The Movement

The Movement

A short story by Filemon Iiyambo

Translation by U. Uatjiua.

“An Owambo, a Herero, and a Damara walk into a shebeen.” We all laughed at the absurdity of the joke. An Owambo and a Damara, yes, that’s possible. They’ll probably be casing the joint, familiarising themselves, so they can rob the place later. Aawambo and Ovaherero don’t like each other, but no one knows why. The two tribes are indifferent towards each other. There is not a person alive today who knows why.

 

 The cashier, a blonde Afrikaner woman named Sannette rings up our total. Just over N$6000. “Gaan julle kampeer?” She asks if we’re going camping. We all nod. We’re going camping all right. 

We’re packing the tent and the camping chairs into the boot of my maroon Dankie Botswana (Toyota Corrolla) when the irony hits me, while looking at our reflections in the front windows of Outdoor Adventures. An Owambo, a Herero, and a Damara. We’re a motley crew of tribal diversity in a tribalism fuelled society, we’re outcasts who embrace each other. We share flaws and a common vision. 

There are defining characteristics about us, things you just can’t miss. My unmistakably large nose and Rebbeca Malope haircut. Dantago’s kinky porcupine like hair and his abuse of the word ‘Oumes’, and Uetuzemburukisa’s lanky frame. Uetuu’s 15 lettered monster is an Otjiherero name, which translates to: “You made us remember”. But, how anyone is supposed to remember a name as long as that, is anyone’s guess.

A beggar walks up to Uetuu as she saunters to the passenger side of the car, a thin frail wrinkled man who’s seen better days, he asks for a few dollars to buy something to eat. There’s something about Uetuu’s gracefulness that just makes people gravitate towards her, it ensnared me. Dantago rummages in his pockets for change, Uetuu stops him. She opens the door, she hands him my lunch, fish and chips. He gratefully accepts and walks away smiling.

Dantago asks rather perplexed, “Why did you give away your boyfriend’s lunch? I have ten dollars in coins in my pocket.”

Uetuu smiles at him, that captivating smile that intoxicates. “You don’t know what he would’ve done with the ten dollars, he asked for food and I fed him. He would’ve probably just bought booze with the money. Plus, my boyfriend doesn’t like fish.” I nod, I always take her side.

“And you know this how?” Dantago asks.

The smile is gone, Uetuu goes to that place that she doesn’t like going, where she holds the memories of her suffering captive. “It’s what I did, when I lived on the street. Begged for money to buy food, and bought booze instead, to numb the pain.” 

An awkward silence permeates, no one knows quite what to say. So we watch the thin frail man stagger ahead, an impeccably dressed young man rushes out of Garden Towers, the City’s tallest building. His designer threads scream ‘money’, his black Ranger Rover screams ‘Tenderpreneur’. His suit, shoes, and watch probably cost more than the value of my car.

The thin frail man holds out his hand, I hear the phrase, “’n bietjie geld om kos te koop, asserblief.” Some money to buy food, please.

“Gaan vra vir SWAPO!” Go ask SWAPO! Tenderpreneur slams the door and drives off.

And in that moment the inequality and ruthlessness of our society becomes apparent, a side effect of worshiping at the altar of Capitalism and the free market. It creates a system of haves, and have nots. The haves don’t concern themselves with the plight of the have nots, they’re too busy trying to secure their status at the top of the economic hierarchy. I start the car, Dantago sits in the back and Uetuu is riding shotgun next to me. 

I pull out into late afternoon Windhoek traffic, just as Lucky Dube starts singing about his Dad and how he longs for him to remember him, wherever he is. I realize that love is the only beacon of hope in this cold world we live in.

***

An unruly gang of birds are singing their morning song, they’ve turned the storm drain above our bedroom window into their personal amphitheatre. I lie propped up on my elbow listening to 3 or so little birds in concert and Uetuu’s breathing, music to my ears. 

The sun’s early morning rays illuminate the room, they dart through the blinds as I watch her sleep. She looks lost in peaceful dream. I regard her, from the black doek covering her hair, to where her grey satin nighty disappears beneath the blankets. I watch her chest rise and descend, there’s a rhythmic pattern to it – up, plateau, and then down. She’s lying on her side, one arm tucked under her and the other selfishly clutching the blanket. She’s a blanket hog, winter with her has been particularly cold. I am tempted to push her bottom lip up to close her mouth. But, I decide against it and I just watch, revelling in a simple pleasure – watching the love of my life sleep.

