

“Why?” I asked.

“It is procedure,” he said.

Then his voice changed.

“If you want me to keep quiet about tonight… you must be with me.”

My heart stopped.

He reminded me of the picture.

He gave me his number.

“You have until Wednesday,” he said.

Then he drove away.

I stood there in silence.

Life was becoming too heavy for me.

I had a choice to make.

My dignity.

Or my place to stay.

I entered the house quietly using Ndjona-Top’s method.

Everything was silent.

My aunt’s car was in the yard.

I went to the garage.

My body was tired.

My head was aching.

My legs were painful from the high heels.

But when I opened my bag and saw the money…

For a moment, I smiled.

Then my phone vibrated.

A message.

“You have until Wednesday :-)”

It was the police officer.

Even a smiley face.

He was serious.

I lay on the mattress.

Alone.

Confused.

Afraid.

What would you have done?

As I closed my eyes, I whispered again:

“Welcome to the city… A Girl from Ehomba Mountain.”

The End of Chapter Four

Wait for Part Five as A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING continues…

 

 

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CHAPTER FIVE

A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING

From the Mountain to the City Lights

Sunday morning came, but I had not really slept.

How could I sleep after everything that had happened?

How could I ever forget my first weekend in Windhoek?

Part of me wished I was back home in Ehomba, kOndundu yetu mbwae (at our mountain, my dear). Back in my small hut made of thatch and cow dung, where I had a simple wooden bed but at least I had peace.

But then I remembered something I did not have back home.

Money.

Ovimariva ovitenda mbyari pomwinyo wamuhona Jesu!!

(The kind of money that feels like it was present at the death of Jesus, meaning a shocking amount.)

I took out my handbag and also Ndjona-Top’s purse, which I had kept safely because she was too drunk the previous night to carry it herself.

I began counting.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Ten times.

In my purse alone, N$4000.

In Ndjona-Top’s purse, N$6000.

Ten thousand dollars in total.

My hands were shaking.

What if Cota Ma-Cups came back demanding his money because I had not done what he expected?

Before I could think further, my aunt called me into the sitting room.

I quickly pushed the money back into my backpack.

She said that if we were going to live together peacefully, I needed to tell her the truth.

My heart stopped.

Did she know I had sneaked out again?

But no.

She wanted to know about Friday, about how I arrived and how I ended up at Vemuu’s place.

So I told her everything.

The full story.

She was not happy.

“You were foolish to trust strangers,” she said.

But she accepted that I was a village girl who had been taken advantage of.

Then she said in Otjiherero:

“Imwi omumukutu mburi Kavangarutjindo… andakuzu Kavangarutjindo okeri kouye etje kuraera okutja murivi.”

(This city of Kavangarutjindo, if Kavangarutjindo himself were here, he would tell you what kind of city this is.)

She warned me.

“Windhoek is not safe for young girls like you. Avoid Ndjona-Top. Do not become like her.”

Then, to my surprise, she showed me a proper room.

My new room.

She told me to eat breakfast, clean the house, clean the windows, and that it was punishment for lying.

But I did not even hear the punishment properly.

All I could think about was:

A real bed.

She also said,

“You look untidy. Your eyes are red. Go bath.”

If only she knew.

I bathed in warm water for the first time in my life.

Warm water.

I felt like I was being reborn.

Then I went to eat.

I ate like a goat, without shame.

For the first time, I started to feel like maybe… just maybe… I could survive in the City of Lights.

Later, I wondered where my aunt was going so early on a Sunday. She was not dressed for church. She looked like a businesswoman.

After breakfast, I lay on the couch.

I slept deeply.

The sound of her car returning woke me.

I panicked.

I had not cleaned the windows.

The mattress was still in the garage.

I rushed to pretend I was cleaning.

She stepped out of her Audi Q7 with the private number plate “Ngarix Q7 NA.”

Then something terrible happened.

She picked up my backpack.

Inside were the two purses.

My heart was beating so fast I thought I would collapse.

If she saw the money, what would I say?

She asked why I had not cleaned.

This time, I told the truth.

“I fell asleep.”

She did not seem angry.

She simply said,

“Next time, finish your duties before sleeping.”

Then she spoke in Otjiherero-Tjautua:

“Ami shirishiri hivanga, ovandu mbe havanga okuungura shiri, sharwe poyandje mozupo shiri.”

(I do not like people who do not work hard. If you do not work, you leave my house.)

She went into her room.

She had not found the money.

I breathed again.

Then she told me something unexpected.

She had an urgent flight to Brazil.

She would be gone for one week.

She handed me N$500 for emergencies.

She gave me emergency contacts.

She said Mr. Mbaa would check on me.

Then she left.

Her friend drove her to Hosea Kutako International Airport.

For the first time since arriving in Windhoek, I was alone.

Truly alone.

I sat quietly and thought.

Maybe my aunt was not the devil my family had described.

Maybe she was just strict.

Maybe she was protecting me.

It was around 17h00 when I realised I had not spoken to Ndjona-Top all day.

I needed to tell her something important.

That dragging me into her lifestyle was a mistake.

I went to the shop and bought N$100 airtime.

As I walked back, I counted the money again.

N$300 from my mother.

N$500 from my aunt.

N$4000 from Cota Ma-Cups.

N$6000 from Ndjona-Top’s purse.

N$10 800 in total.

I had never held that much money in my life.

My mother’s N$300 had been saved slowly in wrinkled N$10 notes.

This money felt powerful.

Was I becoming addicted?

Or was I just feeling what rich people feel every day?

Instead of shouting at my cousin, I texted her:

“I miss you, beautiful.”

“Thanks for last night. Best cousy in the world.”

Her phone was off.

I was not worried.

She knows how to survive.

I called my mother instead.

I told her only the good things.

That my aunt was kind.

That I had settled well.

I hid the truth.

Then the intercom rang.

“Hallo,” I answered.

“Hallo Muuax,” a man’s voice said.

“Yes, how may I help you?”

“Your aunt told me she is travelling. She asked me to check on you. My name is Mr. Mbaa.”

My heart skipped.

“Yes sir, she told me,” I replied.

I opened the gate using the remote.

I watched him walk in.

Then I froze.

It was him.

The police officer.

The same man who had taken my picture.

The same man who had blackmailed me.

Mr. Officer.

He smiled.

“May I come in?” he asked.

My legs felt weak.

“It is good your aunt is out of town,” he said softly. “Now we have time. Did you think about my offer?”

My heart felt like ice.

Then it began to melt into fear.

Life was just starting to feel balanced again.

And now this.

Christmas had arrived too early, but not for me.

For him.

And I stood there…

Like a snowman under the sun.

The End of Chapter Five

Wait for Part Six as A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING continues…

 

 

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CHAPTER SIX

A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING

From the Mountain to the City Lights

Have you ever found yourself in a situation where you only have two choices, and both of them are wrong?

That was where I was.

It was no longer about choosing what was right. It was about survival.

Do… or be destroyed.

Mr. Officer walked into the house like he belonged there. He sat comfortably on the couch, relaxed, as if this was his own home.

He was not wearing his police uniform this time. Instead, he wore a slim polo shirt, neatly tucked in, with shining black shoes. He looked clean, well prepared — like a man who had just come from church.

But I knew better.

He was not here for church.

He was here for me.

He looked like a man in his mid-thirties. But there was something about him that made me uncomfortable. I did not want to sit close to him.

And then I realised something.

If my aunt trusted him enough to check on the house, then she would also trust him more than me.

If he spoke against me…

I would lose everything.

This house.

My place in Windhoek.

My dream.

And if I lost this place, I would have no choice but to follow Ndjona-Top’s lifestyle — moving from one man to another just to survive.

That was not my dream.

I tried to remain calm.

I offered him juice.

I tried to talk about normal things, hoping to keep him distracted.

I asked him how he knew my aunt.

He smiled and said,

“We have known each other for a long time. When she was still studying at the Polytechnic of Namibia, now NUST, she used to stay at my sister’s place in Katutura.”

He spoke as if everything was normal.

But nothing was normal.

After more than an hour, he became bored.

Before I could think of something else to say, he stood up and came to sit next to me.

Too close.

He put his arm around my shoulder.

“Let us go to the room,” he said.

My heart began to beat fast.

I begged him.

But the more I begged, the more he seemed to enjoy it.

I felt trapped.

I tried to explain.

“I am not ready,” I said. “I have never been with a man. Please… give me time.”

I was saying things I had never imagined I would say to a stranger.

But he became angry.

He pushed me back onto the couch.

“You are wasting my time,” he said harshly.

“Me, I can do whatever I want.”

He warned me not to scream.

“No one will help you,” he said. “Even if you report me, the case will disappear.”

At that moment, I understood something very painful.

The person who was supposed to protect me…

Was the one hurting me.

In my village, a police officer is respected. He is seen as the law.

But here…

He was using his power against me.

I was afraid.

Deeply afraid.

I realised I needed to survive.

I needed to think.

So I told him,

“Please wait. Let me prepare.”

I needed a way out.

Anything.

After some time, I managed to break away from him and rushed to the bathroom. I locked the door.

I stood in front of the mirror.

I could not recognise the girl I saw.

I brushed my teeth.

I washed my face.

And I cried.

Silently.

I felt empty.

As if something inside me had been taken away.

“Open the door!” he shouted, knocking hard.

“You are taking too long!”

I wiped my tears.

I forced myself to breathe.

Then I opened the door.

He was waiting.

He smiled.

“I will consider our agreement done,” he said.

Then he left.

The house became quiet again.

But inside me, there was no peace.

I went to my room and lay down.

I was tired.

Broken.

All I wanted was sleep.

Then my phone rang.

It was Ndjona-Top.

She was laughing.

Talking about how much fun she had the previous night.

How I had ruined the party by wanting to leave early.

For a moment, I thought she would ask me if I was okay.

But she did not.

When she heard my voice, she noticed something was wrong.

“I am coming,” she said.

When she arrived, she looked at me carefully.

“Hey, sissy,” she said softly.

“I know you are far from home. Life here is crazy. Omwano mbo uriri motjirongo tjokakambe.”
(It means: it is just like that in the city.)

“After a few days, you will get used to it.”

I wanted to tell her everything.

But I could not.

I was ashamed.

Then she said something that surprised me.

“Get ready. We are going out. You need a drink, mundu wa mama.”

(Mundu wa mama means my sister.)

“Today, it is just us girls. I will introduce you to the Hot Girls of UNAM.”

I looked at her.

Does she ever get tired?

Does she ever stop?

But I did not have the strength to argue.

My aunt was not around.

I had money.

And maybe…

Just maybe…

I needed to forget.

As I got dressed, I gave Ndjona-Top her purse.

“Do you want to count the money?” I asked.

She laughed.

“I already know,” she said. “Yours is N$4000. Mine is N$6000. I am the queen.”

I stayed quiet.

But inside, I was asking myself:

Is my own cousin using me?

We went to Okabashu-Kovahimba in Katutura.

The place was full of lights.

Music.

Young people.

Everyone looked stylish.

The boys wore tight jeans and slim shirts.

The girls wore short dresses and heels.

They looked confident.

Beautiful.

I looked at myself.

I did not look like them.

But I did not care.

Tonight, I wanted to forget.

We danced.

We laughed.

For a moment, I felt free.

Ndjona-Top introduced me to her friends:

Kenaa.

And Tjipaa, also called Tjipa-Tjipa.

They were beautiful.

Confident.

Strong.

More girls joined us.

Soon, some men noticed us.

They bought champagne.

More bottles came.

Music became louder.

People started singing:

“Started from the bottom, now we here!”

Money was thrown into the air.

Some girls picked it up.

But Ndjona-Top and her friends did not.

They took pictures.

Posted them online.

Smiling.

Living their best lives.

By the end of the night, I was drunk.

But happy.

Or at least… pretending to be.

Later, Tjipaa dropped me home in her Mercedes-Benz.

Before leaving, Ndjona-Top said,

“Do not forget your admission letter. Ove ngu meraere nao.”

(It means: I am talking to you.)

I said, “Alright.”

And went inside.

The next thing I knew, the sun was shining in my face.

I woke up in panic.

Something was wrong.

Very wrong.

I checked my phone.

16:45.

Five missed calls from Ndjona-Top.

And a message from my mother:

“My child, wake up. Remember to take your admission letter. You must register today. I love you.”

The message was sent at 07:00.

My heart dropped.

I had missed registration.

I sat there in silence.

What have I done?

If I do not register, I may lose my place.

If I lose my place…

I lose my dream.

My bursary.

My future.

Was my dream destroyed…

Because of one night?

Because of money?

Because of this city?

My heart became heavy again.

Tell me…

What would you have done?

As I looked around the quiet room, I whispered once more:

“Welcome to the city… A Girl from Ehomba Mountain.”

 

The End of Chapter Six

Wait for Part Seven as A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING continues…

 

 

 

 

 

 

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CHAPTER SEVEN

A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING

From the Mountain to the City Lights

Before I could even take a shower, my cousin called again.

“Wa register hapo, ongwaiye tji uhina okutoora ongoze yandje hapo?”

(Did you register? Why were you not answering my calls?)

I started stammering.

“I… I… I just woke up now.”

There was silence for a moment.

“I called you this morning,” she said. “You said you were getting dressed.”

My heart sank.

I must have spoken while I was still asleep.

“Hikuvaze owazara meya nambano,” she continued.

(Can I find you dressed? I am coming now.)

Before I could think, I heard a taxi hooting outside.

She had already arrived.

We rushed to UNAM.

It was already after 17h00.

The campus was still full of students standing in long queues, trying to register.

My head was still heavy from the hangover, but I tried to act serious. I drank a Red Bull and a lot of water, hoping to feel better.

My cousin took me straight to the SRC office.

Inside, a young man was sitting in a leather chair, talking to some girls.

