Chronicles of Fly

Ah, the end of another year. The way calendar years just sprint past, you’d think time is on steroids or something. Anyways, due to the fact that I am neither famous nor notorious enough to make the Namibian newspapers list of personalities for the best and worst of 2014. I have decided to follow Job Amupanda and just do my own thing, right here on my blog, my little republic where I am dictator and saint – at the same time. So here goes. 2014 was? The year I sold my imaginary dankie Botswana, started over and decide to follow my passion – becoming a fully-fledged grammar Nazi. 2015 will be? Hopefully the year I gain some fame, notoriety or a government tender. Just something to make me special, city of Windhoek plot eligibility type of special. Strangest dream of 2014? Same weird dream I have every year, I am still in UNAM and don’t have enough credits to graduate. Not strange to most, but to me, it’s terrifying. Weirdest place you woke up in 2014? It really wasn

I have a friend, no – not that kind of friend. The platonic kind, a normal friend – as normal goes. She’s a geologist during the day. But, she’s a fashion designer and photographer in her spare time. She has a side hustle. An alternative income generating activity that not only pays the bills but it feeds the creative hunger. Bills don’t pay themselves. I have a lot of friends who have side hustles in addition to their main hustle of a 9 – 5 job in their chosen profession, even I have a side hustle. Three guesses what it is. So why to graduate professionals have side hustles? Why do they moonlight as Disc Jockey’s (DJ’s), stand-up comedians, writers and fashion designers? Are they greedy? Why didn’t they just study music, performing arts and literature? Did they sell their dreams for a paycheque at the end of the month? Epangelo nali talepo nawa mpo. I’ve been a geologist since 2012. I make a decent living, I am good at my job. But, I would hardly say that it makes me the happiest pe

I love December as much as I hate it. My memories of December's past are a cocktail of  irony. It's a melange of the best and the worst, although the latter prevails.   My uncle Abed died in December, unexplained and under a cloak of unknowns. he was my favourite uncle, it sucks that I never got to know him intimately. I inherited his favorite pair of shoes (Don't ask), the finest made pair I'd ever had. I had them for a year, never dared to wear them until I had to. Somehow I naively thought he wouldn't like me wearing them. What if his spirit still lived in them? Ah, the naivety of youth. So they collected dust until I couldn't patch the holes in the soles of my school shoes - the result of too many 7 aside soccer games on the netball court. I hate December as much as I love it.   My younger brother Natangwe died in December, unexplained and under a cloak of unknowns. Just like our uncle before him, he left this world and we still don't know the intricac

A knowledgeable young man called Filemon Iiyambo once said, “Politics is a subject so complex and diverse in its essence that it is better left to politicians. It’s a very dark art that very few people are blessed with the disposition for.” Yes, I just quoted myself. Bite me! Politics and especially Namibian politics, has many similarities to ‘Game of Thrones’. Those of you who have no idea what I am talking about, I have one word, Google is your friend, my friend. Actually that’s more than one word, it’s a whole phrase. But, it’s my blog, I am the dictator here! Game of thrones, is an HBO TV show that is extremely popular, more popular than a young girl in a short skirt at a sugar daddy convention. Or in terms that everyone can understand, it’s a series, a TV series. It’s based on the books by George R. Martin. If you haven’t ever watched an episode of this show, then you need to stop torturing yourself, you’re missing out, big time! Also, you’re definitely doing this life thing all

I was lying in bed, crippled by Sunday morning laziness. I was too tired to get out of bed, but not sleepy enough to drift back into dreamland. I was in quite a pickle, what to do? I decided to listen to radio, and not just any radio station, I tuned into ‘The’ radio station. Fresh Fm. They have this disc jockey who hosts the morning show on weekends, Walla bantuan, “die man met die plan om af te gaan.” He’s a cross between a philosopher and a love guru, playing love songs and filling the role of agony aunt at the same time. It’s a great show though. So a girl calls in, actually a young woman. She was pissed that Walla was going off on young Namibian women, he was complaining about their lack of domestication. “These Instagram girls, they just know how to take pictures of outfits, but they refuse to cook.” Walla was fed up that young women just don’t want to break their nails preparing a meal, they will demand that you order a pizza or something. Clearly Walla was fed up with take awa

“Easy now,” said a pair of big beady brown eyes. “Slowly.” Said the skinny paramedic as she helped her sit up. Faith was confused, she looked around. All she saw were green curtains and a hospital bed, she touched her head, then her chest, and looked down at her feet. Every time she’d woken up on a hospital bed, she’d be assaulted by the pain of some sort of injury. The injuries never surprised her, the person who inflicted them did. He always apologized and promised to change. She’d forgive him and agree not to press charges, things would quiet down for a few weeks, and he would act the part of the loving husband. But, eventually, history would repeat itself. She’d discover yet another indiscretion, yet another desecration of their marriage vows. If it wasn’t secret text messages from Priska, it was nude images from Priscilla. It seemed as though Priska’s role was to listen to her husband bitching about her shortcomings, and Priscilla’s role was to offer the warmth of her thi

Faith hated the sound of a siren, it made her mentally relive events that she preferred to erase and forget. She hated flashing lights even more, they reminded her of the last ride she took in a police car. The day her husband almost blinded her, he failed. But, the attending physician at the hospital succeed. Although momentarily as he flashed his little torch in her left eye, if her retina could talk, it would have screamed profanities in the doctors face. “It’s a miracle,” said the stubby doctor. Any more pressure against the railing at the bottom of the stairs and she’d be a Cyclops. She wasn’t surprised that the love of her life dragged her by her mane, kicking and screaming. She wasn’t surprised that he threw her down the stairs, fracturing her eye socket. None of that surprised her, she was surprised that she stayed with him. The quick glance into the past pulled her away, but reality pulled her back to the present. “What did you say his name was?” Asked the skinny pa