I begin to overthink as she starts to fidget. She’s starting to stir form her peaceful slumber. Will we always be struggling to make ends meet? She’s just starting out as a freelance Software Engineer, and I’m still another three years of industry experience from the mythical promotion, the one that comes with a holiday in Zanzibar type of salary. “Go to school,” they said, apparently for a better life, sounds like political hogwash now, empty pre-election promises.

She moves her arms as my thoughts go into overdrive. Will we always be renting and paying off someone else’s mortgage instead of our own? We moved in together, not only as a dress rehearsal for marriage, but, also to cut costs. The rental albatross around our necks pulls us down. It weighs heavily on us, limiting our financial freedom. No honeymoon in Zanzibar.

Will our combined income one day be sufficient to surpass the bank’s minimum threshold? 3 months ago, we sat in the home loan consultant’s office, holding hands as he dashed our dream. The only way we can get a house is to jointly apply once were married. The thought starts to worry me, will our life together be continuous stress or bliss? Will our kids grow up in apartment complexes? Will they ever have the joy of having a front yard to play in? Will a baby seat fit in the back of the Dankie Botswana?

Her Grandfather’s words start to play in my mind. “Omuambo mbuae, Omuambo ka mundu.” An Owambo! An Owambo is not a person. He was displeased at the family gathering, where I announced our engagement – we’ll be married in 3 months. We broke tradition, he told me that I should have sent my uncles on my behalf. I shrugged, I had no uncles left, my father only had one brother, and he died the year before. To make it worse my mother’s brothers are all politicians, so they’re not to be trusted.  Uetuu’s grandpa took my reply as a sign of disrespect. 

He stormed out, fuming. “Ovarumendu mbatakavara mouje mbui, tjiri opuo uahura omuambo.” So many men on earth and you chose to fall in love with an Owambo? I didn’t have to be fluent in Otjiherero to know that he didn’t agree with his granddaughter’s choice.

Uetuu could have cared less, the old man kicked her out of his house after her parents died, so she really didn’t give a fuck. I’ll be surprised if he shows up for the wedding. It will be a small affair at the magistrate’s office, more cost cutting. No marriage can survive if the couple starts off in debt. I think it’s the 5^th law of thermodynamics or something, it is science.

 My dad won’t be pleased either, but at least he’ll be there. He is quite taken with Uetuu. But he wanted each clan to host an elaborate feast, something both villages would remember for years. I still remember him saying, “Ohango tahili mosaala? Otamusithandje oshoni aanona yandje!” A wedding reception in a hall, you bring shame on me my children. 

But, Uetuu and I decided a long time ago, that our priority is a home for our children. Everything else is a waste of money in our eyes. Why feed the same people twice?

Her eyebrows flutter and her eyes slowly open. She mumbles, “Muzuverua uandje.”
 My love. Morning breath and all.  I sweetly reciprocate, whispering my response into her ear as I nibble on her ear lobe. “Omuholike gwandje.” My love.

She moves into my arms and nuzzles against my chest, reminding me of why I love mornings – death by cuddling.

***

Dantago calls, I put him on speaker, and his distinctive bass resonates. “Andimba has been arrested.” I lick the fat from the sausages Uetuu made for breakfast off my fingers. Neither of us are surprised.

“Again?” Uetuu says, a mouthful of scrambled eggs threatening to fall onto the table, I frown. We’re alone, but etiquette is etiquette. I sense my hypocrisy as I lick my fingers again.

“Yes, no worries Oumes, I’ve already sent Lineekela to spring him.” Dantago nonchalantly replies like springing misfits from jail is something he does in his spare time.

Andimba is my younger brother, he’s 2 years younger, but he doesn’t look his age. Another arrest is not news to us. Andimba has a problem with authority, particularly adhering to rules, of any kind. There are problem children turned adults, menaces to society, general deviants, and then there is Andimba. His revolts against bodies of authority go way back. In Kindergarten he was one of those colouring outside the drawing and writing outside the margins type of kids, ‘rebel by blood’ as our mom says. Something she blames on our uncles, she calls all 3 of them ‘him dirty politician’. A word she heard once on TV in a documentary about Jamaica. Never mind that it was about Reggae music.

