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Day 10

The palm of my right hand is aching. From shoveling. The technical term is “tilling”.  I think I’ve started something. Something real. I wonder what I’ll have to say for myself 6 months from now.

What’s happening Nambahu? Use your words.

Well, ever since I moved back home, it’s been playing on my mind that this house could do with a garden. We have an abundance of open space and it’s more than a little bit ugly (in my opinion). I spent most of 2016 feeling like a caged rodent. Unable to furry back to my humid den where everything made sense and nothing was so serious it couldn’t be smoked away.

I graduated from college, moved back home and felt trapped. From being an independent free thing to a tethered to the ground thing.

Anyway, my bones have settled to the ground. I still don’t belong here, not really. But I’m not cutting my legs off in an attempt to escape.

There is a point to all of this and when I leave again, this piece of internet will be the record of my time here. That’s progress. I feel accountable to myself, I don’t want to sulk anymore.

So – what do all frustrated right brained people do? They make stuff. I assume. Cause that’s I’m doing. Hence the aching palm.

This attempt at “doing something worthwhile” has been met with predictable opposition. Daddy. He says it won’t work and that whatever I’m doing will be fruitless. Ouch, considering the guava plant I’m rehabilitating. No guavas.

If I take it to heart, as he wishes I would that would mean taking it for a fact that the guava tree will not grow. That there cannot be a row of onions, tomatoes and cucumbers. That cabbage and spinach and lettuce have no place in our soil. That green things cannot flourish, no matter how hard I try. That I may as well quit now.

Hm.

Sorry Daddy. There will be guavas.

Why though?

Why, why, why. I don’t know why. Not with words.

That’s a lie. I do know why.

Why? Because it doesn’t have to be the way it is. That’s why. The front yard doesn’t have to be barren. That’s why. It’s not necessary. It’s not a law, or an edict or the natural state of things. There can be more so why not let it?

Why not?

Doubt.

It’s the middle of winter. She’s settled down to the idea of him. His smile. His scent. His touch. The taste and sound of him.

Her boyfriend.

Funny, being blind can make one deaf as well. If not, why doesn’t she hear the whispers?

“Some girls just don’t care.”

“It’s a pity, she’s such a pretty girl.”

“… she doesn’t know.”

 

It starts on a Monday.  He cancels on their dinner plans.  Of course, it’s cool – she’s understanding. That’s what he likes most about her. They’ll get together when things calm down.

Tuesday and Wednesday confuse her, what’s with his silence?

Thursday morning he calls and her heart flutters. Yes, she’s free. Gone are thoughts of playing it cool. He misses her. Can they spend the night indoors? Yes, of course.

She wakes up first. Gets a feeling but shakes it off. He wakes and says he’ll be busy, might not be around for a few days.  She understands right? He rushes out the door, declining her offer of an omelette.

Saturday. Sunday. Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday.

 

Friday. There’s a truth nagging at her. It’s nipping at her heels, demanding to be acknowledged. A truth about too busy, too tired, other plans, shifty eyes and short tempers.

 

Saturday night she visits. Ignores his question and walks passed him.

Sees something to make her heart sore and her mind sure.

She turns and leaves.

 

It’s now spring. She’s settled down to the truth of him.  He’s not her boyfriend, he never was.

 

Vermi-Composting!

2 June 2017

That was how I began. A couple of days later, I visited a small farm on which all the plants are fed on worm poop. The proprietor encouraged me to go bigger! To take a plunge and give them more space to really grow and feed… and so

 

15 June 2017

IMG_8875.JPG

 

16 June 2017

Ha!

Nala one of our dogs, gave birth to a litter of 7 early this morning. Why is this relevant? Well, she chose to deposit herself and concomitant brood in a corner of my worm enclosure. Yes. She has commandeered my project as a nesting site. Me and Mine tried to force her to relocate by moving her puppies. But we’re chicken shits. We’re scared she’ll growl at us. Thinking about it, she’s probably too weak to move anyway. It’s fortunate, she’s only using one corner. I guess this is a test of resilience. Can they withstand the pressure for a few days? Find out on the next episode.

[she did move later in the day. she came in search of food – moved her puppies to the dog house and she moved in there]

Day 9

Kings of Leon – Youth and Young Manhood.

I remember listening to this album as a teenager, rocking out in my bedroom with the riffs pulsing in my ears (confession – I don’t know what a riff is) ..anyway. If there’s any one thing to remind me of Pretoria, South Africa and a portion of my time there. It’s this album.

Why am I playing it? Nostalgia for a time when I was young enough for my real future to have been ahead of me. To remind myself that I used to be someone else. I wonder if she’d be relieved to know I’ve come to know the importance of being deliberate.

Sticking a stake in the ground and saying this is what I decide! This is what I decide to do.

