I WAS born many moons ago in Katutura State Hospital; that hospital just after the robots on the way to ondoropa (city). Not too far from that place was the Khomasdal-Katutura swimming pool, now known as the Western Suburbs municipal swimming pool. We were probably the first kids to enter that pool when it opened its doors to the public somewhere in the 80s.
No bona fide Tura laaitie from yesteryear can deny that they didn’t drink a dop or two from that swimming pool or almost drowned their behind by being thrown forcefully into the deepest end of the water or being pushed down by some outgrown bullies until they were almost blue in the face.
Then on the way home was the Central Shops – still our Groot Winkels which didn’t change one bit in look and feel. It is still the same like its sisters the Gemeente Saal (Community Hall) and the Bioskop Saal (Theatre), although the movie theatre turned into a church.
When in that area, especially Groot Winkels you had to be wittie; I think you still have to be. You either had to pretend you are some hardcore skollie or your running shoes (normally barefeet shoes) had to better be in the best condition like Frank Fredericks’ Olympic takkies.
Otherwise you would go home bleeding from the head after being struck with a rock because the content in that plastic bag you bought at Meroro Shops, Pikeue or Akwenye stores was just too interesting for the scavengers.
Now that you know everything about me you can understand why I got a love for the Tura. From their wild and fierce partying ways to their short temperaments if you just dare say one wrong thing to them.
They know each other so well up to personal details as to when you get paid and how much you get paid. The young girls and boys call you auntie and oompie with some disdain even though their toza and zalie could not be related to you in any way possible apart from having shared a school bank with you. They are just beautiful creatures, aren’t they?
But after last weekend I have decided to bid farewell to my beloved Tura.
I know I will be buried alive for writing this but I will take the risk knowing you guys will be there to defend me physically and emotionally.
There I was, sitting home bored to the bone when some friends called to come over. I said okay, well why not? After all it’s a boring Saturday afternoon.
I waited and waited and literally slept on the couch with nobody pitching up. On Sunday, I got a call around 11pm, not 11am that I must open the door because my visitors are there. Hello, who does that on a Sunday night?
I peeped through the window only to see a bakkie packed to capacity with some noisy characters. I decided to ignore, but nada, the driver started to summier hoot and call my name. Etoo, have the pipos lost their minds?
But as the good citizen that I am, I didn’t want to startle my ovashindas (neighbours), so I walked out only to be met by people ‘talking in tongues’ waving at me with their 061s. You have no idea what it took me to silence the invaders and send them out of the yard. Like they say the rest is history.
I love you Tura and I mean it tjiri, but enough is enough.
I am going to move to town to start witnessing how others will also be moved away by my mere presence. I don’t think they will even notice I exist. I also wanna shop in Pep Stores, Mr Price or Big Daddy without my neighbours judging me for wearing cheap or some neighbour noticing that we both bought the same carpet or mirror from those Pakistan boys. I have already got rid of my Truworth or Edgars credit cards.
No more Guess, Sissy Boy, Daniel Hechter or Apple Bottoms jeans for me. Maybe then I will be able to afford that Range Rover I have been eyeing for way too long.
– Sorry Ngo!
By Magreth Nunuhe