In my last year of Secondary School, He was expelled for refusing to wear a new uniform, because the school changed the uniform without consulting the pupils. The day after his expulsion, his whole class wore their old uniforms in protest. And then the day after that, I helped him convince the senior pupils to join the protest. The school quickly reversed its decision, teachers can’t teach empty classrooms, since then, mass protests against bodies of authority have been Andimba’s speciality. He’s skilled in making the power of numbers count.

“So what did he do this time?” I asked Dantago. 

He replies with alarm, “What? You haven’t heard of the land grabbing in Goreangab? Oumes! Which planet are the two of you living on?” He continued. “It’s all over the news, and on social media, it even made it onto Al Jazeera’s Twitter timeline.” 

Uetuu and I look at each other, she gulps downs some coffee. She pulls her tablet from its green sleeve, she does some wand waving moves with her finger, and she shows me. A newspaper article, the stream of photographs shows thousands of people with garden tools and wooden poles – clearing land. We leave the dining table and turn on the TV. We sit on the cheap couch we bought last Christmas – it was on sale. The NBC news reporter was engulfed in a swarm of landless Namibians, it was chaos, a huge mass of people. I didn’t know that Windhoek City had that many people in it. She points her microphone towards a middle aged lady, and fires a barrage of questions about the land grab.

“Edu eli oletweni atushe, aakulunhu vetu oveli kondjela.” This land is for all of us, our parents fought for it. Says the short stubby lady.

Ironically she’s wearing a ruling party t-shirt, mass defiance of government policy never sits well with the political leadership, there’d surely be a finger waving response from the upper echelons.

Uetuu asks Dantago, “But, I thought the deadline was still two weeks away?” 

Dantago quickly responds, “I have it from my reliable police sources, that not a single member of The Movement was involved or even seen close to Goreangab.”

Uetuu is puzzled, her brow knots in confusion, “But then why did they arrest him?”

Dantago tries to explain. “My sources at Justice, say that the minister pressured the Attorney General to get a High Court interdict against The Movement’s planned nationwide land grab. So they’re under the impression that The Movement violated the interdict. This has Porky Angala written all over it.”

We scream at him simultaneously, “Dantago! Speak English! What’s an interdict? And who the heck is Porky Angala?”

A long deep sigh comes through the speaker. “Honestly, do the two of you live under a rock?” Dantago asks, exasperated. He explains that Porky Angala is the new Minister of Justice, people call him porky, partly for his podginess but mostly for his huge ego. And, an interdict is a prohibition order, issued by a court informing the recipient that the action they are about to undertake is illegal, and pressing ahead with it will result in legal action. Uetuu let out a long, “Oh!” as though a light bulb had switched on above her head.

“Hold on guys, Lineekela is here.” Says Dantago. We wait.

Lineekela, Dantago’s overworked Personal Assistant started her usual stammering. “Bad news, I went to all the police stations, they weren’t there. Rumour in Police HQ is that they were briefly detained at Leopard Valley military base, and released earlier today. Their phones are dead, no one has seen them. Seems like the movement has gone underground.” She murdered the R in rumour twice. Strong rural background.

I looked at Uetuu, she gives me the spill-the-beans look. “Dantago, bring Lineekela and come over. My boyfriend will take us to Andimba.” This girl! She’d be the end of me. It was like she was reading my mind, how could she tell that I knew where The Movement was. 

***

Aawambo have a saying, “Ka kola kekulye.” You’ll raise the hound that will bite you. The ruling party created the monster that now haunts them: The Movement – a non-politically aligned protest movement advocating for access to affordable urban land. Its radical, youthful, and extremely ungovernable leaders were all in the ruling party’s youth wing, once upon a time. They made too much noise about the lack of affordable housing and astronomical rental rates, and they were pushed out. They formed The Movement and staged the biggest public protests seen since the fall of Apartheid. They had the greatest resource in a country polarised by economic inequality: they had the backing of the youth, the landless and jobless youth. The ruling party preached patience. The Movement were having none of it, they flooded local authorities with land applications, and they laid down an ultimatum. If a solution wasn’t found within 10 months, then they’d take the land, Zimbabwe version 2.0. That was 9 months and two weeks ago. 