“This is Tusu,” she said. “SRC for Entertainment and Recreation.”

He looked confident. Calm.

My cousin asked the girls to leave because she needed to talk privately.

The girls left reluctantly. I could see it on their faces, they did not want to go. Tusu was attractive, like a prince in his own kingdom.

After they left, my cousin handed him my documents:

My admission letter.

My bursary letter from the Namibia Law Society.

And N$7500 for registration.

“Please help her,” she said.

He smiled at me and shook my hand firmly.

“Nice to meet you,” he said.

His eyes were beautiful, and for a moment, I forgot everything else.

As we were leaving, my cousin said quietly,

“Make sure you do it. You know I know where your room is.”

At that time, I thought she was joking.

As we walked around campus, I noticed how popular my cousin was.

“Hi NT!” people called out to her everywhere.

NT, Ndjona-Top.

Everyone knew her.

Everyone respected her.

But I still felt out of place.

The way people dressed…

Makuzu o swagga.

(Meaning they had style.)

I felt like a village girl.

But I tried not to think too much about it.

We went to the cafeteria to eat.

My cousin told me that this was where lecturers usually sit.

The place was calm. Clean. Quiet.

People looked older, more serious.

I felt nervous.

I was afraid my Otjihimba accent would come out if I spoke.

This place was different from Okambashu-kovahimba, where everything was loud, free, and wild.

As we waited for our food, my cousin looked at me seriously.

“Listen,” she said.

“That place, Okambashu-kovahimba, is for girls who pretend to have class, and boys who waste money.”

She leaned closer.

“We are not like them.”

“You met Kenaa and Tjipaa. We call ourselves 3 Ozonduna.”

(Ozonduna means the top girls.)

“We are the girls of this campus.”

“If a man wants you, he must treat you like a diamond.”

“And if he wants you, he must know he is dealing with something valuable.”

She paused.

“You have a free ticket to join us… because you are my cousin.”

“But you must keep up.”

“And remember, never give yourself easily. Unless he has something good to offer.”

I listened.

But deep inside, I felt confused.

All I wanted was to study.

To focus.

To become a lawyer.

But at the same time…

I could not lie.

The money.

The attention.

The lifestyle.

It was tempting.

Who gets N$4000 just for showing up at a party?

We finished eating and went to Tjipaa’s house in Klein Windhoek.

Her life was different.

Big house.

Luxury cars.

A Mercedes-Benz C63.

Range Rover.

Jaguar.

BMW X6.

More cars in the garage.

She lived like she had no problems.

Like life was easy.

Inside her room, they opened their phones and looked at pictures from the previous night.

I saw myself.

I looked drunk.

Lost.

Like I did not belong.

But they looked beautiful.

Perfect.

They were getting hundreds of likes.

Like celebrities.

“I chose the best pictures,” Tjipaa said. “The ones where you don’t look too much like a Himba.”

They laughed.

I smiled.

But inside… I felt something break.

“Do you have Facebook?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “I only heard people talk about it.”

They looked at each other.

“We will create one for you,” Ndjona-Top said.

“And we will change your look.”

“New clothes. New hair. New life.”

“With us, boys will love you… and girls will envy you.”

Soon, everything changed.

New clothes.

New shoes.

New hair, 18-inch Brazilian hair.

A new iPhone.

A new identity.

We created my Facebook account.

My cousin posted pictures of us with the hashtag:

#MyCousinIsHotterThanYours

And the likes started coming.

Hundreds.

Just like that.

Windhoek was starting to feel like home.

Days passed.

I spoke like them.

I dressed like them.

I laughed like them.

Every day, I called my mother and told her everything was fine.

I did not tell her the truth.

My aunt also called often.

Sometimes, I wanted to tell her about Mr. Mbaa… Mr. Officer.

But I was afraid.

So I kept quiet.

By Friday, my aunt had been gone for five days.

She was coming back on Sunday.

But that night, the Ozonduna were going to an all-white party at Herero Mall.

I was ready.

I was part of the crew.

We arrived at around 02:00.

Me.

Ndjona-Top.

Kenaa.

Tjipaa.

And the men were there too.

Cota Ma-Cups.

Aju.

They always had money.

Bundles of cash tied with rubber bands.

This time, I noticed something.

Aju was Kenaa’s ex.

But he was also close to my cousin.

Nothing made sense anymore.

The party was big.

Music.

Lights.

VIP section.

Bottles arriving one after the other.

Cota Ma-Cups reserved the best place.

This time, he was gentle with me.

He spoke softly.

Told me about his businesses in Angola.

Complimented me.

“You are beautiful… u meu amor,” he said.

But now…

I understood.

My cousin pulled me away.

“That guy wants you,” she said.

I froze.

Everything made sense.

The money.

The attention.

The kindness.

It was never free.

I walked outside.

I needed air.

I needed to think.

But it was too late.

I was already inside this life.

I had taken the money.

I could not go back.

Suddenly, he came.

Cota Ma-Cups.

He grabbed my hand.

Strong.

Too strong.

Before I could react, he was pulling me toward his Range Rover.

I tried to resist.

But he was faster.

Stronger.

And before anyone could stop him…

We were already gone.

Driving into the night.

Fast.

Too fast.

And in that moment…

Fear took over me completely.

The End of Chapter Seven

Wait for Part Eight as A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING continues…

 

 

 

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CHAPTER EIGHT

A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING

From the Mountain to the City Lights

My dream of staying in Windhoek was slowly turning into a nightmare.

Once again, I was in a situation where I had no control.

Cota Ma-Cups drove fast. I screamed. I shouted. I tried to open the door. But the car would not stop.

Then he did something that froze my blood.

He reached into his side and placed a 9mm pistol on the dashboard.

I became silent.

I cried quietly.

In that moment, I truly believed I was going to die.

“Why have you abandoned me, God?” I whispered inside my heart.

Then he said words I will never forget:

“I am going to rape you. Nobody disrespects me the way you and your cousin did. I am Cota Ma-Cups,  a respected man in Angola. I will teach you a lesson.”

He laughed.

“If you want money, take it. But if you try to run, I will deal with you.”

We arrived at a house I did not recognise.

It was dark.

Far from the city lights.

Quiet.

Too quiet.

He ordered me out of the car.

My legs were shaking.

He dragged me upstairs into a bedroom.

I was already wearing a short dress. I felt exposed. Weak.

He slapped me.

Hard.

He pushed me onto the bed.

I screamed.

I begged him to stop.

But he did not listen.

He forced himself on me.

He did not know I was still a virgin.

He did not know how painful it was.

I thought this was the end.

Then suddenly,

A loud crack.

A bottle smashed.

He fell to the floor.

For a second, I thought it was his wife.

But when I looked carefully, I saw a young woman standing there, crying.

Behind her,

Ndjona-Top.

Kenaa.

Tjipaa.

They had followed us.

Ndjona-Top ran to me and wrapped a towel around my body.

I cried uncontrollably.

Cota Ma-Cups was on the floor, shaking.

Kenaa quickly checked his pulse.

“Guys… I think he is not breathing,” she said.

“How do you know?” Tjipaa asked.

“I am studying nursing,” Kenaa replied.

Silence.

Fear.

Shock.

The young woman who had hit him began to speak.

“My name is Natacha. I am from Angola. This man brought me here when I was young. He promised me work. Instead, he kept me here. He and his friends raped me many times.”

My heart broke.

She looked at me.

“I could not let him hurt another girl.”

She said she would go to the police and report herself.

No.

We could not let her do that.

If he was dead…

Everything would change.

Our lives.

My dream.

Everything.

Ndjona-Top took control.

“We clean up. We leave nothing behind.”

Her voice was calm but strong.

We wiped surfaces.

We removed traces.

We moved carefully.

Then Ndjona-Top said something unexpected.

“He keeps money under the bed.”

And she was right.

There was a bag full of cash.

She looked at Natacha.

“Take the money. Leave. No one knows you. Go back home. Start a new life.”

Natacha hesitated.

But she took it.

And disappeared into the darkness.

We drove away in Tjipaa’s Mercedes.

In the back seat, my cousin held me tightly.

For the first time, I felt her love, not the party girl, not the wild cousin, but the protective sister.

We were silent.

Then suddenly, Tjipaa stopped the car.

Turned off the engine.

We all hugged each other.

Ndjona-Top spoke softly:

“For the Ozonduna Sisterhood, what we do, what we say, stays with us. It dies with us.”

We placed our hands together.

And made a vow.

I joined.

By choice.

As we drove to Tjipaa’s house, my mind would not rest.

What if he was not dead?

What if the police found out?

What if we were seen?

I could have reported it as self-defence.

But Natacha had acted first.

She had saved my life.

How could we betray her?

Still, I could not ignore the truth.

If this came out…

My dream of becoming a lawyer would be over.

My mother’s heart would break.

At Tjipaa’s house, everything looked normal.

Her mother gave us biscuits and juice.

Her stepfather had just returned from a trip to England.

He told Tjipaa they needed to talk later.

Something about his hand gesture made me uncomfortable.

But I stayed quiet.

We all said, “The night was fine.”

Lies.

More lies.

Later, as we tried to sleep, I could not.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Cota Ma-Cups on top of me.

I felt his weight.

His breath.

His anger.

I woke up sweating.

Shaking.

I stood up to go to the bathroom.

I was still in pain.

I needed to check myself.

To make sure he had not taken something from me.

I whispered,

“Thank you, God.”

As I stepped out of the bathroom, I saw something strange.

Tjipaa was not in the room.

I saw her walking toward the guest rooms outside.

Maybe she also could not sleep.

I waited a few minutes.

Then I followed her.

The door to the guest room was slightly open.

A small lamp was on.

And what I saw inside…

Made my heart stop.

A big man.

On top of a small child.

Both frozen when they saw me.

My mouth opened.

“Aayee, mbwae tjiri nu!”

(No, my dear, seriously!!)

The world spun again.

Another secret.

Another darkness.

And I was standing right in the middle of it.

The End of Chapter Eight

Wait for Part Nine as A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING continues…

 

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CHAPTER NINE

A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING

From the Mountain to the City Lights

I did not look back.

I quickly left that room and went straight to Tjipaa’s bedroom.

My heart was beating so fast that I could hear it in my ears.

After a few minutes, maybe ten, Tjipaa came back. I pretended to be asleep on the mattress next to Ndjona-Top. Kenaa was already asleep on the bed.

I did not say a word.

Before the sun could rise, I got up and left.

I could not stay there any longer.

When I went to the dining room, everyone was already there for breakfast, Tjipaa, her mother, and her stepfather, Mundux, whom she called Papa Mundux.

Everything looked normal.

Too normal.

I kept my head down.

I avoided looking at him.

But even without raising my eyes, I could feel him looking at me.

That look made my skin crawl.

He picked up an apple and a cup of tea, then left.

No one said anything.

No one asked anything.

And that silence… was louder than words.

After breakfast, we all left.

Ndjona-Top and Kenaa were dropped off at their place in Khomasdal.

Then Tjipaa drove me home in her Mercedes.

Inside the car, there was silence.

Heavy silence.

When we arrived, I rushed to get out.

“Wait,” she said.

I stopped.

She looked at me seriously.

“You must not talk about what you saw.”

My heart tightened.

“It is not my business,” I said quietly.

She nodded.

“I know,” she replied.

But her eyes told me something else.

This was not just a request.

It was a warning.

I entered my aunt’s house.

For the first time, I felt relief.

Home.

Safe.

But even that feeling did not last long.

So many things had happened in just a few days.

So many secrets.

So much darkness.

I started to think…

Maybe this is what life in the city is like.

Maybe this is normal.

But deep inside, I knew…

This was not normal.

My aunt was coming back the next day.

I decided to clean the house.

Everything had to be perfect.

After cleaning, I made a snack and took one of her books to read.

But before I could start, my phone rang.

It was Tusu.

He asked me to meet him at Maerua Mall.

My heart felt light.

Finally… something good.

As I was about to leave, the intercom rang.

It was him.

Mr. Officer.

Again.

“Open,” he said.

For a moment, fear returned.

What if he knew everything?

What if he came to arrest me?

But then I remembered…

He was not here for justice.

He was here for himself.

I stood strong.

“I do not care,” I said. “Do what you want.”

For the first time, I spoke like a city girl.

Confident.

Fearless.

I walked out of the house without looking back.

He stood there, confused, watching me leave.

This time…

I was not afraid.

At the mall, Tusu was waiting.

He smiled when he saw me.

And for a moment…

Everything felt peaceful.

He gave me my documents:

My registration confirmation.

My timetable.

My book list.

Everything I needed.

Finally, I felt like a student.

Like I belonged.

We spent the whole day together.

Talking.

Laughing.

He told me about university life.

“That is where the real work begins,” he said.

“Lecturers guide you, but most of the learning is your own responsibility.”

He spoke like someone who understood life.

He was a final-year law student.

He had plans.

A future.

And for the first time…

I saw mine clearly again.

We watched a movie together.

A romantic one.

And slowly…

I started to feel something.

Something I had not felt since I came to Windhoek.

Safety.

Respect.

Warmth.

When we left, he insisted on walking me home.

“I want to make sure you are safe,” he said.

And I believed him.

As we reached the gate, I saw something.

A police car.

Passing by.

Mr. Officer.

He saw us.

I saw his face.

Jealous.

Angry.

But I did not care.

For once, I felt protected.

Inside the house, everything was quiet.

We sat down.

Turned on the TV.

The movie The Notebook was playing.

A love story.

Soft.

Beautiful.

I made him juice.

We sat close.

And slowly…

We kissed.

It was my first real kiss.

Gentle.

Warm.

Safe.

In his arms, I felt protected.

Like nothing bad could happen to me.

For the first time…

I allowed myself to feel.

To trust.

Time passed.

We lay together, talking, laughing, holding each other.

I forgot everything.

