Gerson Uaripi Tjihenuna

On 5 April 2022, I heard the shocking news about the passing of Kukeheiue Milba Tjahere – a childhood friend and a distant relative of mine. 

She passed away on 3 April 2022 – two days after 1 April, as if to ironically re-define April fool’s day. 

I have decided to refer to her as the queen of the townships because of her disarming charm and common touch with ordinary people, despite her crowning achievement. 

In this piece, I am using the word Otjikaendu interchangeably and seamlessly in reference to both the name of the restaurant and its owner – and that is by deliberate design.  

Kukeheiue, meaning “unknown little girl” in English, was one of a kind. She used to work as an ordinary waitress at what was then Copper Kettle Restaurant in the Southern Industrial Area of Windhoek until around the late nineties. 

This extraordinary woman took “a bold step of faith” by resigning from her job to start what has come to be known as Otjikaendu Den – a traditional restaurant in the Rykmansdorp Township (Windhoek). 

Otjikaendu has become a brand that specialises in African dishes, with its specific touch being Ovaherero cuisine. 

The menu would range from “Smiley” (goathead) to omatangara and porridge, served with omaere and Ovaherero traditional butter. 

Otjikaendu has become a popular social “hideout” for intellectuals as well as ordinary people who want to “escape” from the busy life of Windhoek. 

Otjikaendu came to national attention, and it won government catering tenders as well. 

The owner, together with other small business owners, was also sponsored by government to attend international expos so as to give them international exposure.

To many of her clients, she was known as Milba, the proud owner of Otjikaendu Den – but to me, she was more than that. To me, she was Kukeheiue. 

Her mother (Reree) was the elder sister of my uncle’s wife – and because of these family ties, we grew up almost like siblings. 

We also had other long-standing family relations – and our two extended families would often mingle at social gatherings. 

When her own mother was on her dying bed, she sent for me so that I could pray for her, which I gladly did. 

Both of us spent a great deal of our formative childhood years at a village called Okei, some five kilometres south of Otjinene constituency. 

In the sixties, Otjinene Community school (now the Ngatjizeko C Primary School) did not have hostel facilities, and we used to commute on foot every weekday to school and back. 

On our way to school, we had to pass through the stony Eiseb River, which is known for its extremely cold winters. 

During the rainy season, we were often rained upon – and most of the time, we were bare-footed. She and I shared, inter alia, these common memories.

She is being mourned in accordance with the rich traditions of Ovaherero people. 

The Ovaherero mourning ceremony is a laborious event that lasts for about a week. 

Female mourners would gather around the chief mourner – usually a female close relative of the deceased. 

Here, a very sad lament would be repeated in a very low-key rhythm in honour of the deceased. 

This lament would be vented in the most expressive of tones, with the chief mourner as the “lead orator”. 

The English language is too tame and too distant to render full meaning to these sad, yet very deep and rich, emotions. 

Here, the family tree and the heroic exploits of the deceased are called to remembrance – and for her heroic exploits were in abundance. Here was a woman who rose from being an ordinary waitress to setting up a restaurant that carries a signature brand. 

Kukeheiue, the francolin birds in our expansive Okei water pan – a catchment area in the long-winding Eiseb River, which was the “border” between our two families – are still singing you a sad lament (mazekokora). 

Our ancient Acacia trees that defy ageing realised that you were no longer a spring chicken, and they gave you a “standing, send-off ovation” – while their yellow flowers that blossom during the springtime were dropping to deck your casket with a befitting decoration.

The word Otjikaendu has double meaning in Otjiherero: it can mean ladylike or “big woman”. 

She was indeed both.  

Rest in peace Kukeheiue, the “little unknown girl”, who defied all the odds to become “the big known lady” (Otjikaendu) – the queen of the townships.