Andimba joined them as their chief mobiliser, he was 4^th in charge, behind the 3 founders, or The Top Three as they are known. Young professionals helped The Movement where they could. Architects, Lawyers, Engineers, etc. Dantago and I lent a hand, Dantago bailed them out of jail now and then, and was the legal eagle. I lent my expertise on town planning and architecture. The Movement was the problem child that the ruling party could not silence, and it seemed the day of reckoning had arrived – two weeks early.

There was silence in my car, except for Lucky Dube. He finishes the chorus to ‘House of Exile’ as I pull into the parking area of Red Tiger Chinese restaurant. We walk to reception, Uetuu holds my hand, and Dantago and Lineekela trail behind us.

“Nín hǎo. Tùzǐ xiǎng xiàjǐng dòngxué.” Mouths slowly open, eyes widen. Surprise all around.

“You guys didn’t know that I spoke Chinese?” I asked. Head shakes and raised brows, clearly I should have told them. 

Annie, the receptionist, raises the phone to her ear, she repeats my words. The rabbit wants to go down the burrow. Moments later, a short Chinese man appears. He smiles.

“Mr Chang.” I bow, he reciprocates. Respect and observation of protocol.

“Daniel son, call me Charlie.” Says Mr Chang. We walk towards the Kitchen, he opens one of the huge doors, and he looks back. He asks me, “Are your friends coming?” I look back and they’re still standing at reception like statues. I yell at them, “Hello, are you guys coming?”

Mr Chang leads us to the back of the kitchen, we stand next to two freezer doors. He opens the one on the left, two carcasses hang from huge hooks, the cold tickles my bones. He leads us to a second door, with a key pad. I put in the code. The door opens, and there he was. My little brother. 

“Daniel.” He says. 

“Andimba.” I reply.

Our arms lock in brotherly embrace, I notice severe bruising above his left cheekbone. He’s definitely been roughed up. I raise my brow, older brother concern. He shrugs, younger brother resolve, and stupid pride.

 Uetuu hugs him. “Kamwaina,” she says. She tries to rub his cheek, he moves his head away.

“Suwara,” he replies. A sly smile adorns his face, he hides his pain behind it. Uetuu gives him the same concerned look, and he shrugs again. 

Dantago shakes his hand, and gives him a 3^rd concerned look. Same response.

 Finally, Lineekela offers a hug, she tenderly holds his face in her hands. Making sure her fingers avoid his bruised cheek, as though she had done it before.

“Table or fist?” She asks. He swallows, then he slowly responds, “Neither, it was a stray boot.” Lineekela looks like she might get emotional, clearly she’s pried him from the hands of the law so many times that attachment has creeped in.

Dantago cuts in, “You know what’s across the road right?” He’s worried, mostly because the National Security Agency’s Headquarters is just across the road. Andimba shrugs and tells him what ‘him dirty politician # 2’ once told us, that the best way to hide something is to put it right under someone’s nose. Mr Chang and ‘him dirty politician # 2’ are hands that wash each other.

Directly in front of us is a long wooden table, it’s illuminated by four long bright LED lamps attached to the concrete ceiling, numbers 1, 2, and 3 are seated facing 2 huge plasma screens. Three laptops are hooked up to the screens, the screens display a topographic map of Windhoek City.  

Number 1’s bald head glistens, his voice echoes off the concrete walls, “The elites want to urinate on our mission and, our civil liberties.” He pauses to highlight 3 areas on the map, surely that can’t be The Movement’s plan of action? I ask myself. Number 1 continues, “We will show them whose testicles are bigger.” Miniature soldiers pop onto the screen, they spread into Goreangab, Otjomuise, and Khomasdal extension 11.

I look at Andimba, and he looks at me. We speak at the same time, “That’s a bad idea.”

Numbers 1 swivels in his chair, his face becomes aggressive. “So you’ve finally found your voice?” He stares at me, then continues, “I’m not going to take advice from a pseudo zombie. Go back to the side lines, war is no place for civilians.” 

Andimba tries to calm the simmering tensions, “We’re not at war. We’re all on the same side here. We’re all bricks in the same wall.”

I back my brother, “Only a fool refuses sage advice, you’re doing what the police expect you to. It’s too predictable.”