The fear.

The pain.

The darkness.

Everything.

Until my phone rang.

Loud.

Sharp.

Breaking the silence.

I answered, annoyed.

“What do you want?” I said.

It was him.

Mr. Officer.

His voice was calm.

Too calm.

“If you are still with your teddy bear,” he said,

“you better tell him to hide.”

My heart stopped.

“Your aunt is at the gate.”

I froze.

I heard voices outside.

Keys.

The gate opening.

My aunt was home.

Now.

Everything changed in a second.

The peace.

The love.

The moment.

Gone.

Tusu’s clothes were on the floor.

My heart was racing.

My mind was spinning.

And in that moment…

I knew.

Everything was about to fall apart.

The End of Chapter Nine

Wait for Part Ten as A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING continues…

 

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CHAPTER TEN

A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING

From the Mountain to the City Lights

When I heard my aunt’s voice outside, my whole body froze.

My heart started beating so fast that I thought it would come out of my chest.

If she found Tusu in my room… in my bed…

Everything would be over.

I did not even think about what Tusu would think of me. At that moment, I only wanted to survive.

“Get into the closet,” I whispered quickly.

He looked at me, confused, but he did not argue. He moved fast and hid inside.

I rushed to pick up our clothes from the floor in the sitting room, my hands shaking, and ran back to my room. I quickly put on my pyjamas and jumped into bed, pretending to be asleep.

My aunt did not waste time.

She came straight to my room.

“Wake up,” she said.

I opened my eyes slowly, acting like I had just woken up.

She looked around.

Then she said something that surprised me.

“The house is clean.”

Her voice was calm.

She asked me to go outside and help bring her bags from her friend’s car. I did not even know the friend, but they seemed very close.

I walked outside, trying to act normal, while inside my heart was screaming.

The whole time, I could only think about one thing.

Tusu.

Inside the closet.

If she opened that door…

It would be the end.

I stayed awake until almost five in the morning.

Helping her.

Moving things.

Talking.

Pretending everything was normal.

I was tired, but I could not sleep.

I was guarding a secret.

After everything, my aunt said she was tired.

“Go and sleep,” she told me. “We will talk later.”

Relief washed over me.

I went back to my room.

Closed the door.

And sat on the bed.

For a moment, I smiled.

That day had been different.

No drama.

No Ndjona-Top.

No chaos.

Just peace.

Just me.

And Tusu.

For the first time, I felt like I could live my life without being pulled into everything else.

But then reality came back.

Tusu was still inside the closet.

How was I going to get him out?

If my aunt found him…

She would chase me out of the house.

She had already warned me.

“No prostitution in this house.”

Even though that was not what I was doing…

She would not believe me.

I waited.

And waited.

My aunt was still awake, talking to her friend in her home office.

Time moved slowly.

The night started to become morning.

Light began to enter through the windows.

Finally…

Silence.

I listened carefully.

No footsteps.

No voices.

Nothing.

I stood up slowly.

Opened the closet.

Tusu came out quietly.

We did not speak.

We just looked at each other.

And then…

He left.

Quietly.

Carefully.

Without a sound.

When he was gone, I went back to my room.

I saw his vest lying on my bed.

I picked it up.

And held it close to me.

For a moment, I felt him again.

His warmth.

His presence.

Then, suddenly, I thought about Mr. Officer.

If he had not called…

My aunt would have found us.

Everything would have been destroyed.

In a strange way…

He had saved me.

But that did not change what he had done to me before.

Some things cannot be erased.

Later, my aunt woke me up again.

“Morara ovikwaiye nao muatje ove,” she said.

(Why are you still sleeping, my child?)

“Can you not see what time it is? Can you not see that the sun has already risen?”

But this time, she was not angry.

She told me to rest.

She said she would be working in her office.

“No noise,” she added. “Not even water.”

The house was quiet.

Peaceful.

But my mind was not.

I had not heard from Ndjona-Top or the others.

Maybe that was a good thing.

After everything that had happened…

Maybe we all needed space.

I sat alone that Sunday afternoon, thinking about my life.

In just one week…

Everything had changed.

I had seen things I never imagined.

I had done things I never thought I would do.

But I had to survive.

Because giving up…

Was not an option.

Later, Mr. Officer texted me.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

For a moment, I did not know what to say.

But I replied.

“Thank you.”

We spoke for a while.

Then he asked me to meet him at the playground.

I told my aunt I was going to buy airtime.

And I went.

He was sitting on the swing.

Like nothing had ever happened.

I sat next to him.

He looked at me seriously.

“I have been patient with you,” he said. “Do not make me look like a fool.”

I could not believe him.

Was this the same man who said our deal was finished?

Now he was changing his words again.

I looked at him and said calmly,

“I came to say thank you. That is all.”

He held my hand.

“You think you are clever now,” he said.

“You think you can play games in Windhoek?”

“Imwi kamu haterwa mwakeyama… omotjirongo tjo kakambe.”

(You cannot play with Windhoek.)

That was the third time I heard those words.

“This is Windhoek.”

My aunt said it.

My cousin said it.

Now him.

I did not fully understand.

But I knew one thing.

Windhoek was not just a city.

It was a test.

When I returned home, my mind was on one person.

Tusu.

He had not called.

Not even a message.

I wanted to call him.

But I waited.

If he called…

I would tell him everything.

Maybe even tell him I loved him.

That evening, I was watching TV.

Then the news started.

And everything changed.

“Angolan businessman Vintolinho Paulo Makopi found dead in his luxury home…”

My heart stopped.

I could not breathe.

They continued:

“No signs of forced entry… police suspect personal reasons…”

My hands started shaking.

It was real.

He was dead.

I sat there, frozen.

I was part of this.

Even if I did not kill him…

I was there.

I knew what happened.

“Ovimariva o devil,” I whispered.

(Money is the devil.)

Everything started with money.

And now…

Look where I was.

I thought about going to the police.

Telling the truth.

Saying it was self-defence.

But what if they did not believe me?

There was no evidence.

We had cleaned everything.

And the girls…

We had made a promise.

A secret that would die with us.

My phone rang.

It was Ndjona-Top.

“Nguaendomuua, listen… Cota Ma-Cups is dead, waṱu.”

(He is dead.)

My heart dropped again.

She spoke fast.

“Do not leave the house. We are in trouble. Do not tell anyone.”

Her voice was shaking.

“Aju is looking for us. He came to our place with a gun. We ran away.”

My body went cold.

“Aju mavere oviyoze,” she said.

(That man is mentally unstable.)

“Do not make a mistake. Those people are dangerous.”

Then…

Noise.

Shouting.

The call ended.

Silence.

Heavy silence.

I tried to call her back.

Nothing.

Her phone was off.

“My Lord…” I whispered.

“What happened to my cousin?”

The End of Chapter Ten

Wait for Part Eleven as A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING continues…

 

 

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CHAPTER ELEVEN

A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING

From the Mountain to the City Lights

This time, it was not about my virginity.

It was not about losing my place to stay.

This time…

It was about my life.

My future.

My dream of becoming a lawyer.

My phone rang again.

My heart jumped.

When I saw the name, I breathed out in relief.

It was Ndjona-Top.

“Vemumbikura! You scared me!” I shouted. “How could you do that to me?”

She laughed nervously.

“It was Tjipaa,” she said. “She came from behind and touched my shoulder. I didn’t know it was her, so I screamed and dropped the phone.”

I had already imagined the worst.

That something terrible had happened.

Then her voice changed.

It became serious.

“Muramwandje mbatira tjiri…”

(My cousin, I am really afraid.)

For the first time…

Ndjona-Top sounded scared.

She explained everything.

Tjipaa had taken them to a two-bedroom flat in Academia.

It belonged to her stepfather… or maybe her lover.

That is where they were hiding.

Because of Aju.

Because of what happened.

Because of Cota Ma-Cups.

When Tjipaa arrived unexpectedly, Ndjona-Top thought something had happened.

That was why she screamed.

But even after that…

Her fear did not go away.

Back at home, my aunt was happy with me.

She saw me as a good girl.

A quiet girl.

An obedient girl.

For four days, I did not leave the house.

I cooked.

I cleaned.

I stayed inside.

“You are a good child,” my aunt told me one day.

Those words cut deep.

Because she did not know the truth.

If she knew everything…

Would she still say that?

Inside me, I felt guilty.

But outside…

I smiled.

From Sunday to Thursday, I lived like that.

Quiet.

Careful.

Watching.

Waiting.

Then, on Thursday, Ndjona-Top called again.

“I didn’t go to work,” she said. “I told them I am sick.”

Her voice was worried.

“Otjirumendu tjari otjeya ko flat yandje…”

(That man came to my flat asking about me.)

“He said I must tell him where I was.”

She was afraid.

I asked her why her boss wanted to see her so badly.

She laughed softly.

“He likes to work late with me, mukwetu.”

(My dear.)

I did not ask more.

But I understood.

Something was wrong.

Very wrong.

Ndjona-Top…

The girl who feared nothing…

Was now afraid.

That was when I knew…

This situation was serious.

That evening, my aunt’s friend came to visit.

Her name was Vekaa.

Aunty Vekaa.

She was calm.

Quiet.

But what she said…

Changed everything.

They were talking in my aunt’s office.

I was not supposed to listen.

But I could not stop myself.

“Mezuu mu Salas okutja…” she said.

(I heard from Salas that…)

She explained that Cota Ma-Cups had been seen at Okambashu-Kovahimba with many girls.

With Aju.

That was the last place he was seen.

Then she said something else.

“The police questioned Aju.”

“He told them he last saw Ma-Cups on Friday.”

My body went cold.

The police were already asking questions.

Who was Salas?

How did he know all this?

Then it hit me.

Mr. Officer.

Mr. Mbaa.

Salas.

And suddenly…

Everything made sense.

Aunty Vekaa…

Was his sister.

That meant one thing.

The police were closer than we thought.

And if they followed the trail…

They would find us.

My mind started racing.

What would I say?

How would I explain?

That a man tried to rape me…

That another woman hit him to save me…

That we cleaned everything…

That we ran away…

Who would believe me?

I was only 18.

All I wanted…

Was to study.

To become a lawyer.

To make my mother proud.

Now…

I was part of something dark.

Something dangerous.

That night, as I was about to sleep, my phone rang.

Unknown number.

I answered.

Silence.

Then…

Heavy breathing.

“Hello?” I asked.

No answer.

Just breathing.

I hung up.

The phone rang again.

Same number.

Same breathing.

Fear entered my body.

Then Ndjona-Top called.

“Switch off your phone!” she said quickly.

“It might be Aju.”

“He is calling people… just breathing.”

But it was too late.

He had already called me.

That night…

I could not sleep.

I knew something had to be done.

If we did nothing…

We would be caught.

Or worse.

Friday morning was coming.

My aunt would go to work.

And I would be alone.

Then one name came to my mind.

Mr. Officer.

Salas.

He could help us.

Or destroy us.

There was no in-between.

I decided to go see Ndjona-Top.

We had to talk.

When I arrived at the flat in Academia, Kenaa was there too.

They looked tired.

Scared.

Different.

I told them everything.

About Aunty Vekaa.

About Salas.

About the police.

“We might be next,” I said.

Silence filled the room.

Then Ndjona-Top looked at me.

“So… what is your plan?”

I took a deep breath.

And I told them everything.

About Mr. Officer.

About the blackmail.

About what he wanted from me.

“I think I can use him,” I said quietly.

They looked at me.

Surprised.

“I can give him what he wants,” I continued, my voice shaking.

“If he helps us.”

It was a dangerous plan.

A painful plan.

But it was a plan.

Ndjona-Top smiled slowly.

“That can work,” she said.

Then she added something more.

Something darker.

“We must frame Aju.”

The room went silent.

Kenaa shook her head.

“It is risky,” she said. “Very risky.”

But she also had something to say.

Something important.

“Aju is not clean,” she said.

“He deals with drugs.”

“Cocaine. From Brazil.”

My heart beat faster.

She told us everything.

About his house in Olympia.

About the basement.

About where he hides the drugs.

Suddenly…

The plan became clearer.

If the police found drugs in his house…

He would be finished.

Ndjona-Top looked at me.

“You will handle Salas,” she said.

“Get him to search Aju’s house.”

Kenaa nodded.

“I can make sure the drugs are there.”

We were no longer just hiding.

We were planning.

Planning something dangerous.

Something that could save us…

Or destroy us completely.

We were playing with fire.

And we all knew it.

The question was no longer if something would happen.

The question was…

What will happen next?

The End of Chapter Eleven

Wait for Part Twelve as A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING continues…

 

 

 

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CHAPTER TWELVE

A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING

From the Mountain to the City Lights

As we sat there, planning something that could either save us or destroy us, I suddenly remembered something.

A show.

A show that Ndjona-Top and I used to watch on her laptop while my aunt was in Brazil.

Pretty Little Liars.

At that time, it was just a story.

Drama.

Entertainment.

Girls hiding secrets.

Girls running from danger.

But now…

This was not a show.

This was real life.

We also had an “Aju.”

The difference was…

There were no cameras.

No scripts.

No second chances.

While we were still thinking, Tjipaa walked into the room.

She looked at us carefully.

“What is going on?” she asked.

She noticed our faces.

Tight.

Serious.

Afraid.

Then she saw Kenaa crying.

“Kenaa, what is wrong?” she asked.

Kenaa had already made her decision.

She was going to Aju’s house.

Alone.

At first, we did not want to tell Tjipaa.

But we had no choice.

When she heard the plan…

She was shocked.

“This is crazy!” she said.

“This is the craziest thing I have ever heard.”

Tjipaa was always the calm one.

The one who thought before acting.

So when she spoke…

We listened.

“These men are dangerous,” she said.

“I never understood why you got involved with them.”

“Ouzeu weṋu, mwa itavera ovandu ovanaumba.”

