CHAPTER FIFTEEN 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 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…