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…