(This is your problem, you accepted dangerous people.)

She was looking at Ndjona-Top and Kenaa.

Then she turned to Kenaa.

“You know what Aju did to you,” she said.

“You cannot forget that.”

Her voice became stronger.

“You are putting your life in danger.”

“Guys… only the truth will set us free.”

“We don’t have to do this.”

For a moment…

I agreed with her.

Deep inside, I felt it.

We could tell the truth.

We could go to the police.

We could explain everything.

But then another thought came.

What if they did not believe us?

We knew the truth.

But could we prove it?

In law, it is not what you know.

It is what you can prove.

And we had destroyed all the evidence.

Fear returned.

Stronger than before.

Kenaa wiped her tears.

She had made her decision.

“Tjipaa ngeroo…” she said softly.

(Ngeroo – the last born, the youngest.)

“Please support us.”

“We are all in this together.”

She looked at all of us.

“Once Nguaendomuua gets Mr. Officer to get a warrant…”

“I will go to Aju’s house.”

“I will make sure the drugs are there.”

Tjipaa shook her head.

“What if there are no drugs?” she asked.

“What if you go there and find nothing?”

“You will be in his hands again.”

“Hapo ngandu rune tji mokarere ouzeu wa Aju?”

(Until when will you suffer because of Aju?)

Tears ran down her face.

She was afraid.

For Kenaa.

For all of us.

But Kenaa stood firm.

“I need you to support me,” she said.

“This is for all of us.”

“I am the only one who can do this.”

Tjipaa hugged her tightly.

Like a sister.

Then Ndjona-Top came to me.

She held me close.

“I am not happy that you are doing this,” she said.

“If it was me, I would deal with Mbaa…”

“But he does not trust me.”

“There is history between us.”

We all hugged each other.

A silent agreement.

A dangerous one.

We were stepping into fire.

Barefoot.

Hoping not to burn.

Before I left, Ndjona-Top gave me advice.

“Wear something short,” she said.

“Men do not think properly when they are tempted.”

“Control his mind… before he controls you.”

I nodded.

Even though I felt uncomfortable.

Even though I was afraid.

I left the flat.

And went to meet Mr. Officer.

It was a guest house in Windhoek West.

I booked a room.

I had to make everything look real.

Convincing.

When he arrived…

He could not believe his eyes.

I was lying on the bed.

Wearing a short dress.

Trying to be someone I was not.

He smiled.

Walked closer.

Sat next to me.

I told him softly,

“I wanted to thank you.”

“For helping me the other day.”

Then I did something I never thought I would do.

I played along.

I made him believe.

I leaned closer.

Touched him gently.

Controlled the moment.

But my mind was not there.

My heart was not there.

I was fighting for my life.

“My friend knows about drugs,” I said.

“She is in danger.”

“This man will hurt her.”

“You must act quickly.”

“It is a matter of life and death.”

He listened carefully.

Nodding his head.

He believed me.

“I will help,” he said.

That was all I needed.

Before anything else could happen…

I left.

Quickly.

I went back to the girls.

“It worked,” I said.

We waited.

One hour.

Two hours.

Then my phone rang.

“He got the warrant,” I said softly.

“They are going to raid the house.”

But then fear came back.

What if there were no drugs?

What if we were wrong?

Everything depended on Kenaa.

She was the one walking into danger.

We tried to stop her.

We begged her.

But she refused.

“We cannot live like this,” she said.

“We cannot keep hiding.”

“We must face this.”

She called Aju.

Asked to see him.

He agreed.

Quickly.

Happily.

Tjipaa and Ndjona-Top dropped her near his house.

Then they waited.

Far away.

Minutes felt like hours.

Then…

A message.

“The drugs are here.”

“In the basement.”

“In flour bags.”

I forwarded the message.

To Mr. Officer.

Everything was in motion.

I went home.

Waiting.

Praying.

Hoping.

Time passed.

No message.

No call.

I tried to call them.

Nothing.

Their phones were off.

Fear filled me.

Did the plan fail?

Was Kenaa safe?

I could not breathe.

Then I turned on the TV.

NBC News.

And there it was.

“Police have raided a house in Olympia…”

“100 kilograms of cocaine found…”

“Worth over N$100 million…”

My heart lifted.

“Aju Tjamu arrested…”

It worked.

We were safe.

Or so I thought.

Then the reporter continued.

“A young woman was found dead…”

“A gunshot wound to the chest…”

My heart broke.

“Police suspect a crime of passion…”

I could not move.

I could not breathe.

I knew.

Tears ran down my face.

From my eyes.

From my heart.

I knew…

The End of Chapter Twelve

Wait for Part Thirteen as A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING continues…

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING

From the Mountain to the City Lights

When my aunt arrived home that Friday night, she found me lying on my bed with swollen eyes.

My face was wet with tears.

I had been crying for hours.

Even when my grandmother passed away five years ago, I do not remember crying this much. When my father died, I was still young and confused; I hardly understood what death truly meant.

But this time was different.

This pain felt deeper.

Real.

Heavy.

My aunt came closer and looked at me carefully.

“What is wrong?” she asked.

For the first time since coming to Windhoek, I did not lie.

“I lost a friend,” I said quietly.

She sat next to me and handed me a tissue.

“Life can be difficult sometimes,” she said softly. “You have to be strong. It is the only way to survive.”

Then she asked,

“Ouṋe ngwaṱu hapo?”

(Who has died?)

“It’s Kenaa,” I answered. “My friend… and Vemuu’s friend.”

Even as I said her name, I could hardly believe it.

Kenaa was gone.

The thought alone made my heart break again.

At that moment, many questions filled my mind.

Why had everything happened so fast?

Why did people around me keep dying?

Why did life suddenly feel so heavy?

If only my aunt had known what we had been going through.

Maybe everything could have been different.

Maybe Kenaa would still be alive.

We had warned her.

We told her the plan was dangerous.

But once Kenaa decided something, nothing could change her mind.

I walked to the bathroom to wash my face.

When I looked in the mirror, I barely recognised the girl staring back at me.

She looked tired.

Broken.

Lost.

How had my life become so complicated?

I came to Windhoek with a dream.

A simple dream.

To study.

To become a lawyer.

To make my mother proud.

But instead…

I found myself surrounded by secrets.

Danger.

Death.

I did not feel sorry for Cota Ma-Cups.

He had tried to rape me.

But his death had opened a door to darkness.

And now people were dying.

I cried the whole night.

Sleep did not come.

School was supposed to start in two days.

I wanted to focus.

To move forward.

But my mind was trapped in everything that had happened.

Even though I had not known Kenaa for long, she had become close to me.

She had a strong spirit.

A wild spirit.

But also a caring heart.

Once she told me something I would never forget.

“Sometimes you must live your life the way you want,” she said.

“When it is time to die… you die alone.”

At the time, I laughed.

Now those words haunted me.

Kenaa was the most caring of the Ozondjona-ozo-Top girls.

She wanted to become a nurse.

She wanted to save lives.

Even though she lived a reckless life, she still had a beautiful heart.

And now she was gone.

It is strange how people say good things about someone only after they die.

“Tjiri nu,” (Seriously.)

I whispered.

That night changed something inside me.

I began to realise something important.

My life was more valuable than the chaotic lifestyle around me.

The next morning, Ndjona-Top called.

Her voice was weak.

Broken.

She was crying.

“I saw it on the news,” I told her before she could speak.

There was silence.

Then she started crying again.

I went to Tjipaa’s house.

I could not mourn alone.

And I knew Tjipaa needed support even more.

When I entered her room, photos of Kenaa were spread across the bed.

Photos of laughter.

Photos of parties.

Photos of friendship.

Tjipaa and Ndjona-Top had not slept.

Neither had I.

“She was so young,” Tjipaa said.

“So beautiful… and full of life.”

Then she cried again.

“I shouldn’t have let her go.”

Ndjona-Top finally explained what happened.

They were waiting in the car near Aju’s house.

Suddenly…

They heard a gunshot.

When the ambulance arrived, they saw the body bag.

And in that moment…

They knew.

Later that day we went to visit Kenaa’s sister in Okatutura.

Tjipaa’s mother drove us there.

On the way, Ndjona-Top told me something.

Kenaa’s sister had once chased her out of the house.

They had been fighting.

Her sister had said:

“Warira omuryange waTjomuise tjinene.”

(She is always moving up and down in Windhoek.)

Kenaa started living with Ndjona-Top after that.

Trying to survive.

Trying to live.

And that was when she met Aju.

The man who eventually took her life.

When we arrived at the house, the atmosphere was heavy.

Kenaa’s sister was sitting in the living room.

Her children were crying.

She held Kenaa’s baby pictures in her hands.

Then she began to cry loudly.

“This is my fault,” she said.

“She was young… just a teenager living her life.”

“I was supposed to protect her.”

She cried harder.

“How will I tell our mother?”

“Okangero Kamama… Mukuru Wandje…”

(My mother’s last born… my God…)

Tjipaa’s mother held her tightly.

Trying to comfort her.

Only then did I understand something.

Tjipaa’s mother and Kenaa’s sister had once lived on the same street in Okatutura when they were both poor.

They were old friends.

That was why Tjipaa and Kenaa were so close.

They had grown up like sisters.

Tjipaa’s mother promised to help with the funeral.

She would even help bring Kenaa’s body back to Kunene for burial.

“Motjiherero kuza omuatje owo vandu ave,” she said.

(In Otjiherero we say a child belongs to everyone.)

After we spoke with the family, we went to Kenaa’s old room.

We sat there quietly.

Remembering her.

Talking about her.

I realised something.

Even though I had known her for only a short time…

She had left a mark on my life.

The Ozondjona-ozo-Top girls were loyal to each other.

They protected each other.

They kept secrets for each other.

Sometimes dangerous secrets.

But their loyalty made them strong.

Today, friendships break over small things.

Over boys.

Over jealousy.

But not them.

They were sisters.

Kenaa kept her promise.

Even in death.

She took the secret of Cota Ma-Cups with her.

And she also brought Aju down with her.

Through all this drama, I learned many things.

About the dangers of the city.

About money.

About loyalty.

About trust.

Men did not like me for who I was.

They liked the image.

The way I looked.

The way I moved.

But the Ozondjona-ozo-Top girls taught me something important.

Loyalty.

Real sisterhood.

I had already sworn my loyalty to them.

Even though this was not the life I had planned.

This life chose me.

And sometimes in life…

You either adapt…

Or you disappear.

So I chose to adapt.

Because life…

Must go on.

The End of Chapter Thirteen

Wait for Part Fourteen as A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING continues…

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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING

From the Mountain to the City Lights

We tried our best not to drown ourselves in sadness. Instead, we chose to remember the good moments we had shared with Kenaa.

On Saturday, we spoke about her almost the entire day.

Every small memory mattered.

Every laugh.

Every crazy moment.

Every story.

It felt like the only way we could keep her alive.

Sunday was quiet.

I stayed at home.

For the first time in many days, I allowed myself to sit alone and think about my life.

About everything that had happened.

But one thought kept returning again and again.

My education.

I knew the road ahead would not be easy.

But I had to pull myself together.

School was starting.

My dream was still waiting.

Three weeks earlier, I had arrived in Windhoek full of excitement.

A young girl from the mountains of Kunene, travelling in Mai’s Quantum, known in Opuwo as oumbesi waPuwo, with one simple dream: to study law.

To become a lawyer.

To change my life.

Now everything felt different.

But the dream was still there.

When I checked my timetable, my first lecture was scheduled for 10:30.

My aunt had woken me up at exactly 06:00 that morning.

“Be ready by 08:00,” she told me.

“I will take you to school on your first day.”

By 08:30 I was already on the UNAM campus.

I decided to sit in the cafeteria while waiting for Tjipaa and Ndjona-Top.

As I sat there, something strange happened.

Men kept looking at me.

Some younger students.

Some older.

Even a few lecturers.

But this time, I was not surprised.

I already knew something about myself now.

I was beautiful.

And I had learned one important rule.

When men look at you like that…

Stay calm.

Stay composed.

A young man sitting next to me suddenly spoke.

“May I buy you a coffee?” he asked politely.

I smiled.

“Thank you,” I said.

We spoke for a few minutes.

He introduced himself.

He was educated.

Confident.

Handsome.

Then he said something interesting.

“I am a lecturer,” he explained.

“This is my first year teaching.”

After a short conversation, he stood up.

“It was a pleasure talking to you, Nguaendomuua,” he said.

“I hope to see you again.”

I watched him walk out of the cafeteria.

Something about him stayed in my mind.

A young black man.

Smart.

Confident.

Attractive.

Those are rare combinations.

Just then, Tjipaa and Ndjona-Top arrived.

They sat down beside me.

Tjipaa looked at the direction the man had walked.

“Mmmh,” she said.

“That man wanted more than just buying you coffee.”

I laughed softly.

“He just bought me coffee,” I replied.

“That’s all.”

But Ndjona-Top was not in a good mood that morning.

Earlier, her boss had called her.

And he had fired her.

Cota Ma-Cups was gone.

He had been the one who used to shower her with money.

Now he was dead.

And now she had lost her job too.

Suddenly she exploded.

“That old man is stupid!” she shouted.

People in the cafeteria turned to look.

“I will see him after school!”

“Matu kutwa kumwe tjiri!”

(We will deal with this seriously!)

She was furious.

“He cannot just use me and throw me away like toilet paper!”

That was Ndjona-Top.

Never backing down.

Never accepting defeat.

We finished breakfast and went to our classes.

Campus life was different from anything I had experienced before.

Because the Ozondjona-ozo-Top girls were famous on campus.

People knew them.

People talked about them.

And now…

I was one of them.

Students came to offer condolences for Kenaa.

Some hugged us.

Even people I had never met before.

News spreads fast on campus.

Academically, my first day went well.

