One of Namibia’s leading Kwaito stars, Morocky Mbwaluh, aka The Dogg, recently published his autobiography titled,Ther Dogg: Untold Story. As part of the reading culture campaign launched by the New Era Publication Corporation (NEPC) in conjunction with the Minister of Education, Honourable Dawid Namwandi, is serialising parts of this autobiography each Friday.
As normal practice, all the boys were taken to uncle Vilho’s farm during that school holiday. My uncle himself was at Onayena village. One evening, an older relative came to the farm. To this day, I can’t remember his name.
He called me outside and said I was needed back home. “Your uncle needs to see you.” Were his words. I struggled to make out what this could mean. We were a large group of boys on the farm, and I wondered why it had to be me to be called. Despite the unanswered question in my mind, we travelled to Onayena the next day. Upon arrival, seeing so many cars parked outside our house made me believe there was some kind of celebration or a happy family gathering.
When I got inside the homestead, all my relatives and family members were present, notably those who resided in Windhoek and other parts of the country. The atmosphere resembled mourning and sadness. My mother’s sister, Aunt Taati Kalambi, had the courage to approach me. She called me aside and told me that my mother had passed away. It hit me. I remember her being hospitalised for some time but did not think it would come to this. She has departed from me, from the family, not to return again, I kept thinking. I last saw her three years ago, in 1992. It was unbearable. My tears were uncontrollable. At that moment, I understood the reason for everybody’s presence. My earlier question was sadly answered: they had not gathered for a good cause or for some kind of celebration.
To calm me down, my aunt gave me sweets and some toys. Considering I was a rural boy who rarely had access to toys, with sweets and the little things most kids are used to in towns, my tears were gone. A cousin of mine, Max, joined me and we started playing with the toys right away. It was also pleasing to hear Aunt Taati say I could go visit her in Windhoek.
During my mother’s hospitalization in Windhoek,Magano and Ndiina were at home. My brother Bruce was not around when my mother passed away:
He was still on his own since my mother chased him out of the house. At this stage, Bruce was not on speaking terms with my mother. He did not attend the funeral and only came back after the burial. My late mother was laid to rest in the Onambeke cemetery, next to my grandmother.
Losing my mother on 13 May 1995 meant I was parentless as my father passed away in 992. I did not really grow up under father’s care, although he was always around, but it pains me to have missed out on his funeral. I wasn’t present when he was buried, neither do I know the exact date he passed away.
In fact, when he passed away, I did not even know about it. Even worse, I do not know exactly where he is buried, but my best guess is the Oshigambo cemetery.
I came to learn of my father’s death very late after he had passed on.
Still, this information was communicated to me without an explanation regarding the cause of his death. I was eleven years old, a year before my mother died. If my memory serves me well, a cousin or uncle of mine, whose name I don’t know, told me he had passed away.
But still, I did not know the cause of my parents’ death. Being young and very reserved at the time, I didn’t really ask questions. In all honesty, I grew up as an introvert and was very quite. I only spoke when spoken to.
It amazes me how I have changed to being more outspoken and open-minded.
While the writing of this book was still in its infancy, I was privileged to be invited to speak at the annual Polytechnic of Namibia HIV/AIDS Awareness Week in 2007. This occasion was the very first time I openly spoke about this issue in public. I have my reservations and although I may have said a thing here and there informally, I have never shared the details or the complete truth about the cause of my parents’ death. I do, however, feel that this book might be of assistance to anyone who shares a similar background to mine.
I have come to terms with reality and accepted the fact that my parents have passed away, but my heart has always been restless regarding the cause of their death. There was a time I was told my mother’s death was due to tuberculosis (TB. Not that I doubted this aspect, considering TB was once a disease that mostly lead to death. Still, I was in limbo regarding the disease that caused my father’s death.
As fate would have it, in 2006, the real cause of my mother’s death was unveiled. I was searching through my sister’s handbag and found a copy of my late mother’s death certificate. This paper revealed what some had been hiding from me and what some probably thought I already knew.
My guess is that some elders probably thought it was best to leave it to my own discovery when I was old enough to understand what the disease really was. In fact, I only came to learn and know of this disease in 1997 when I attended high school in Windhoek. My mother and father are victims of the killer disease AIDS caused by the HIV virus.
Knowing this, I felt so sad and quite depressed because I had seen pictures of the deadly virus’ victims. Can you imagine your parents going through that? While growing up without my parents helped make me stronger, I missed having a father to raise me and teach me right from wrong….
Motherly love is what I still long for.