Continue Reading…
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,
“Oove 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…