Number 1 rubs his head, if only looks could kill, I’d be dead. The tension in the air is so thick, you could cut it with a blunt knife. At that moment, numbers 2 and 3 both stand, they walk towards Andimba and me. Number 2 shrugs, as if to say, “The pseudo zombie is right.”

Number 3 tries to talk sense into his leader, “Comrade, I would follow you anywhere, but we’d be literally walking into a trap. Think with your head, not your ego. My friend, listen to them.”

Dantago and Lineekela remind everyone that numbers 1, 2, 3, and 4 have all been served with a court interdict, it would be legal suicide. “Don’t take the bait.” Says Lineekela. He seems to finally be getting it. If a mass land occupation is to take place, then they would have to sit it out and let the masses fight the system. Lineekela continues, “You want to make a statement, not incite violence. You are activists, not terrorists, act like it!”

Number 1 rubs his beard, he asks, “What’s your plan Mr Architect?” I ask him how many people he has at his disposal. My jaw drops when he says 6000, twice the number of officers that the Namibian and City of Windhoek Police forces have. 

I ask Uetuu, Lineekela, and Dantago, “You guys want to go camping.” They smile, the chess game had begun. I knew exactly how to get the attention of those in the upper echelons, occupying vacant land wouldn’t annoy them, we needed to bring the issue to their door steps.

***

“Checkmate, oumes!” Dantago sports a smug grin as he takes my queen. He sits across me, in his extravagant moon chair. I’m seated next to Uetuu, and Lineekela, in more modest camping chairs. “Cheat.” I reply, as we put the chess pieces back onto the board, which is balanced on one half of the cooler box. Uetuu is pedicuring her toe nails on the other half, she’s layered them a spunky bright Orange and is blowing them dry.

“You’re such a sore loser.” Uetuu rubs my arm. I refute her assumption. “I am not, he’s a former national champion. It’s a mismatch.” Her hand moves to my shoulder, she proposes that we tag team Dantago, who smiles and laughs.

“You let your girlfriend do your fighting for you as well?” Dantago pokes at my ego, on purpose.

“Muzuverua, mekuraisire, maturuisa otjiporoporo tjo, tarera uriri (My love, I’ll show you, we’ll take this punk down, you watch this space).” Uetuu pulls her feet away and slides them into her sandals, Dantago tries not to show it, but he knows it’s on! Lineekela whispers under her breath, “Iyaa, Otoshi pewa nena.” You’re gonna get it today.

The game goes back and forth, Uetuu is about to check Dantago when Lineekela stands up so quickly that it stuns all of us. Uetuu pulls at her, but she keeps standing. The life starts draining from her face, and she points down the road, we all look, and it’s terrifying.

Coming up Coetzee Street is a platoon of armed soldiers. They march slowly up towards us, flanking them is a sea of  young people in a rainbow of t-shirts, all with The Movement’s red star logo on the front. Operation Occupy the Suburbs, 3000 young people with camping chairs and tents, waiting for the political elite to get home from their Saturday golf outings. The other 3000 formed a diversion for The Police, who predictably poured into number 1’s target areas as soon as the first tent was spotted.

 The sound of marching boots gets closer. I reach and pull Lineekela by the arm, I motion her to sit down. 

Dantago speaks, “Oumes, you trust me right?” 

I respond, “With my life oumes!” 

Which in Dantago code means: ‘let me do the talking.’ Uetuu sits on my lap, and reaches over to play, “Checkmate.” I realise that I don’t even like chess, but Uetuu and Dantago are playing like a million dollars is at stake. 

My heart pounds, my palms start to sweat, I didn’t expect the fucking military! My breathing starts to spike, Uetuu turns her head towards me, she can tell that I’m nervous and she squeezes my hand to calm me down. I steel myself, I try to put on a brave face. But, it fails as saliva and fear cascades down my throat. 

We’re surrounded by at least 20 soldiers, they stand around us. They part to let someone pass in between them, now I realise why Lineekela was scared. Porky Angala and his overextended waistline comes heaving and puffing towards us. He throws sheets of paper at me.

“You are in violation of an order by the high court.” He shouts at us. 

Uetuu picks up the papers scrunches them into a ball and hands them to one of the soldiers, I can hear stifled laughter from a few at the back. “You’re disturbing our chess game,” she says.

