December, My December

Kedezemba has arrived, and as usual, common sense has packed its bags and gone on leave without warning.

What we are left with is pure vibes, blind confidence and the road.

Unfortunately, you have to be reminded of your evil self.

Everything starts when that famous message pops up on your phone. “Salary credit”. “Thirteenth cheque”.

In countries with working economies, people probably invest that money or fix their geysers. Here at home, it behaves more like a starter gun.

You see the message and your brain immediately picks a destination before your wallet even wakes up. There is no planning.

You simply point the car north or west and hope the Lord handles the rest.

Let’s talk about the car you trust with your life. It is always that one relative’s 2008 sedan that last saw a mechanic when Kunene still had a governor with hair.

The dashboard looks festive, because every warning light is glowing.

The ‘check engine’ light is covered with a sticker that says ‘Blessed’, because only divine intervention is keeping that thing moving. The tyres are as smooth as a baby’s bum.

As for the brakes, well, they work after a few pumps.

When you press the pedal, the car just thinks about slowing down and then decides it will deal with that problem later. One headlight keeps blinking and then shoots its light towards the bush.

None of this stops you. You load that car until it looks like it is carrying furniture for an entire school hostel.

Three cousins squeezed in the back, grandmother in the front, one old cooler box, a mattress on the roof, a collection of empty 25-litre containers and bags packed like you are fleeing to another continent.

The car groans and stutters as it tries to tell you it does not really want to go to the village. The suspension begs for mercy. But you start it anyway, put on Tate Buti at full volume, and lie to yourself that the car knows the road by heart.

Everything is going well until you see the blue lights at the roadblock. The famous December roadblocks. Suddenly the whole car becomes very holy.

The music goes off. Everyone sits up straight and remembers to put on their seat belts.

Even the sleeping toddler wakes up and behaves. You roll down the window and the heat jumps into your lap before the officer even looks at you.

He circles the car to check the licence disc, taking his time. He stares at the tyres, looks up at you and then counts the passengers.

He asks for your licence, and you smile even though you know that disc expired way before the last elections. He leans into the window and asks where you are going.

Now, this is where strategy comes in. If you say the north, he sees money. If you say the coast, he sees even more money.

So you lie with confidence and announce that you are visiting elders on the farm.

He looks into the back and sees your cousin trying to hide a Hungry Lion box like he is concealing state secrets. The smell of chicken gives you away instantly. The officer takes a deep breath like a man who has suffered all his life.

He points out that you are enjoying life while he is melting in the sun. You both know the game. It is not a bribe. It is a December cultural exchange.

You hand him a piece of chicken with the same dignity people use when they give an offering in church. He accepts it and then begins the official questioning about your tyres, your lights, and the way your car is walking sideways like it has had a long night.

You answer everything with blind confidence, because arguing with science is a December tradition.

The officer eventually sighs because he has already eaten the chicken thigh and he still needs to ask for cooldrink.

But he is on duty and has to deliver one more line out of the script. He asks what you brought him for Christmas. Your dashboard offers nothing helpful, so you hand over a bag of oranges and pray he is in a forgiving mood.

He waves you through, and you drive off shaking but victorious. The music comes back on. You feel like a hero even though the car vibrates like it is communicating in Morse code.

You keep going because December has convinced you that nothing bad can happen.

And somehow, most of the time, you actually arrive.

Not because the car is fine, but because Namibia is built on pure miracles.

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