Today I began my reading. Paolo Freire – Pedagogy of the Oppressed. Wordy, high minded piece work. I think I understood about 1/3 of what I read. But the essence is there. The oppressed don’t need another hero, they need to engage in the processes that result in their liberation. It starts by becoming aware and conscious of their reality. Actively observing, acting and reflecting upon their awareness. It’s a question of getting why and how and where you are subjugated. At least that’s what I think.

I’m the only young adult in my home that isn’t formally occupied. I’ve thrown some job seeds into the ground, hoping for something to grow.

If I wasn’t me, I would seriously consider getting down in the dumps, covering myself in trash and wallowing. As it is, I can just about smell it, the wallow – but the warning bells sound off in my head – and I’m reminded to breathe and stay positive.

It’s just that adulting means getting a job and its concomitant perks; income, “freedom” (which I’m coming to see isn’t what everyone implies it is), independence, worth. Worthless because you have no job. That’s such a damaging idea. Damn.

A girl I know is getting a commendation from the Queen of England. The fucking Queen. At Buckingham Palace. That’s what she’s doing. I’m on Day 9 of my blog. chuckle.

It’s ok though. My decisions are of value and my time is of value.

I’ll get employed, of course I will. Sooner or later. In the meanwhile, in the bloody meanwhile I will grow things. I will grow us a beautiful garden with vegetables and edible goodies. Flowers and seeds.

I will transform this house, because beauty and utility and life. That’s why. Because creativity is a part of being human and fuck grocery stores with N$ 19.00 tomatoes.

If I’m supposed to be scavenging for the opportunity to slave, if that is a marker for being taken seriously. Then I’ll just not be taken seriously.

If someone should laugh at me, or scornfully turn their head – so be it.

Spoiled middle class princess who doesn’t know that real life isn’t easy?

That’s my problem. I don’t want to bury my head in the sands of an 8-5 and salary. To distance myself from reality. There’s something hiding behind the curtain of our norms and I want to see what it is.

I sound naive. I know.

It’s all so big sometimes that I get dizzy. I want things I can’t pin down.

I want understanding and confidence and freedom and a way out.

I want a pass from being an automaton. From wearing a uniform. From being confined to an office block or cubicle from morning til evening. From 2 cars and rush hour traffic. From perpetuating this …something.

Okay. I’m done.

By the way I have begun a vermi-composting project.

Day 8

It’s been an interesting time. I’ve made about 40 bucks from selling lemons, to be addressed in a later blog (“an exercise in social humiliation”) ..and now here I sit. I’ve got 50 kgs of horse manure in the front yard and another 50 kgs in the back and I’m a few bucks short for the worms -but I’ll get there. I could get there by Friday.

I’m sitting here as winter presses more firmly into the house.  I can’t sit at the computer without a blanket or socks or a jersey.  I have on a jersey. I’m sitting here wondering what to write and there’s only one thing to write about. Him. Me (self centered blog).

I wrote about a boy once…and here I am thinking about him again. We’re going on 2 years. 2 years and 3 meetings. We’ve spoken every day since we parted. Every day.

Little could I have imagined 4 years ago, that the boy whistling the song from Kill Bill, who passed by me as I went up and down the stairs would be my future ..what? boyfriend. long distance love buddy?? my friend?anchor to reality.. my guy.

Here I am thinking about our beginnings and I feel like I don’t deserve it. Why? Because I am callous and fickle when the wind moves me. While he is constant and enduring. The light shining through the window. That’s him, always.

But I forget, when it suits me to be petulant.

All relationships require trust. A long distance relationship is like going through a tunnel,without knowing whether or not there’s a pile up at the end of it.

To him, there’s a girl. That girl is me. That’s what’s at the end of the tunnel. Me.

To me, there’s darkness and occasionally I see faint glimpses of a light shining through a window. I see that window and I know that that’s where I’m going …but I’m soon shrouded in darkness.

There’s nothing like when I’m with him. I’m happy. I can feel the shadow of happiness floating at the edge of my memory.

Long distance sucks.

Story

Friday

The city hums; infected with the collective eagerness to blow off steam.

Weaved, dressed, shoed and perfumed she appears to be a city bred woman. But I know that she hides her accent. She once bought an orange nearby; the R plays tricks on her tongue.

Chest out, a man struts from a black government sedan; he pays no mind to the security guard who rushes forth to greet him. To him, Windhoek is there for the taking and if you don’t have a piece of it you aren’t worth minding.

A church bell chimes 12 times. The echoes of it move through the quiet air and sound the night.

From nowhere, a young girl appears under a streetlight. Her clothes torn; hair dishevelled. Shaking, she turns her head to look at both sides of the street; she’s having difficulty choosing which way to go. Eyes wide, I the Watcher, listen to her panicked breathing. Racing down the street, she turns behind her to check for someone in pursuit. As her breathing grows faint, the night grows quiet.

And I remain, the Man who no one sees watching. It’s passed midnight and I shrug into my cloak of rags.