I listened carefully.

Took notes.

Focused.

For the first time in weeks…

I felt normal.

Even when I saw Tusu’s face on the SRC poster hanging in the hallway, I did not think much about it.

My mind was focused on my studies.

Then I walked into my final lecture.

And my heart stopped.

Standing at the front of the class…

Was the man from the cafeteria.

He smiled and spoke to the class.

“Welcome to Introduction to Law,” he said.

“My name is Dr Mujoo, and I will be your lecturer this year.”

I froze.

Of all the coincidences in the world…

He was my lecturer.

Throughout the lecture, he kept looking at me.

It felt uncomfortable.

Awkward.

After class, I tried to leave quickly.

But before I reached the door, he called me.

“Nguaendomuua, may I speak with you?”

I stopped.

He smiled.

“Just because I am your lecturer does not change the fact that we had a wonderful conversation this morning.”

He continued.

“I didn’t know you were in my class.”

“But I would still like to have coffee with you.”

“And perhaps ask you out.”

I was surprised.

Back in my village school, something like this would have been a huge scandal.

Teachers dating learners?

Impossible.

But this was university.

Things were different here.

I liked him.

I could not deny that.

But I was not sure what to think.

“I will think about it,” I told him.

He smiled.

Then gave me a quick hug.

Later that afternoon, Tjipaa and I went with Ndjona-Top to confront her former boss.

And what happened next…

Was pure chaos.

We walked into his office.

Actually…

Ndjona-Top stormed in.

We just followed.

The man’s face turned pale when he saw her.

Like he had seen a ghost.

“You cannot just throw me away like that!” she shouted.

“After everything we have done together!”

Then she said something shocking.

“After all the times we slept together in this office…”

“You want to fire me?”

The man looked terrified.

Then she sat on his desk.

“I want N$100,000 transferred to my account,” she said calmly.

“Or your wife will know everything.”

He laughed nervously.

“You have no proof,” he said.

“Leave my office before I call security.”

Ndjona-Top slowly took out a USB flash drive.

Plugged it into his laptop.

And pressed play.

Suddenly sounds filled the office.

Voices.

Intimate voices.

His face turned white.

Just then…

His wife walked in.

“What is happening here?” she demanded.

The man tried to act calm.

“This girl was fired,” he said.

“She is just upset.”

But Ndjona-Top simply smiled.

“It’s all on the USB,” she said.

“If you don’t pay me…”

“I will upload everything online.”

His wife looked furious.

He looked terrified.

We left the office shortly after.

Inside Tjipaa’s BMW, we asked her what was on the USB.

She laughed.

“A small video,” she said.

“One we recorded when we were ‘working late’.”

Tjipaa shook her head.

“You filmed it?”

Ndjona-Top grinned.

“Every girl needs security.”

“Men are dogs.”

“He will call soon.”

That was Ndjona-Top.

Always ten steps ahead.

Always dangerous.

“Okakambe,” I whispered.

Windhoek was truly something else.

The End of Chapter Fourteen

Wait for Part Fifteen as A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING continues…

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CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING

From the Mountain to the City Lights

My mother would lose her mind if she ever discovered what I was becoming.

She had raised me with values. She had taught me to respect myself, to fear God, and to work honestly for what I wanted. But now I was living in a world where money was starting to matter too much.

After all, who asks a married man for N$100,000 and threatens to expose him if he refuses?

Still, I could understand why Ndjona-Top did it. If that man truly thought he could use her and throw her away like toilet paper, as she liked to say, then he had to face the consequences of his actions. He should have stayed faithful to his wife and kept his desires under control. Instead, he had invited the wrath of Ndjona-Top into his life.

And by now, nothing about my cousin surprised me anymore.

Or so I thought.

Since coming to Windhoek, I had realised that many men here treated women badly. They looked at women as objects for pleasure and not as human beings deserving of respect. Maybe I had simply met the wrong kind of men, but I had reached a point where I no longer felt sorry when trouble came to a womaniser.

When I arrived home that evening, I found my aunt in her office speaking on the phone. She sounded upset. I heard her mention hiring a lawyer, but I could not hear the whole conversation. To make sure she knew I was home, I closed the door a little harder than usual. She looked up, noticed me, and quickly shut the office door.

I went to my room, changed into my pyjamas, and lay on the bed with my class notes. I wanted to study and clear my mind.

Later, when I checked my phone, I saw three missed calls and one message.

“I miss you. I hope to see you tomorrow.”

For a moment, I almost dropped the phone.

It was Tusu.

I stared at the message and wondered whether he had sent it to the wrong person. But I was not moved by it. Men always seem to miss you when it suits them. They disappear when they want to, then return when it is convenient for them. He had not called me since the day we were together, and now suddenly he missed me?

I rolled my eyes and put the phone away.

That night, instead of thinking about Tusu, I found myself thinking about Kapax, the new man I had met.

And in my heart, I told Tusu, to hell with it.

The next morning, Kapax called me.

He invited me to breakfast.

I told him not to come and pick me up from home because my aunt would be very angry if she saw a man collecting me. I waited until she left for work, then I bathed and got ready.

I liked him. I could not deny that.

But I remembered Ndjona-Top’s advice: never tell a man too soon that you like him.

He told me to meet him in town near Wimpy. When I got there, we ordered breakfast. I ate with real appetite because I had skipped supper the night before. Then we talked for a long time, and I laughed more than I expected because he was genuinely funny.

At some point he looked at me seriously and said,

“I want you to know that I do not want to take advantage of the fact that I am your lecturer and you are my student. I would like us to keep seeing each other, but I do not want you to feel pressured. Take your time. I just hope we can spend more time together.”

He was being so kind that I almost wanted to tell him to stop before I fell completely for him.

Instead, I said,

“I am still thinking about it. When I make up my mind, I will let you know.”

He asked whether we could go to campus together, but I told him maybe next time. I wanted to be a little difficult. It was too soon for us to be seen together like that.

He paid the bill, gave me a small hug, and left.

I was glad I would not see him in class again until the next Monday. That gave me time to think.

Later that morning, Ndjona-Top called me and asked me to come to her old flat in Khomasdal.

She was busy packing. She had already sold many of her things, including her old bed and some appliances. She said she would buy new ones later. Mostly, she wanted to leave that place because every night she felt as if she saw Kenaa in the flat. Maybe it was grief. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe she simply missed her friend.

Tjipaa had already told her she could move into the flat in Academia, and I kept wondering what that meant for Papa Kille and everything happening there.

Ndjona-Top’s landlord had already found a replacement for Kenaa. According to my cousin, the new girl was difficult, rude, and impossible to live with. She did not like loud music, she was always singing Otjiherero songs, Oviritje,  and Ndjona-Top complained that she was very untidy. When I arrived, the girl would not even let me into the flat at first because I did not live there. She only opened after Ndjona-Top came out to see what was happening.

As soon as she saw me, the new girl made a loud “mxiiiiiiim” sound with her lips, like the women in African movies when they want to insult someone.

I ignored her.

We packed shoes, clothes, and bags while waiting for G7 to arrive. When he came with his Golf 7 R, we loaded everything into the car.

As we were leaving, the overweight woman shouted after us.

She called us overirandise (prostitutes).

Then she shouted at Ndjona-Top,

“Ove muatje wozondjise zovaputu…”

(You child with Brazilian hair…)

“Pu twa hakaenene ṱekamisa uriri.”

(Wherever we meet, be careful.)

I had no idea what had started the fight between them, but I could already see trouble coming.

Ndjona-Top told us to wait in the car.

“Meya nambano ene undje uriri,” she said.

(I am coming now, just wait for me.)

Then she walked back to the woman.

Before any of us could react, she slapped her so hard that the sound echoed.

The woman was much bigger than my cousin, but she stood there shocked, holding her cheek.

Ndjona-Top looked at her and said,

“Watono, omwatje ngo wa kauriri ngo.”

(You just beaten an innocent child.)

“Next time do not mess with me or my cousin.”

Then she added,

“Tji ‘low lifer’ ove.”

(You are the low lifer.)

As we drove away, the woman remained standing there, stunned, while we laughed so hard inside the car.

That was Ndjona-Top. No one touched her people and got away with it.

When we reached the flat in Academia, Ndjona-Top already had her own key. We carried her bags inside.

I needed the toilet, so I hurried upstairs.

And then it happened again.

The moment I opened the door, I saw Tjipaa with Papa Kille.

Again.

I froze.

Then I quickly shut the door and ran downstairs, my face burning with embarrassment.

I told my cousin what I had seen, but she told me to leave it alone.

“Kutjee, listen,” she said. “Tjipaa told me and Kenaa about this a long time ago. She has her reasons. Do not make noise about it. Papa Kille is not such a bad man. He even let me stay here.”

I did not know what to say.

If Ndjona-Top already knew, then who else knew?

My mind went straight to Tjipaa’s mother.

Poor woman.

I went into the kitchen and drank water, trying to calm myself down.

After G7 left, Ndjona-Top started complaining about him.

She said he was stingy and full of excuses.

“I love him,” she said, “but he is too stingy, arikana (please). I do not like being with someone who is stingy. He talks too much. He always promises money and never sends it.”

Then she reminded me of the day she had asked him for N$1500 and he only sent N$500.

“Ami Kutjee, aye mbwae,” she said.

(Me, Kutjee? No, my dear.)

Then she added,

“I am going to dump him soon.”

After some time, Tjipaa and Papa Kille came downstairs and greeted us. Before he left, he kissed her on the lips in front of us.

I stood there in shock.

How open was this relationship?

How much was hidden, and how much did everyone already know?

Once he had gone, I could not hold my question anymore.

“Why are you sleeping with your stepfather, Tjipaa?” I asked.

She looked at me, and then she began to explain.

Her story broke my heart.

She said it had all started when her mother desperately needed money. Papa Kille, a Ugandan man, wanted to marry a Namibian woman so that he could get Namibian citizenship. Because of legal problems, he could not return to his own country, and he saw marriage as his way out.

Tjipaa’s mother agreed because she was poor.

“It was her green card out of poverty,” Tjipaa said.

But shortly after the marriage, her mother was diagnosed with cancer.

The treatment was expensive. Papa Kille no longer wanted the marriage because, according to him, she was sick and no longer able to satisfy him physically. He wanted to leave after only one year.

He promised to give her mother N$200,000 so they could return to Katutura, and another N$200,000 after five years before divorcing her. But Tjipaa knew that once the money finished, they would be poor again.

So she stepped in.

She said he promised that if she “took over her mother’s place,” he would continue taking care of them.

By then, Tjipaa was only sixteen.

“I had no choice,” she said, crying. “I only did it because I was afraid of going back to poverty. I wanted my mother to get treatment and live with dignity before she dies.”

She cried harder.

“The cancer is in its last stage. She is strong, but she is only holding on. I did this for her. I did it so she could live the life she wanted for me. Even if she married him for money, she did it for me too.”

I stood there speechless.

Her pain was too deep.

I felt bad for even asking.

Maybe I should have left that secret buried.

But now that I knew, I could not unknow it.

And all I could think was this:

What do you say when your friend has been forced to live like this, sleeping with the man who is legally her stepfather, not out of love, not out of choice, but so that her dying mother can live in comfort?

I felt foolish.

And heavy-hearted.

As if I had dug up bones that could never be buried again.

 

The End of Chapter Fifteen

Wait for Part Sixteen as A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING continues…

 

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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING

From the Mountain to the City Lights

I felt very sorry for Tjipaa.

She had given herself to a man she did not love, a man who was supposed to protect her, guide her, and care for her like a father. Instead, she slept with him only so that she and her mother could continue living a comfortable life.

I know it sounds wrong.

But I was in no position to judge her.

Not long before that, I had given Mr. Officer what he wanted just so I could stay comfortably in my aunt’s house. So, in many ways, Tjipaa’s story reminded me of my own struggles.

People often say money cannot buy happiness.

Others say it can.

Looking at Tjipaa, I no longer knew which one was true.

As she sat on the couch crying, we moved closer and held her tightly. We wanted her to know that she was not alone, and that somehow things would be alright.

While we were hugging her, Ndjona-Top kept shaking her head at me, giving me a silent sign. She did not need to say anything. Her message was clear:

I should not have pushed into Tjipaa’s private business like that.

Just as we were having our Ozondjona-ozo-Top moment, Ndjona-Top’s phone beeped.

It was a message from the bank.

N$100,000.00 had just been deposited into her account.

She jumped up with excitement.

“At last!” she shouted. “I was just about to remind him, tjiri.”

(Tjiri means “seriously.”)

Then she looked at us and smiled.

“It’s on, girls. We are going to have some fun. All this emotional roller-coaster is draining my good energy. Ove Tjipaa ”

(Ove Tjipaa means “you, Tjipaa.”)

“you need to be strong. Remember what Kenaa used to say: Through every dark night, there is a brighter day.”

She refused to take no for an answer.

I had wanted to go to school, but after such an emotional moment, I felt like staying with them,  especially for Tjipaa’s sake. It was only my second day at school, and I was already missing classes.

But I told myself:

It is only one day.

So we got into Tjipaa’s Mercedes and drove to Wernhil. We went to Mug & Bean, where we had brunch. After we finished eating, the glasses of wine kept coming, one after another.

I had only been in Windhoek for three weeks, yet I already knew half of the city’s coolest places.

If you think going out is only for fun, then you are wrong.

As Ndjona-Top always said:

“You do not just chill to get drunk and let men pick on you. You chill for connections. It is important to know where you go. You must connect with people, especially VIPs.”

Then she added,

“Tjimuna ami…”

(Tjimuna ami means “as for me.”)

“I do not care what people think. I will live my life the way I want. When it is my time to die, I will die alone. Og, I miss Kenaa so much. She was always positive and always knew what to say at the right time.”

