Next year

L-R: Nokokure, Paulina, Mr Maingo, Memory, Mr Tjatindi, Uri, Bravo, Nanguei, and Uendji. (Omaheke Regional Debate Team).

I can tell something is wrong as Nokokure walks towards me, it’s in how languid her stride has become, the pep has gone from her step.  She and Bravo, vice-captain and captain respectively, are a forlorn shadow of who they were the day before. In a supermarket in Okongo, they raced through the aisles towards me and stood next to each other.

“Sir, which one of us is taller?” They both asked

.

I laughed, because what they really meant was which one of them was shorter, next to me, they looked like hobbits. But, I indulged them none the less. Using Nanguei (tallest member of the team) as a scale, we came to the conclusion that Bravo was short, but Nokokure was shorter. We laughed about it in the bus on the way to our destination, Enhana in the Ohangwena Region. Hosts of the National debating championships, rebranded as the Namibian Newspaper Critical Thinking Cup.

I am quickly pulled back to reality, Nokokure is still walking like she has a tropical thunderstorm above her head. Paulina looks the way she always looks, like she isn’t bothered, even though she is.

“What’s wrong?” I ask Nokokure, now I’m slightly concerned. She shrugs.

“Sir, they made us feel so stupid.” She replies. Standing next to me, her head just barely reaches my shoulder, what she lacks in size, she makes up for in character. Yet, I feel that whatever happened during the debate has made self-doubt creep into her.

“What happened?” I can tell that it didn’t go well, usually she’d be effervescent, it’s as dull as I’ve ever seen her. Her face says it all, confused, slightly lost, she breathes, a deep and heavy sigh.

“We knew what we should have said, it’s just that, it’s almost like in the moment, we forgot.”

“The pressure perhaps?” I ask, making effort to be gentle, sympathetic. You don’t tell kids who’ve lost a debate the truth, neither do you lie, you tell a version of the truth that hurts the least. You want to harden them, toughen them up, not break them. 

“Perhaps,” She replies. I tell her that it’s just experience, once she’s a bit more seasoned, it will come, coolness under pressure comes with being constantly under pressure.

“I’ll get them next year,” She says, as if next year is guaranteed, like she’s seen a glimpse of the future. “Next year, I’ll be ready. That’s a promise.” I wonder if I should tell her that it’s pointless making promises to a person who won’t be there to tell you if you’ve kept them or not. But, I don’t, she’s had enough taste of disappointment for one day. Her team mates are just as desolate, probably even worse, Memory starts to starts to cry – real actual tears, I offer a hug. Defeat will humble you, but if it doesn’t hurt than you know that you didn’t want it bad enough.

The next day, were are all seated at a round table at the final round, the whole team. Halfway through the final, Nokokure leans in towards me and whispers in my ear.

 “I like her, she’s very clinical, she needs to teach me that.” She points to the third speaker of one of the finalists.

I tilt my head to one side, questions swim around in my head. When did she get time to make so many friends? I know that she had formed a good friendship with another girl from Otjozondjupa, they have height in common, both of them down to earth. What I didn’t know is that while I and some of the other officials were getting into nonsensical beefs, the kids were busy making friends, giving each other tips and advice on where to improve. Simply put, throughout the whole competition, the kids were being better people than the adults. 

“Next year, that will be us sir.” She smiles, and continues, “With better t-shirts.” She alludes to the fact that while most teams had uniforms – golf shirts, we didn’t. We had to improvise and buy purple t-shirts, a lack of resources and an inability to organize in advance. I ought to tell her that she’s getting her hopes up, that she’ll probably be up there next year, but I won’t be there with her. But, I don’t, how can I squash the most hopeful member of my team. When I do tell her, she’s going to hate me for sure. 

The next day, were in the bus, on our way back to Gobabis. The National Championships done and dusted, a thing of the past. We’re looking to the future, at least Nokokure is, she’s busy sorting the notes that she got from the friends she made at the nationals. Half of team is sleeping, coaches included. Uri and Uendji are playing Ovitrap songs, they’re the DJ Duo of the team. 

Nokokure tugs my shirt to get my attention. “Sir, I think you judged my project at science fair.” She says excitedly, I don’t deny it. 

“Your teacher did most of your projects for you guys,” I say, tongue in cheek. 

“Nope, I did my project myself.” 

It’s in that moment that we both rewind and relive that moment. I remember her from science fair two years before, she did a survey on why people preferred hire purchase of goods, rather than buying them cash. Seeing potential in her project, I had taken her aside, as I had done with some kids before her and I gave her advice on where to improve. 

She tells me that she hates the fact that the first thing that disappeared with the budget cuts was the regional science fair. She then forced her teacher to revive the debate team, forming an all-girls team that lost in the regional trials, where I spotted her and included her in the regional team. It starts to make sense now, the reason I saw so much potential in her is that we share the same core ingredient, a defining characteristic – perseverance. 

The three conversations I’ve told you are relevant, because before they happened, I had made my mind up and wasn’t changing it. Faced with bureaucratic system that stressed and frustrated me, I had decided to organize and put together a regional debate team for Omaheke region, take them to the National Championship in Eehnana and then resign at the end of the year – I was Gatvol. It felt like a useless project, like I had been handed a poisoned chalice, I did not see any real benefits. My conversations with Nokokure had pushed me to rethink my decision, I will give it one more year. So, next year, I will be putting together another regional team for the nationals, so Nokokure can keep her promise and make both of us proud. Next year, we’re going to win.