CHAPTER SIXTEEN 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 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…

CHAPTER FIFTEEN A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING

 

A GIRL FROM EHOMBA MOUNTAIN WHO WANTS TO ACHIEVE SOMETHING

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…