Letter from Windhoek

There are worse things than being called oom, says Lloyd Zandberg.

Now we were both alert, and a little nervous. The guy asked me to wind down my window. Something told me that I should. I love a good story.

Last week, a friend and I were driving down Independence Avenue – the main road in Windhoek. It was a Sunday evening, the electricity meter in my flat was low on units and my energy levels were even lower. Neither of us was in the mood to cook, so the easy solution was to grab a takeaway. First we considered German: Eisbein with sauerkraut and mashed potatoes from Joe’s Beerhouse sounded good, but it wouldn’t work as a takeaway. By the time we arrived back home, the dish would be cold. The nearby Asian restaurant was full – apparently beef with oyster sauce is popular on a Sunday night. So I suggested KFC. “We don’t even have to get out of the car. I have cash. And we can be back in time to catch the 8 pm movie.” My friend nodded like she never really had a choice anyway, and we drove to the KFC in the city centre. It was cool for a summer night I thought to myself, as I stuck my head through the window to order at the drivethrough. In Windhoek at this time of the year, it usually feels as if your face is melting. “Thank you. You may proceed to counter two,” the voice said over the intercom. I was driving slowly to the pay point when a young man suddenly jumped out from behind an electricity box. I swore and slammed on the brakes. Without thinking, I stuck out my arm to protect my friend in the passenger seat, just like my mom used to do in the back when I was little and my dad hit the brakes to avoid a warthog on the B2 between Karibib and Usakos. “What are you doing?” my friend asked, looking up from her phone. “There’s a guy in the road,” I said. Now we were both alert, and a little nervous. The guy asked me to wind down my window. Something told me that I should. I love a good story. “Hello oom, hello tannie, I’m sorry to bother you,” he said. “Please don’t call me oom. I’m barely out of matric!” I said. “I’m really sorry, I got the wrong impression. May I ask you and your wife for a favour?” he continued. “We’re not married,” my friend piped up from the passenger seat. I looked at her and we were both thinking the same thing: What on earth? He was a pleasant young man with a voice like a radio presenter: clear, deep and perfect. “Go ahead,” I said. “I hate to ask, but do you maybe have some small change to give me?” he said in beautiful Afrikaans. Whaaa! I closed the window. “There’s something about the way he speaks,” I said to my friend. Down went the window again. “Where did you learn to speak Afrikaans like that?” The guy in the car behind us was leaning on the hooter. “I went to Windhoek High, oom,” he said. “What happened?” my friend asked. “I made wrong choices, tannie. I…” “How old are you?” I interjected before he could call her tannie again. “Twenty six.” Behind us, the hooter blared again. “I don’t want to take up any more of your time. Have a blessed evening,” he said and ducked behind the electricity box again. I pushed the button to open the passenger window. “Listen, go back to where things started going wrong and try again. Do something. You have a lot of potential. Go to Kosmos Radio. Tell them you want to read for them. Like the news. You have the voice!” “Thank you, oom. I appreciate it,” he said. “Pick up the Streetwise Two and the Twister Meal up front. I’ll come back next Sunday to hear what Kosmos said.”

There are worse things for a young person than being called oom or tannie. You can have potential and not even know it. “How about beef with oyster sauce?” I asked my friend as we drove away from the KFC empty-handed. “You know how busy that restaurant gets on a Sunday,” she said. “It’s okay, I don’t have the energy to watch Carte Blanche tonight anyway.”