That day, Ndjona-Top was saying all the right things, but I knew those words came from her pain.

She missed Kenaa deeply.

It was the main reason she had moved out of the old flat.

And maybe Kenaa had been the one person who always kept her grounded, the one who gave her advice and helped her stay out of too much trouble.

After a while, we raised our glasses.

“Rest in peace to Kenaa,” said Ndjona-Top. “She will forever live in our hearts.”

“And here is to a new and stronger relationship between us,” said Tjipaa. “May we become stronger than ever before.”

We drank to that.

We were talking more freely than we had in days. Since Kenaa’s death, laughter and long conversations had become rare.

Then suddenly, a man came to our table.

He stood beside us and smiled.

“Hi, ladies. If I may, I would like to buy you two more rounds of whatever you are drinking. I will not take no for an answer.”

He had a smooth Kiswahili accent.

As we all looked up at him, he calmly sat down and turned his attention to Ndjona-Top.

“Habari mpenzi wangu,” he said.

(Habari mpenzi wangu means “How are you, my love?”)

Then he smiled again and said,

“I say that because you caught my attention from where I was sitting. You look like the kind of girl who enjoys adventure. In fact, I even put my meeting on hold just so I could come and speak to you.”

I could already see Ndjona-Top smiling, waiting to hear whether he would say something impressive enough to win her over.

Then he pulled out a business card.

“I am staying at the Hilton. Here is my card. Call me by 19h00. I will be waiting, and we can take it from there.”

Then he stood up.

“Enjoy your drinks, ladies,” he said, and walked away.

Ndjona-Top followed him with her eyes.

“Mmmh,” she said. “And I thought all men had given up on me. What a gentleman. Ladies… I’m back.”

She slipped his business card into her purse.

Tjipaa and I laughed, and we kept drinking.

Time moves quickly when you are having fun.

Soon it was getting late.

By then, I had started thinking about how much I had already adapted to city life.

Really, who drinks on a Tuesday afternoon and gets drunk?

I suppose the wine was simply too good.

Around six o’clock, Ndjona-Top had to leave because she planned to meet the Kiswahili man. For this story, we will call him Mr Kiswahili.

“Goodbye, my bunnies,” she said. “I will give you the 411 later.”

Then she walked away, swinging her big hips from side to side.

Tjipaa and I stayed behind to finish our drinks.

I wanted to apologise properly for asking about her painful private life earlier.

She was still hurt, and she was drinking to forget.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I should not have put my nose in your business.”

“It’s fine, Vemuu,” she replied quietly. “You do not need to apologise. That is just the story of my life.”

I kept quiet after that. I did not want to upset her again.

By then she was very drunk, and I started wondering how we were going to get home. I could not drive, and she was in no state to drive either. Not that I was any better.

So we called her mother.

Tjipaa dialled the number, but I spoke to her mother when she answered.

When her mother arrived at the parking area, we were already waiting beside Tjipaa’s Mercedes. She had brought her chauffeur, and she instructed him to drive Tjipaa’s car home.

The journey home was uncomfortable.

The car was quiet at first.

Then Tjipaa’s mother started crying.

“Tjipaa, why do you keep doing this to me?” she asked. “All I want is the best for you. I have sacrificed so much to give you a happy and comfortable life. All I want is for you to focus on school and finish your studies, but lately all you do is drink and skip school.”

Then she added:

“Hina okutjiwa okutja hikutjitevi tjiveri tjandje.”

(It means: “I do not know what I must do with you, my first-born.”)

For a moment, I thought she knew about Tjipaa and Papa Kille.

But as she kept talking about school and Tjipaa’s behaviour, I realised she had no idea what her daughter was doing behind her back for her sake.

She did not know the pain Tjipaa carried.

She did not know that home was already hell for her daughter.

Tjipaa’s mother dropped me off at my aunt’s house and drove away.

When I entered, my aunt was sitting in the sitting room as if she had been waiting for me.

She asked me where I had been.

I did not want to lie to her again. But if she found out I had skipped school and spent the whole day drinking with Ndjona-Top, she would skin me alive.

So I lied.

I told her I had been at school and had a late class.

Because I was chewing mint gum, my breath did not smell like alcohol.

Still, I felt guilty.

I had promised myself that I would stop lying to her.

Just as I was about to escape to my room, she told me to sit down.

“Vemuu,” she said, “do not think I do not know what is happening. I have noticed the new clothes, the new hair, and I have noticed how much time you spend with Kutjee. I warned you about that cousin of yours. When you get into trouble, do not say I did not warn you.”

She was clearly angry.

As soon as she said we were done, I quickly stood up and went to my room before she could change her mind and finish me off. That woman was not herself when she was angry.

I took a long bath to calm my mind, body, and soul.

After that, I got into bed and tried to sleep.

But my phone kept ringing.

At first, I ignored it.

Then I answered without even checking who was calling.

“Hey baby,” the voice said. “I know it has been a while, but I wanted to ask you something. Valentine’s Day is this Friday, and I was wondering if you would be my partner. I just want to make up for lost time and for all the times I was too busy for you.”

It was Tusu.

After all this time, now he wanted to make things right?

And since when was I suddenly baby?

“I have to sleep now, Tusu,” I said. “I am really tired. We will talk tomorrow on campus.”

Then I hung up.

Just as I was about to sleep again, my phone rang once more.

This time I thought it was Tusu again, and I was ready to tell him off.

But when I answered, it was Ndjona-Top.

“Hey Kapax, what’s up?” I said by mistake.

Then she laughed and said,

“Couzy, you won’t believe this man. He is such a gentleman, and he is treating me very well. To be honest, he is even better than that old man I used to be with. At least with this one, I can actually feel something.”

I was shocked.

So she had already gone with Mr Kiswahili?

“Couzy, I have to go now,” she continued. “My man is coming back, he just went to fetch a bottle of champagne. And what about Tjipaa hapo?”

(Hapo means “or.”)

“Her phone is off?”

“I guess she is asleep,” I replied. “She was really wasted.”

“Okay, couzy. Me, I am switching off my phone now. Ciao.”

She hung up.

At last, I thought I would finally sleep without any drama.

Apart from my aunt trying to act like a detective, the day had ended peacefully enough.

I reached for my phone to switch it off.

Then a private number called.

I hesitated.

But it rang for a long time, so I answered.

“Halo.”

“Halo, Vemuu,” said a woman’s voice. “It is Tjipaa’s mother. There has been an incident. Tjipaa has been hospitalised, and she is asking for you. Please, the sooner you get here, the better. My daughter is fighting for her life. We are at Roman Catholic Hospital, first floor, room 3. Please hurry.”

I froze.

I had just been with Tjipaa not long ago.

What could have happened so quickly?

My heart crumbled.

The End of Chapter Sixteen

Watch out for Part Seventeen as A Girl from Ehomba Mountain Who Wants to Achieve Something continues…

 

 

Continue Reading…

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING

From the Mountain to the City Lights

As soon as I heard what had happened to Tjipaa, I jumped out of bed and started dressing quickly. It was already late, so I had to ask my aunt to allow me to go to the hospital. I went to her room and woke her up.

I was sure she would scold me for disturbing her, but after I explained the call from Tjipaa’s mother, she surprised me.

She offered to drive me there herself.

When we arrived at the hospital, my aunt told me she would wait in the car. She did not really know Tjipaa or her mother well, but she asked me to let her know if Tjipaa’s condition improved.

That night, I saw another side of my aunt.

I had always thought she was hard and selfish, a woman who only cared about herself. That was the image my family back home had created for me. But the way she cared that night made me question everything I had been told about her.

I went inside the hospital and searched for Tjipaa’s room.

When I reached the first floor, I found Tjipaa’s mother standing in the corridor.

“I am sorry to hear about Tjipaa, ma’am,” I said. “How is she doing?”

“Muuaa, I am so glad you came,” she said. “Tjipaa is in critical condition. The doctors are with her right now.”

Then she started crying so badly that I had to comfort her, even though I myself did not know what to do.

“This is all my fault,” she said. “I know she is a good girl, but today I pushed her too hard. When we got home, we argued. She locked herself in her room. Later, when the maid went to call her for dinner, she found her lying on the floor. My daughter tried to kill herself. She overdosed on pills.”

My heart sank.

What could have pushed Tjipaa so far that she wanted to end her life?

After a while, the doctor came out and spoke to Tjipaa’s mother.

Her face changed immediately.

Then he said words that brought both of us relief.

“Her condition is stable now,” he said. “We managed to pump out the pills and give her medicine to restore her strength. You may see her, but only briefly. She needs to rest.”

Tjipaa’s mother went in first.

I stayed outside for a little while because I knew she needed a mother-and-daughter moment before I could enter.

While I waited, I took out my phone and tried calling Ndjona-Top.

Of course, her phone was off.

She had already told me she would switch it off so she could “please her man.”

By now, my cousin no longer shocked me, but I was still disturbed by many things she did. Really, who sleeps with a man on the first day they meet him, no matter how well he treats her?

Still, I expected nothing less from her anymore.

After some time, Tjipaa’s mother came out and said, “She is asking for you.”

I went inside.

As soon as I entered, Tjipaa asked me to close the door and come sit next to her. She looked weak, fragile, and frightened. Her hands were shaking, and her voice was soft.

“Muuaa,” she whispered, “please do something for me. Go to my house and into my room. I left a note there. Please get it before my mother finds it. It will break her heart if she reads it. And Muuaa, under no circumstances must you read that note. Please just bring it back to me.”

I was not sure whether I wanted to involve myself in another family secret.

But how could I refuse her?

She was in such a vulnerable state, and after all, I had promised to stand by my Diva sisters whenever they needed me.

She asked where Ndjona-Top was, and I told her she was with Mr Kiswahili. Just as I was about to ask how I would get into the house, her mother came back in.

At once, Tjipaa pretended to be asleep.

I stood up to leave and told her mother, “Tjipaa said she is fine. I think she just wanted a friend near her. She is a strong young woman, just like the doctor said. She is a fighter.”

As I was leaving, Tjipaa’s mother held my hand and walked me outside the room.

“Are you sure that is all she said?” she asked. “For a long time now, I have felt that something was wrong with my daughter, but I could never understand what it was. Tonight has confirmed my suspicions. Please, if you know anything, tell me. I need to know what is hurting my daughter.”

I was in no position to betray Tjipaa’s trust.

So I lied.

Again.

“No, ma’am,” I said. “I really do not know anything. I have only known Tjipaa for a short time. As far as I know, she is a good person. I do not know what could be troubling her.”

Then she asked, “Okasena yoye iri pi?”
(Okasena yoye iri pi? means “Where is your cousin?”)

I told her Ndjona-Top was probably sleeping because she was studying for a test and had switched off her phone.

Then I asked, “Why not speak to Tjipaa yourself? Maybe she will open up to you.”

Her mother sighed.

“My daughter has been emotionally distant from me for a long time,” she said. “I think because we had money, we spent too much time enjoying it and not enough time with each other.”

I felt bad for her.

She was clearly hurting, and I was doing very little to help. But I could not betray Tjipaa.

I tried calling Ndjona-Top again, but her phone was still off. At that moment, Tjipaa needed her, and I did not think anything else should matter. Yet there she was, somewhere out there, milking another man with her body.

My aunt came to check on me and found me saying goodbye to Tjipaa’s mother. She greeted her politely and introduced herself as my aunt. They had a short conversation about Tjipaa’s condition, and then my aunt and I left.

On the way home, my aunt spoke gently.

“Muuaa, what your friend tried to do is very sad,” she said. “Her mother says they argued, and she lost control. I want you to know something. You are a good child. If you are honest with me and behave yourself, I will take care of you.”

Again, I saw another side of my aunt, a kind and protective side that was completely different from the woman my family had described.

She went to her room, and I stood there thinking.

How was I supposed to go to Tjipaa’s house now?

It was already after midnight, and I did not want to sneak out again. But did I really have a choice?

I could not ask my aunt.

Tjipaa needed that note before her mother found it.

So I waited until my aunt had fallen asleep.

Then, using the same ninja tactics Ndjona-Top had taught me on my very first day in Windhoek, I quietly slipped out of the house.

Since there were no taxis around, I had to call someone.

So I called Mbaa.

He came in less than ten minutes.

He did not ask many questions, which made me feel grateful.

On the drive, he could tell something was wrong, but he remained calm.

“I just hope you will be okay, Vemuu,” he said. “Whatever is troubling you, know that I will be here for you.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “It really means a lot.”

When we arrived at Tjipaa’s house, I asked Mbaa to wait in the car.

The house had a very high wall and a huge gate, and I had no idea how I was going to get inside.

So I threw small stones onto the roof of one of the guest rooms where the maids sometimes slept.

Luckily, the maid was there.

“What is going on, my child?” she asked. “Why are you throwing stones on the roof?”

I had to lie.

I told her Tjipaa needed some clothes and her toothbrush from home.

She was a gentle old woman, so she let me in.

“Oh, I just hope that poor child is alright,” she said. “Okanatje ngo kamuna ouzeu okuza rukuru.”
(Okanatje ngo kamuna ouzeu okuza rukuru means “That child has been suffering for a long time.”)

Then she added, “If only her mother knew what was really going on. I pray to God she survives, because she deserves another chance to live a better life.”

Those words stayed with me.

What did she know that I did not?

That question stayed at the back of my mind.

I rushed upstairs to Tjipaa’s room, hoping to find the note quickly and leave before her mother returned from the hospital.

But when I entered the room, I froze.

Tjipaa’s mother was sitting there on the bed, holding Tjipaa’s teddy bear and some clothes she had packed for her.

I had not expected that at all.

I was caught off guard and had no proper explanation for why I was there so late.

So I said the first thing that came to my mind:

“Tjipaa asked me to come get her teddy bear.”

Even as I said it, I knew it sounded foolish.

She looked at me and asked me to sit down.

