December: Goats, booze and annoying cousins!
The Weekender's Roast
Ouens, the gates of December are almost open and Namibia has entered its most chaotic season.
At our office, the Christmas tree is already up.
December, the month of zero boundaries, unwise spending and sitting under a village tree with drunkard cousins, is not even here yet. What kiddie excitement is this?
Namibians will once again flood into rural areas with the confidence of millionaires and the bank balance of... well... December Namibians.
They arrive shining, moisturised, smelling like Windhoek.
They return dusty, broke and spiritually exhausted.
By January, everyone is begging for lifts back to the city like contestants in a survival reality show.
“Grootman, vat my saam. I have no money, but I can give you company and conversation.” When did I become ‘grootman’, Thomas?
Nobody wants conversation in 40-degree heat on the B1, anyway!
December reunions mean reconnecting with cousins you haven’t seen all year – and, unfortunately, some who still believe insults are compliments.
You step out of the car feeling fresh, thinking you look nice. Here comes Petrus, barefoot, holding a Tafel dumpie and ready to destroy your self-esteem.
“Eish, city life treated you well! Look at you – you got fat. Nice money, huh?"
Petrus, please! Are you admiring me or diagnosing me?
They don’t stop there. “When are you getting married? Us, we want to eat salad.”
Us, we want? Why don’t you get rid of that wig on your head and go demand a refund from all your former English teachers, Saima? Otherwise, shut your stinky mouth.
These are the same cousins who failed Grade 7 three times but still speak with the confidence of university professors during December. And you can’t even clap back – because they’re family and also somehow stronger than you.
December is the only month where Namibians hydrate more with alcohol than with water – and nobody sees a problem.
There’s always the uncle who insists he’s cutting down on drinking... while balancing two quarts and a cooler box.
Meanwhile the youth are drinking cocktails that taste like heartbreak and decisions they’ll regret in two weeks. Someone always ends up confessing love to random strangers. It’s fine. It’s December, mos!
Speaking of December... its salary behaves like a magician: now you see it, now you don’t.
You buy that one thing you “deserve” after surviving the year under the tyranny of your stupid boss.
By the time you realise school starts in January, you’re googling: “Can a hungry child survive on hubbly?”
December romance is undefeated.
Everyone is suddenly beautiful.
Everyone smells good.
Everyone lies confidently.
Come January, you will pretend you’ve never seen that person in your life. Even though you slow-danced with them in front of their grandma.
Then the JanuWorry disease hits. The money is gone.
The jokes are no longer funny.
The cousin who called you fat in December now needs you to lend him N$200 to travel back to Walvis. Go screw yourself, funny man Petrus. Tsek!
Everyone goes back to work looking spiritual – the kind of spiritual that comes from staring at your bank balance and whispering, “But why?”
Because December is a delicious mess – full of booze, poor decisions, shameless jokes, accidental insults, and the kind of laughter that makes your ribs hurt.
At our office, the Christmas tree is already up.
December, the month of zero boundaries, unwise spending and sitting under a village tree with drunkard cousins, is not even here yet. What kiddie excitement is this?
Namibians will once again flood into rural areas with the confidence of millionaires and the bank balance of... well... December Namibians.
They arrive shining, moisturised, smelling like Windhoek.
They return dusty, broke and spiritually exhausted.
By January, everyone is begging for lifts back to the city like contestants in a survival reality show.
“Grootman, vat my saam. I have no money, but I can give you company and conversation.” When did I become ‘grootman’, Thomas?
Nobody wants conversation in 40-degree heat on the B1, anyway!
December reunions mean reconnecting with cousins you haven’t seen all year – and, unfortunately, some who still believe insults are compliments.
You step out of the car feeling fresh, thinking you look nice. Here comes Petrus, barefoot, holding a Tafel dumpie and ready to destroy your self-esteem.
“Eish, city life treated you well! Look at you – you got fat. Nice money, huh?"
Petrus, please! Are you admiring me or diagnosing me?
They don’t stop there. “When are you getting married? Us, we want to eat salad.”
Us, we want? Why don’t you get rid of that wig on your head and go demand a refund from all your former English teachers, Saima? Otherwise, shut your stinky mouth.
These are the same cousins who failed Grade 7 three times but still speak with the confidence of university professors during December. And you can’t even clap back – because they’re family and also somehow stronger than you.
December is the only month where Namibians hydrate more with alcohol than with water – and nobody sees a problem.
There’s always the uncle who insists he’s cutting down on drinking... while balancing two quarts and a cooler box.
Meanwhile the youth are drinking cocktails that taste like heartbreak and decisions they’ll regret in two weeks. Someone always ends up confessing love to random strangers. It’s fine. It’s December, mos!
Speaking of December... its salary behaves like a magician: now you see it, now you don’t.
You buy that one thing you “deserve” after surviving the year under the tyranny of your stupid boss.
By the time you realise school starts in January, you’re googling: “Can a hungry child survive on hubbly?”
December romance is undefeated.
Everyone is suddenly beautiful.
Everyone smells good.
Everyone lies confidently.
Come January, you will pretend you’ve never seen that person in your life. Even though you slow-danced with them in front of their grandma.
Then the JanuWorry disease hits. The money is gone.
The jokes are no longer funny.
The cousin who called you fat in December now needs you to lend him N$200 to travel back to Walvis. Go screw yourself, funny man Petrus. Tsek!
Everyone goes back to work looking spiritual – the kind of spiritual that comes from staring at your bank balance and whispering, “But why?”
Because December is a delicious mess – full of booze, poor decisions, shameless jokes, accidental insults, and the kind of laughter that makes your ribs hurt.
Comments
Namibian Sun
No comments have been left on this article