Everyone has a story. Our lives unfold, shaped by our choices and sometimes even the gentle (or not so gentle) hand of destiny.
When staying at Nakambale near Ondangwa in northern Namibia recently, I joined a table in the open restaurant where two colleagues were deep in discussion. The afternoon was painted in gold, the sun catching the bleached mahangu stalks, and the makalani-palm leaves danced in the cool winter’s breeze as the sun departed for the day.
The topic being discussed was our team member Theresia’s family roots. I sat down as she mentioned that her mother lived an hour to the north and had spent several years in both Angola and Yugoslavia. My ears tingled. That was more than enough to pique my curiosity. “She must have a good story to tell,” I told them. “We need to go and pay her visit. What is her name?” Theresia replied: “Ndahafa Shihepo.” This is her story.
It was recounted in a house in a village on the outskirts of Engela near the Angolan border. A group of us arrived at her home, all interested to hear her tale. Ndahafa welcomed us graciously and we sat in a circle with her as she took us back in time to 1978 to when she was eighteen years old and decided with six other students to join the liberation struggle.
She left home with a few other students, travelling by foot, with little more than the clothes that they were wearing. She remembers leaving her aunt under the marula tree, extracting juice from the fruit. For days they walked in the rain and heat, hoping to meet up with the PLAN fighters. They rested at the house of a man they met on the road, who suggested they remain there until the fighters arrived. When they did, they left with them, walking for two weeks, stopping at houses for food and water. They walked barefoot, stuffing any extra food into their pockets, until they reached Oshitumba camp where they spent three weeks in training. Eventually army vehicles arrived to transport them to the camp in Cassinga. They never made it. Along the way, fate intervened and they were involved in a car accident and taken to Lubango Hospital for treatment. Ndahafa had hurt her arm and needed a plaster cast. The accident proved to be fortuitous as it directed their lives on to a different path, missing the Cassinga bombing that occurred two days later. Ndahafa remembers a young Dr Sam Nujoma visiting the wounded at the hospital, many years before he would head the country as its founding father. She recalled the tears in his eyes.
Ndahafa’s journey branched out from there as they moved quickly, first to Ondjaba military camp, which hosted children and pregnant women, and then briefly to Ongulumbashe camp in Angola before continuing to Kasika school.
She was sent to Yugoslavia in 1979 and remained there for four years, learning more about the mailing system. It was here that her daughter Theresia was born. The subsequent years saw her travelling between the two countries until war broke out in Yugoslavia. In Luanda she worked as a secretary in the SWAPO offices.
In 1989, the year before Namibia gained its independence, she returned to the country for the elections, initially staying at Döbra camp in Windhoek. Ndahafa relates how it was a good day when she returned to meet her parents, who weren’t certain that she had survived. Between the years of 1991 and 2001, she taught Oshiwambo and English at the national adult literacy programme in Omusheshe. Afterwards she spent many years working at the Correctional Facilities in Windhoek, helping prisoners to prepare for their release into the outside world. She retired in 2020 and today lives in the family home in the Ohangwena Region in northern Namibia.
At the end of the story, our group was eager to ask her questions. “Are you satisfied today with your decision to leave the country?” someone enquired. I thought about how desperate or brave they must have been to leave their homes and families and head north. Ndahafa nodded, saying that it was the right decision to play her part in bringing freedom to the Namibian people and to live in peace in the country. “Are there any nuggets of wisdom that you’d like to impart before we leave?” another colleague asked. “Be appreciative of what you have,” she replied, “the little that you have is enough.”And how is she feeling about things today? We all wondered. Her reply put our minds at rest. “I am now the headwoman of my village and as in the translation of my Oshiwambo name, ‘Ndahafa’, I am happy.”
Of course, as in many traditions our meeting didn’t end there. The porridge and sauce were brought out from the kitchen and drinks were poured. Before long our group of Namibians - black and white; young and old; Oshiwambo, Otjiherero, English, Afrikaans and German speakers - sat down with the family like old friends to enjoy the warm hospitality, all mindful of the history and workings of the universe that had brought us together on that day to learn about the past and be grateful for the present.