“The military has no jurisdiction here Mr Angala, come back with the police.” Dantago rubs it in, we all know the police have their hands full with the other 3000 youths.

It struck a nerve, in a split second there are chess pieces flying as Porky kicks the cooler box and knocks it over, spilling ice cubes and beer onto the sidewalk. Before I can react, Uetuu is up, she swings at Porky and catches him with a thundering clap, twak! It echoes, I’m sure even the dead heard it. It sends him staggering backwards. More laughs from the back. The way Porky clutches his cheek, it looks like she slapped enough arrogance out him to remind him that he’s a mere mortal like the rest of us.

“Monyada nu, monangarasi kutja matumutira po!” You’re playing? You think you scare us?  Uetuu snarls at Porky.

5 soldiers suddenly draw, 5 machine guns are pointed at my fiancée. I get up and stand in front of her with my arms outstretched. Dantago mimics me. Foolish, but they’ll have to get through me first.  I have never been this frightened in my life before, my left leg shakes.

Lineekela stammers from behind us, “Everyone just, just calm down, there’s no need for that.” She points downwards as if she’s willing the soldiers to lower their guns. But they don’t, we’re in trouble. My eyes roam from the guns to Dantago, is this how it ends?

Suddenly, a voice booms out from behind me. “What is the meaning of this?” A thick Afrikaner accent rings in my ear. A gate swings open and the largest white man I have ever seen strides over and stands next to me. “Wat soek julle?” He asks. Porky hands him another set of papers, he grabs them and throws them back at him. Five more soldier draw their guns.

“I am Brigadier General Snyman of The Namibian Defence Force, you are trespassing and disturbing my guests. Leave!” 

Jaws drop, we didn’t see this coming. A soldier comes striding through from the back, he looks important, he has a golden star on his chest. He whispers to Porky, whose face grows angrier and uglier by the second. I overhear bits and pieces. Snyman is 3^rd in charge of the army, Dantago’s name pops up, they know he’s the Prime Minister’s son, and it turns out that Porky thinks that I am Andimba. Snyman coughs, and the guns are slowly lowered. The platoon starts their slow march down Coetzee road. Defeated and slightly humbled.

We turn to look at Snyman, he bends down to pick up a can of beer. He opens it and takes a swig. “Ah, lekker koud!” Uetuu stretches out her hand to shake his.

“Thank you General Snyman.” She smiles at him. That smile that steals souls.

“Oh, no need to thank me. It’s lucky that they’re a stupid bunch.” He laughs, and burps.

Uetuu’s brow knots, confused mode. “Why? You are a General in the army, right?”

Snyman responds, “I am. Actually, I was. I’m retired, I left the army 2 days ago.”

We all laugh, the retired General asks for another beer and heads back into his house, leaving us stunned on the stoep. Lineekela screams, we all turn towards her, she flashes her humongous phone in our faces. A breaking news video appears on screen. A bald news reader reports.

“President engages The Movement. President Gowaseb and Prime Minister Gurirab have begun a closed door meeting with the leaders of the protest group The Movement. Details are sketchy but we can confirm that the President has called off the Police forces and the army, and The Movement has promised to recall its massive number of protestors. It appears as though the government has agreed to meet the protest movement halfway and avail land for urban housing.”

End.

About the Author

Formerly an over-qualified geologist, who couldn’t make it as an engineer. Then a reluctant underground miner, who used to dodge falling rocks for a living. Now a starving writer masquerading as an entrepreneur, dreaming of the day that my art pays my bills.

People call me weird, I think they’re jealous because the little voices don’t talk to them. Grammar Nazi in training, aspiring author (The wordsmith of Oshikuku), advocate for sarcastic humour, and a believer that jelly babies are the answer to world peace.

Funny words and what they mean.

Doek – head tie.

Kamwaina – Little sibling.

Lekker koud – Nice, cold.

Oumes – Friend (buddy).

Tenderpreneur – ‘entrepreneur’ whose majority source of revenue is dubiously acquired from government tenders.

Twak – loud Clap.

Stoep – Area in front of house (leading to front door), usually paved with interlocked bricks.

Suwara – In law (said to a fiancée by the in-laws and vice-versa).

Wat soek julle – What are you looking for? (Speaker to a group of people).