December Duty: You Are Watching the House

Every Namibian family has one. The December Remainer.The one who always has to watch the house while the rest of the family travels to Swakop or to the village to see kuku. 
Somehow, without fail, the family holds a silent meeting and the duty lands on the same person every year. It is as if they love this family member, but only in the way one loves a security guard. Functional. Necessary. Replaceable. Hello, officer.
You tell yourself everyone needs fresh air. You pretend you also crave peace, solitude and time to reflect on your life choices. But deep down, you know the truth. You are staying because someone cleared their throat, looked around the room, and said: “But someone must watch the house.” At that exact moment, every head turned toward you with the precision of a rehearsed dance routine.
There is no debate. No vote. Just destiny. You are appointed minister of home security, acting caretaker of plants, dogs, pipes, electricity and vibes. While others leave the city armed with coolboxes and confidence, you inherit silence and responsibility.
At first, you lie to yourself. You say it will be fine. You say the city is calm in December. You say you actually enjoy being alone. 
This optimism survives exactly until the second night. At around 21h13, the house produces a sound it has never made in its entire legal existence. Not a loud sound. A small, thoughtful sound. The kind that suggests planning. You freeze and listen like a wildlife documentary narrator. The fridge clicks. The ceiling sighs. Somewhere, something shifts. You tell yourself it is just the house settling. You do not believe yourself.
By the fourth day, the city feels abandoned in a post-apocalyptic but festive way. The roads are empty except for one taxi that appears every morning without fail, carrying loud music and unresolved mysteries. The robot at the end of the street stops working, but nobody notices because nobody is there. You walk into a supermarket and feel like you arrived too early. The cashier greets you with suspicion.
“What are you doing here, friend?” she asks.
“I am the responsible one who stayed behind to watch the house,” you explain, smiling bravely.
“Aaye, just say they don’t love you,” she says, laughing to soften the truth.
You feel exposed. You walk down the aisles toward the cooldrink fridges and grab a two-litre bottle of whatever you can afford. Which is not much, because you were left with N$200 on the kitchen table and a note that reads, “For New Year’s.”
That is all.
The moment you enter the house from the shops, they call you. Not to check on you. Never to check on you. They are checking on the house through you. Is the gate locked? Did you water the plants? Someone suddenly remembers they left “something small” in their room and asks if you can just check quickly. You soon learn that “something small” is a suitcase.
Meanwhile, the house starts testing boundaries. A tap leaks like an old man who cannot finish peeing. The power trips for no reason and returns stronger, as if offended. The gate experiments with new sounds, personal sounds, sounds that feel deliberate. You become hyper aware of crime shows, stray dogs and shadows that do not exist. You close windows you did not know were open. You open windows you forgot to close. You sleep with the light on once and swear it was only because it was hot.
There is a brief honeymoon phase. Freedom. No noise. No small talk. You eat whatever you want whenever you want. You drink tea at midnight like a philosopher. You wear the same clothes for three days and call it minimalism. You start talking to yourself and winning arguments. You consider starting a podcast.
Then December loneliness arrives quietly, like a message you do not want to open. It hits hardest in the evenings, around the time when everyone else is sitting outside with uncles, meat and stories that begin with “Back then”. You scroll through social media statuses of people dancing next to goats, posing with grandmothers and eating meat in quantities that suggest generational wealth. You double tap with bitterness and pride.
Christmas Day is the strangest. You wake up and the world feels paused. No cars. No noise. Just heat and expectation. You eat something ceremonial, even if it is just eggs. You greet strangers at the gate because loneliness has softened your boundaries. You watch television until you hate everyone on it.
By New Year’s Eve, you are tired. Not physically. Spiritually. Fireworks start early, mostly illegal and wildly enthusiastic. You sit inside pretending you are above it all while secretly hoping someone invites you somewhere. Nobody does because they all assume you are busy watching the house. At midnight, you wish yourself a quiet happy new year and promise that next December, things will be different.
My dear reader who remained behind this holiday season, remember that they love you.
Haha. Just joking.
They really don’t.
Finish and klaar!

In an age of information overload, Sunrise is The Namibian’s morning briefing, delivered at 6h00 from Monday to Friday. It offers a curated rundown of the most important stories from the past 24 hours – occasionally with a light, witty touch. It’s an essential way to stay informed. Subscribe and join our newsletter community.

The Namibian uses AI tools to assist with improved quality, accuracy and efficiency, while maintaining editorial oversight and journalistic integrity.