“Vemuu,” she said, “I know you have not known my daughter for very long, but I also know the two of you have become close. Tjinangara una tji motjiwa tji mumonu okutja meso okutjiwa okutja Tjipaa wanu ozopera…”
(It means: “If you know anything that you think I should know — for example that Tjipaa takes pills, please tell me.”)

She was desperate.

Her soul was in pain.

I almost broke.

I almost told her everything.

But then the Ozondjona-ozo-Top vow came back to me. I had promised never to betray my sisters.

So instead of telling her the full truth, I told her a lie mixed with a little truth.

“Aunty,” I said, “I do not really know what is troubling Tjipaa. But I know she was dating a student called Nashi, and they broke up. That may be why she was drinking today. But I do not think that is why she tried to kill herself. She is stronger than that, and she is too smart to take her life over a boy.”

I do not know whether she truly believed me, but she accepted it.

Then she said she was going to freshen up and later take Tjipaa’s clothes and the teddy bear to the hospital. She told me she would drop me home afterwards.

As soon as she left the room, I started searching.

I looked everywhere for the note.

I searched drawers, shelves, books, under the mattress, everywhere.

But I could not find it.

After several minutes, I gave up.

Then the maid came into the room and quietly closed the door behind her.

“I overheard what you and my boss were saying,” she said. “And I know you lied. Tjipaa is not heartbroken because of some boy. That poor girl’s soul is hurting.”

Then she added,

“Ovanatje vanambano ma mu teza ozondjira ozombi…”
(Ovanatje vanambano ma mu teza ozondjira ozombi means “Nowadays children are taking the wrong path.”)

“I hope one day you will tell the truth. The truth will always set you free.”

Then she pulled out a folded paper and handed it to me.

“This is what you are looking for. Tjipaa asked you to find it. But before you return it to her, you must read it. I found her unconscious in her room. After her mother took her to the hospital, I found this note. What is written in it is serious. You do not know what your friend is really going through. Please, talk to her and help her open up to her mother. Both of these women are suffering because of one man. Vevatera veye pamwe muatje wandje.”
(Vevatera veye pamwe muatje wandje means “Help them come together, my child.”)

Her words filled me with shame.

She was right.

I had no idea how deep Tjipaa’s pain really was.

I thanked her quietly, slipped the note into my hand, and left.

I told Tjipaa’s mother that I was going home because my cousin had come to collect me. By “cousin,” I meant Mbaa, who was waiting outside in the car.

She said it was fine, as long as I got home safely.

As soon as I got into Mbaa’s car, my hands began itching to open the note.

After what the maid had said, I could not stop thinking about it.

Mbaa was speaking to me, but I was not even listening properly.

Since Friday was Valentine’s Day, he asked whether I would be his partner.

I told him I would give him an answer before Friday.

When he dropped me off, I sneaked back into the house, silent as a mouse, and went straight to my room.

There I sat on the bed with Tjipaa’s note in my hands.

I opened it.

And I read.

It began:

“I am so sorry for doing what I had to do, but I could not take it anymore. I have failed my mother, and I am ashamed of what I did. I had an affair with my stepfather for five years…”

The note went on.

But it was the last part that completely broke my heart:

“…because of the affair with Papa Kille, I used up his money, the money he was supposed to use to pay the rent for the farm where he keeps his cattle. I never told anyone about it, but I spent all of it. Now I do not know what to do.
I am just so tired of all the drama in my life., Tjipaa”

My heart sank.

Everything suddenly made sense.

And at the same time, everything became heavier.

The End of Chapter Seventeen

Watch out for Part Eighteen as A Girl from Ehomba Mountain Who Wants to Achieve Something continues…

 

Continue Reading…

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING

From the Mountain to the City Lights

After reading the note, my lips began to tremble. I felt as if I wanted to call out the Lord’s name, but no words could come out properly. I cried so hard that it felt like my soul was bleeding. My stomach burned inside me as if I had swallowed a whole bottle of acid. I felt sick. I felt like vomiting.

Oh God, why did this have to happen to Tjipaa?

She was such an innocent soul. She did not deserve this.

Tjipaa had not chosen this life with her stepfather. She had been pushed into it. And now, on top of everything, she had used up his money. I still did not fully understand how all that money was spent, but one thing was clear, she was carrying a burden that was too heavy for her.

I lay down and put my head on the pillow. I called my cousin, but her phone was still off. I sent her a message telling her to call me back as soon as she got it.

That night, I was completely broken. I do not even know what time I fell asleep or how I managed to sleep at all. The next thing I knew, it was morning, and my aunt was standing over me, looking at me with pity in her eyes.

She opened the curtains to let more light into the room.

I needed that light.

My soul felt as if it had been covered by darkness.

My aunt told me to get ready for school. She also told me not to let what had happened to Tjipaa destroy me.

“Life goes on, Muuaa,” she said. “You must be strong and hope that your friend gets better soon.”

Only if she knew what was really troubling me.

My aunt was always early, and she seemed to have made it her habit to drop me off at school before going to work, even though my first class did not start until 10:30. So I told her I wanted to go to the hospital first and see Tjipaa before going to school.

“Okay,” she said. “But do not forget to buy her flowers. Flowers always help bring life back into a person lying in a hospital bed.”

Then she left for work.

I tried calling Ndjona-Top again, but her number was still unreachable.

Never mind Ndjona-Top, I thought. She was probably having the best time of her life.

So I took Tjipaa’s note, went into town, bought flowers, and went to the hospital.

When I arrived, I found Tjipaa’s mother in the room. She was leaning over the bed where Tjipaa was sleeping.

“Good morning, ma’am,” I said. “I hope Tjipaa is feeling better today. I brought her some flowers.”

Now that I knew what was really hurting Tjipaa, I tried not to talk too much to her mother. Her heart was too soft, and the way she looked straight into my eyes made me feel like she would eventually pull the truth out of me.

Still, I wanted to show her the note, even if Tjipaa might hate me for it afterwards. All I knew was that Tjipaa needed help, and more than anything, she needed her mother to know the truth so she could stand by her.

Just as I was reaching into my handbag for the note, Tjipaa woke up.

Her mother held her hand and asked gently how she was feeling.

“I’m fine, Mommy,” Tjipaa said. “I feel much better this morning. You look like you have not slept at all. I want you to go and rest.”

Then Tjipaa started crying.

“And I’m sorry for what I put you through. I just wish I had been a better person. I know I have not made you proud, Mommy. I failed my classes, and I was close to giving up on life. I am so sorry.”

Her mother hugged her and said, “It’s okay, my child. Get some rest now. You have not disappointed me. I am just happy you are still here with me. Soon I will be able to take you home.”

At that very moment, my phone rang.

It was Ndjona-Top.

I quickly stepped outside to answer.

“Og couzy hapo, what is going on? What emergency were you talking about?” she asked.

“Vemuu, Tjipaa is in hospital,” I said. “She was admitted last night. I tried reaching you all night, but your phone was off.”

My cousin sounded shocked.

“Text me the hospital, the floor, and the room number. Meya nambano,” she said.
(Meya nambano means “I am coming now.”)

After we ended the call, I went back inside.

Soon after that, the doctor came in.

“Mrs Tjaa,” he said, “your daughter has responded well to the treatment. You will be able to take her home today. Please pass by my office later. There are a few things I want to discuss with you.”

Then he left.

Tjipaa’s mother was so relieved. She hugged her daughter and said she was going to sign some papers and would be back soon.

That gave Tjipaa and me a little time alone.

“So, did you find it?” she asked quickly. “Do you have it?”

I gave her the note.

But I think she could already tell that something was wrong with me. My face had changed, and I could not hide my guilt.

“Muuaa, you are acting strange,” she said. “What is wrong? You have been so quiet.”

I tried to say I was fine, but tears began rolling down my face.

Then she looked at the note in her hands and asked, “Did you read it?”

I told her the truth.

“The maid said something serious was going on with you,” I said. “She found the note, and she told me to read it. She said I should help you and your mother come closer. She said you needed help.”

Tjipaa did not take it well.

She burst out at me.

“Muuaa, you promised not to read it. You lied to me. How am I supposed to trust you if you cannot even keep a simple promise? So now you know. Is this how you find out private things about your friends, by going behind their backs?”

I stood there crying.

I had wanted to be a hero, someone trying to help her. But now, in Tjipaa’s eyes, I was the villain.

“I only wanted to help you,” I said. “And I think you need to talk to your mother about it.”

That made her even more angry.

“Stop trying to run my life for me,” she shouted. “Stop telling me what I should do, what I should not do, what I need, and what I do not need. I already have a mother doing that. I do not expect it from you.”

She was crying and shouting, and the more I tried to calm her, the worse it became.

Then the door opened.

Ndjona-Top walked in.

She looked surprised to find both of us crying.

“Hey, I came as soon as I heard. Tjipaa, are you okay? Why are you both crying? Tjipaa will be fine,” she said.

There was silence.

Tjipaa and I could not even look at each other.

Ndjona-Top immediately knew something was wrong.

“Tjipaa… Muuaa… you are scaring me. What is going on? Please, tell me.”

I was not in a position to explain anything. It was Tjipaa’s story, not mine.

So after pulling herself together, Tjipaa told Ndjona-Top everything, from the suicide attempt, to the reason behind it, to what was written in the note.

For more than five minutes, none of us said a word.

It felt like we were three strangers sitting on a bus, each one lost in thoughts about a terrible life.

Then Ndjona-Top asked her, “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Tjipaa answered sharply.

“Vemuu, you are never available when a person really needs you. You are too busy chasing men. Where were you last night when I needed you? You were nowhere. Besides, Muuaa knew. She was the one helping me through all this. When I found out I was in serious trouble, she was the one talking to me. I did not tell her not to say it to you, but she understood it was personal. I thought of telling you, but you are never emotionally available, Vemuu.”

Then she pulled her hand away from Ndjona-Top.

That hurt my cousin deeply.

She stood up and walked outside.

I could see that she was broken, and I understood why. She had lost touch with her friend a long time ago. She had been too busy with her own life, her own men, and her own troubles to notice what Tjipaa was going through.

I turned back to Tjipaa and apologised again.

“It was not my intention to read the note,” I said. “The maid made me do it. She said you were going through something no one knew about, and that is why I became so worried and curious.”

Tjipaa looked away.

“Of course the maid knows about my affair with my stepfather,” she said. “The first time she found out, Papa Kille threatened to fire her. And because I did not want my mother to know, I begged her not to say anything. But Muuaa, you betrayed my trust. There is nothing I can do about it now, so please just leave me alone.”

Then I asked, “And your mother? Is she okay? How do you know this is not affecting her too? Shouldn’t she know the truth?”

Tjipaa answered quietly, still facing away from me.

“I was the one sleeping with her husband. My mother has not been close to my stepfather for years because of the way he treated her. Besides, she is no longer interested in him, and she is already on treatment for high blood pressure because of him.”

Her message was clear.

She wanted nothing more from me.

Just as I was about to leave, Ndjona-Top came back into the room and sat down where I had been sitting.

She was crying badly.

At first, I thought she was simply hurt by what Tjipaa had said. But there was something more.

I asked her, “What is wrong?”

She told me to close the door.

Then she turned to Tjipaa and said, “I have a confession to make.”

“Oh my God,” she cried. “Maybe this is God punishing me. I deserve everything happening to me. Sometimes I think I am bewitched, because I cannot control myself.”

She took a tissue and continued.

“I am so sorry, Tjipaa. Please forgive me.”

Tjipaa looked at her in shock.

“Forgive you for what?”

Ndjona-Top struggled to explain.

She went in circles, almost unable to say it clearly.

Finally, Tjipaa snapped, “Muuaa, just get to the point. What happened?”

Then Ndjona-Top said it.

“Remember your 21st birthday, when Papa Kille bought you the Mercedes-Benz? I was so drunk that I passed out in one of the guest rooms. You and Kenaa went to test-drive the car and later went to sleep. I was still there. That night Papa Kille came into the room. Before I knew it, he gave me a lot of money so that I would keep quiet and not tell your mother that you were involved with him.”

The room went silent.

Then she added another painful truth.

“That money… I gave it to someone who promised to trade it for me. I thought I could grow it. I wanted to use it to buy a house in Dubai and leave this country without him knowing. But I got scammed. I lost all of it.”

Muuaa and I both stared at her.

Ndjona-Top wiped her tears and said in a trembling voice,

“He also once gave me N$150,000 to keep for him. I lost that too.”

We were all frozen.

Then the thought hit me like a rock:

Did this mean all of us now owed Papa Kille money?

How much more could life become like this?

I thought.

And I cried.

The End of Chapter Eighteen

Watch out for Part Nineteen as A Girl from Ehomba Mountain Who Wants to Achieve Something continues…

 

 

 

Continue Reading…

CHAPTER NINETEEN

A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING

From the Mountain to the City Lights

It felt like my heart had shattered into a million pieces — pieces that could never be put back together again.

Tjipaa had turned her back on us again, and Ondjona-Top was crying. I kept asking myself the same question over and over again: what was happening to us? Why was all of this happening?

Deep inside, I began to feel as if this was our punishment.

Perhaps it was punishment for covering up the death of Cota Ma-Cups.

First Kenaa had died in a terrible way at the hands of a jealous ex-lover. Then Tjipaa had fallen into a relationship with her own stepfather and used his money. And now my cousin Ondjona-Top was also caught in this complicated web of money and secrets.

I still did not know whether Ondjona-Top truly owed Papa Kille money. After all, he had given it to her willingly. He never clearly said whether she had to return it or keep it. But the truth was that Papa Kille had a reputation for beating women who “ate his money.”

My thoughts were racing.

I had come to Windhoek with a dream.

All I wanted was to live a simple but exciting life in the city and study hard for my Bachelor of Laws degree. Instead, I felt like I was giving too much of myself and receiving nothing but pain and disappointment in return.

