Why grandmothers are simply the best

Everyone of us can attest to having a tough-as-nails and uncompromising grandmother. She would defend you against the wicked world, but also never shy away from tongue-lashing you. You haven’t lived if you haven’t had the distinct ‘privilege’ of travelling with your grandmother. Gents, I am not just referring to a drive around the block, or taking her home after visiting you. Nah – that would be too easy! I am referring to travelling with her to a location as remote as Aminuis in the Omaheke Region – a gruelling 390 km from Windhoek. To start off with, my trusted 1980 Merc did not prove to be such a hit with my Nana as it had been with the chicks in Swakopmund’s Vineta suburb. Ok, most of them are white, but that is besides the point. Accommodating my grandma, all her luggage and grandkids into the Merc when we had to leave for the village during the past long weekend proved to be a nightmare. I pulled in at my sister’s place in Katutura’s former Herero Section where my granny was staying. With the stereo of the Merc resounding to Creedence Clearwater Revival’s ‘Bad Moon Rising’, I parked inside and got out. I greeted my granny, and after passing the ‘Boy, you are too thin … why don’t you send money home more frequently…’ initiation, we were finally ready to start packing for the journey ahead. Mbuae, my granny had three of those big Chinatown bags that have the distinct ability to make an elephant look like an ant; and she had gathered what seems like all her worldly belongings – from pieces of cloth to empty water containers for the trip. “Nana, what are the cloths and water containers for? We surely don’t need those,” I attempted to convince her. “Child, I have been carrying these things since before you were born. Your uncles never complained. What is the matter with you young people?” We had just finished packing all her belongings (after sacrificing a few of mine) when Nana called on my sisters to bring the ‘kids’. I protested: “Nana, there is no room for kids. Whose kids are they anyway?” “You shut your mouth right there! Don’t you remember how the Nguasananongombe family took care of you when you were still young? These are their grandkids and we are taking them along,” she replied. So, off we went – Granny seated on the back seat with her grandkids and a few more pieces of her luggage, and Uncle Japie seated on the passenger seat next to me. Uncle Japie was no relative of mine, but he and Granny were of late becoming close, so, out of respect, we call him ‘Uncle’. Trust me; you wouldn’t want to call him by his real name – Tjinjo Otjihara, which when translated means ‘loose, big mouth’. I was forced to listen to Uncle Japie’s supposed hunting expedition, in which he was always the hero. From what I was told at the village, Uncle Japie had never even held a rifle in his hand – he apparently was the type that would complain of stomachache every time men gather to track down a leopard. Nevertheless, Nana appeared to be enjoying Uncle Japie’s tales. Finally, as we pulled up at her homestead, Granny rekindled the conversation about sending my wife to permanently settling at the village – “just like any woman”. Her obvious point of reference was Tjiunomuinjo – a woman half my own mother’s age. “Tjiunoo is a good woman. Well, she might have been divorced twice but those men were irresponsible, it’s a good thing she dropped them. She now stays home and takes care of her fourth husband’s cattle…” Granny said. “But Granny, what about love we share? I would want her close to me at all times…times have changed, Grandma … Dr Phil reckons that a happy relationship is one built on…” “Stop with that Windhoek nonsense of yours. Here, in Omaheke we do things differently. If she can cook, knit and do laundry – she ought to stay at the village.” I turned on the ignition of my trusted Merc and pulled away towards my own homestead. Boy, was I glad I had one! I raised the volume of my car stereo to the tunes of Bad Company’s ‘Shooting Star’ and headed home! Until then… [email protected]