Tjipaa finally spoke.

“Guys, I think you should leave now,” she said quietly. “Ndjona-Top, I am sorry for what you did, but Papa Kille has a history of beating women who spend his money. I do not know if I will ever forgive you if it turns out that you are the reason he comes after me.”

She turned her back on us again.

Ondjona-Top wanted to say something, but before she could speak, Tjipaa’s mother walked into the room. When she saw the tears in our eyes, she asked what was wrong. None of us answered.

Tjipaa quickly told us to leave and let her stay alone with her mother.

So we left.

As we walked down the hospital corridor, Ondjona-Top suddenly grabbed my hand.

“Muuaa,” she said nervously, “please come with me to the police station. I need to know whether I have to pay this man’s money back. I have spent money from men before, and I need to know whether I am guilty or not. Please come with me.”

Despite everything, she was still my cousin.

Even though I felt ashamed of the life she had lived with Tjipaa’s stepfather, I could not abandon her.

So I agreed.

At the police station, the policewoman who attended to Ondjona-Top was very kind. She asked gently whether this was her first time visiting the police station and how many times men had given her money like that.

My cousin’s answers were shocking.

Still, the officer did not judge her. She listened carefully, gave her some counselling, and took a statement.

Then she said something that surprised us.

“I do not think you are guilty,” she explained. “You did not force anyone to give you money. But tomorrow you must come back and speak to Detective Officer Mbaa. He might give you further advice.”

Ondjona-Top looked relieved.

As we left the station, she started bragging again.

“Oh ami,” she said proudly.
(Ami means “me.”)

“I always knew I worked smarter. I am a big girl in the capital city of the Republic of Namibia.”

Then she added confidently, “That means I do not owe Papa Kille anything, and he does not owe me anything either. Our situation happened more than a year ago. If I had done something wrong, I would already know.”

She took a tiny mirror from her handbag and started fixing her makeup.

I asked her where she was going.

She answered casually, “I am going to see Mr Kiswahili.”

That was the moment I lost my patience.

“Do you even understand what is happening?” I said angrily. “Tjipaa is lying in a hospital bed because she tried to kill herself. We just discovered that she spent Papa Kille’s money. And all you can think about is running to another man?”

We started arguing.

“Muuaa,” she snapped, “do not act like you are perfect. Because of me you have a fancy phone, an iPhone, and you look hot just like me. Did you not always say you wanted to look like me?”

She continued coldly, “Besides, Kenaa was my real friend. Tjipaa has always been like this. She is spoiled and loves attention. You saw how she turned her back on us. She does not want our help.”

I could not believe what I was hearing.

Ondjona-Top had always been the leader of the group, the one who encouraged the others into the lifestyle they were living. Now she was acting as if none of it mattered anymore.

This was not the time for us to turn against each other.

She asked if we could go to the Hilton for breakfast with Mr Kiswahili before going to school.

I refused.

Instead, I walked away and went to sit alone at Zoo Park.

When I reached the park, I felt like I needed to talk to someone.

Before I could think of anyone to call, my phone rang.

It was my mother.

I suddenly realised that I had not spoken to her in a long time.

The moment I heard her voice, I began crying. I told her I was homesick.

She comforted me with gentle words. She encouraged me to focus on my studies and reminded me why I had come to Windhoek in the first place.

For more than thirty minutes we talked.

By the time we ended the call, I felt stronger again.

So I went to campus determined to focus on being a student.

My first class at 10:30 went well.

Between classes I sat on the lawn reading my books. While I was studying, Tusu appeared.

“Hey Muuaa,” he said. “I see you have been avoiding me these past days. I am glad I caught you.”

“Well, you are disturbing me,” I said jokingly. “But it has been a while.”

This was the first time I had seen him since he left my house the day he took my virginity. I wanted to ask why he had not called me afterwards, but I did not want to look desperate.

Instead, I told him I was busy and had to go.

He was holding posters in his hands, and one of them caught my attention.

It was a picture of Kenaa.

“The Office of the Dean of Students is holding a memorial service for Kenaa this Friday,” he explained. “She won the Miss UNAM contest last year and was the reigning queen. She was loved by many people here.”

Then he added softly, “It is a shame you did not know her for long. You would have liked her.”

With that, he walked away.

Later I went to the library, where I studied with Kapee.

Kapee was from my village, Ehomba. We had gone to different schools growing up and had only seen each other during holidays. She was a typical bookworm,  always wearing glasses and always serious about her studies.

Looking at her felt like looking at my old self.

She helped me understand the course material and catch up on what I had missed.

I did not see Ondjona-Top anywhere on campus that day, and honestly I was not in the mood to talk to her.

After classes I was exhausted and ready to go home.

Kapax called me and invited me out for a drink and a snack. I really liked him, but I decided to follow Ondjona-Top’s advice and play hard to get.

So I politely refused and told him I had too much homework.

Still, I hinted that I might spend Valentine’s Day with him.

He sounded very happy about that.

Just as I finished the call, I saw Tusu waiting near the lecture halls.

“I was waiting for you,” he said. “How was class?”

“How did you know I had class now?” I asked suspiciously.

“I am your senior,” he laughed. “I know the faculty timetable.”

Then he added gently, “I know I should have called you earlier. Let me make it up to you. Let me buy you something to eat.”

I tried to refuse, but he kept insisting.

Finally, I agreed.

“You can buy me chicken curry,” I said. “After that I am going home.”

After dinner we talked about school.

I asked him many questions about law, and surprisingly he had answers for everything. He was actually very intelligent.

He suggested I join the Law Society, which was planning a study tour to South Africa. I signed up immediately and paid the N$30 membership fee.

Since he was the chairman, he promised to include me in the tour group.

I was thrilled.

Later we went to his SRC office.

The building was quiet, and we seemed to be the only ones there.

He switched on the fan, went to get some cool drinks, and returned. My feet were sore, so I took off my shoes. Tusu offered to massage them.

I allowed him.

His hands were strong and warm.

Slowly my body relaxed. I closed my eyes as his hands moved across my feet, then up my legs.

I felt his touch move higher.

His fingers brushed across my chest, and I felt his lips against my neck.

My body reacted without thinking.

Just as his hands reached for the zip of my jeans—

I suddenly woke up.

It had all been a dream.

The End of Chapter Nineteen

Watch out for Part Twenty as A Girl from Ehomba Mountain Who Wants to Achieve Something continues…

 

 

Continue Reading…

CHAPTER TWENTY

A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING

From the Mountain to the City Lights

“Dammmn…”

For a moment I felt completely hypnotised.

I had never been touched like that before. My body felt warm and weak at the same time. The strange thing was that the only man I had ever truly been with in my life was the very same man sitting in front of me, Tusu.

And deep inside, even though I hated him for hurting me, I realised something I had been trying to ignore.

I still had feelings for him.

I quickly opened my eyes and jumped up from his spinning chair.

Before he could touch me again, I stopped him and raised my voice to break the moment.

“Do you think I am a fool?” I said angrily. “What is it this time? A Fanta and chicken curry again so you can get what you want? Haven’t you hurt me enough already? Move out of my way, I am going home.”

I hated the fact that I liked him.

Just as I reached the door, he asked me to wait.

He opened a drawer beneath his desk and took out a card. It was beautifully decorated.

He handed it to me.

When I opened it, I read the words inside:

Muuaa,
Every time I think of you, I want to be with you.
I was never sure about my feelings before,
but now I know I want to make every day special.
Starting from the moment you agree to be my Valentine.

For a moment I just stood there.

Wow.

I did not expect that.

Tusu was romantic after all.

But my mind was confused. I did not want to let my guard down too quickly. So instead of answering him, I walked out.

“Bye, Tusu,” I said softly.

That was all.

When I arrived home it was around 19h00.

My aunt was in the kitchen preparing dinner.

The smell of the food immediately reminded me how lucky I was. My aunt was a wonderful cook, something I had mentioned many times before.

I greeted her and helped her prepare the table.

That evening was the first time since I arrived in Windhoek that we sat together and had dinner at the same table.

While we were eating, a question that had been bothering me came to my mind.

Why did my aunt not speak to the rest of our family anymore?

Especially the elders.

Without thinking carefully, I asked her.

That turned out to be a mistake.

“Omuatje oove,” she said sharply.
(That means: You child.)

“Are you trying to say that I am the one to blame for what happened in this family? Do you even know what they did to me?”

I froze.

“No ma’am,” I said quietly. “I don’t.”

“Then ask your mother,” she replied angrily. “And never ask me about something that does not concern you.”

Then she added:

“Wapuha tjiri.”
(Meaning: You are very naughty.)

She stood up and walked into her office, leaving me in the kitchen.

Before closing the door she said, “Leave the kitchen spotless before you go to bed.”

That was clearly my punishment.

After cleaning the kitchen, I went to my room and lay on my bed thinking about everything.

I thought about Ondjona-Top.

I thought about Tjipaa.

I thought about Kapax.

And of course… I also thought about Tusu.

Then something else started bothering me.

If my aunt reacted like that, it meant something serious had happened in the family long ago, something we children were never told about.

The more I thought about it, the more I suspected that the Hiandaambe family from our village might have been involved. I remembered my aunt’s friend, Aunty Ngarii, asking me about them earlier.

I wanted to ask Ondjona-Top about it.

But we were not speaking.

Tjipaa was also not talking to us.

For the first time since coming to Windhoek, I felt lonely.

The next day at school I noticed something strange.

Ondjona-Top was with her classmates wearing black and white outfits. As accounting students, they probably had some presentation.

I was walking with Kapee carrying our textbooks when I tried to greet my cousin.

She ignored me.

Not only that, she stared at Kapee in a strange way.

I felt embarrassed.

So I walked away and went to the Dining Hall with Kapee.

While we were waiting in line for lunch, I heard girls whispering behind us.

“Ingo okakasena ka Ndjona-Top nu…” one of them said.
(That one is Ndjona-Top’s cousin.)

“…look at the Brazilian hair on her head. She is only a first-year student and already she is trouble.”

Another girl added, “I heard she was going out with some Angolan man who died recently. Some people say he was attacked, but I think he died from stress because of her.”

My heart dropped.

Were they talking about me?

How many people on campus were gossiping like this?

Suddenly I understood why Ondjona-Top never ate in the Dining Hall.

Later that afternoon I went home early.

My aunt was not home yet.

I sat quietly in the house thinking about everything.

Without Ondjona-Top beside me, I felt like I did not belong anywhere.

I missed her.

I also missed Tjipaa.

Forget the boys , Tusu and Kapax had been calling me all day, but I ignored their calls.

I was too tired for romance.

Eventually I fell asleep.

When my aunt returned from work, she woke me for dinner.

While we were eating she told me something unexpected.

“Tjipaa’s mother called me,” she said.

“She asked if you and Ondjona-Top could travel with them to Kunene for Kenaa’s funeral. Since she knows Kenaa’s sister personally, she said she will drive you girls herself.”

I agreed immediately.

Kenaa was my friend.

Of course I would go.

That night before sleeping, I looked at myself in the mirror.

I saw a troubled girl staring back at me.

For the first time in a long time, I prayed.

I asked God to help me focus on my studies.

I asked Him to protect me from evil.

I promised myself that after Kenaa’s funeral I would change my life.

No more complicated lifestyle.

No more chasing money.

No more pretending to be someone I was not.

Maybe I would even return to my natural hair and simple clothes.

Maybe I would sell the iPhone.

Maybe I would become the simple girl from Ehomba again.

Friday finally arrived.

It was Valentine’s Day.

Students everywhere were wearing red and white. Couples were holding hands and exchanging roses.

But for us, the day was not about love.

It was the day of Kenaa’s memorial.

The gym hall was full, students, lecturers, friends, and relatives.

Tjipaa and Ondjona-Top were sitting in the front row beside Kenaa’s sister.

There was an empty chair between them.

I was about to sit at the back when Tjipaa’s mother waved for me to come forward.

So I sat between them.

None of us spoke.

Tears filled our eyes as we looked at Kenaa’s coffin.

The memorial service was led by Tusu as the master of ceremonies.

Everything was organised carefully.

The pastor prayed.

Family members shared memories.

Then something unexpected happened.

Tjipaa stood up and walked to the podium.

She was not even on the programme.

Her voice trembled as she spoke.

“Kenaa was like my sister,” she said through tears. “Nobody can replace her. Even though she lived a glamorous life, she had a kind heart. She wanted to become a nurse because she loved helping people.”

Then she continued.

“When my mother and I were poor in Katutura, Kenaa welcomed me into her home. Even though her family had little, she shared everything with me.”

By that point she was crying uncontrollably.

She looked like she might faint.

Ondjona-Top rushed to hold her.

I followed.

The three of us held each other and cried.

Tusu and Tjipaa’s mother eventually helped us back to our seats.

Soon it was time to transport Kenaa’s body to Kunene for burial.

Tjipaa’s mother told us we would leave immediately.

We collected my small backpack and began the long journey north.

Early the next morning we arrived in Kenaa’s village, Okaruikovakombe.

There was no time to rest.

After the church service at the big traditional house, the onene, we went to the burial site.

Slowly the men began throwing sand onto the coffin.

That was when Ondjona-Top suddenly stood up.

“Oh my God…” she whispered.

“This can’t be. I don’t believe this.”

Tjipaa asked her what she meant.

At that exact moment my phone rang.

It was Mr Officer Mbaa.

“Hello Muuaa,” he said.

“I know you girls are mourning your friend, but I have bad news.”

My heart began racing.

“It’s Aju,” he continued.

“He was released on bail yesterday.”

Aju.

Kenaa’s murderer.

Suddenly my sadness turned into pure fear.

The End of Chapter Twenty

Watch out for Chapter Twenty-One as A Girl from Ehomba Mountain Who Wants to Achieve Something continues…