Primal Landscapes
Clara and Zen walked slowly up the hill, talking happily away, oblivious to the blazing Namibian sun. It was good to have a friend like Zen, Clara thought. Someone she could talk to about anything, who wouldn’t judge her. Clara wore her takkies, the only pair of closed shoes she owned besides her school shoes. She was comfortable and so did not mind too much, but she had looked enviously at Zen’s Vans, which she knew were from another country and very cool. Both girls wore jeans, and long-sleeved back tops. Their clothes were inappropriate for the weather — combined with the fact that they were walking, something only blacks did, and the ciggie they passed back and forth between them — this marked them out as ‘bad’ girls to the few cars that went past. They were almost certainly driven by judgemental Christian moms, like those of the other kids at Clara’s school. The kind of parents who were always available to drive their kids everywhere they needed to go. The kind of people who went to Church to judge people and complained to the school counsellor about her, because of ‘Christian values’ and ‘protecting their children from bad influence’. The complaints had resulted in her school calling her parents to ‘do something about her behaviour’. Like they knew anything about anything, thought Clara, steeling herself and her friend mentally against the stares of those cars passing by, and all those bitches at school. Zen’s long-sleeve top was to cover the scars all along her forearms, Clara thought. That didn’t make her bad, just sad. Clara wore her long sleeved black top because it was new and she liked it — she had saved up her pocket money and bought it at Mr Price the week before. She couldn’t remember the last time she had had a new top. They both panted as they got to the peak of Jan Jonker Weg — Clara’s favourite part of this route. She looked away from Zen momentarily, to enjoy the view. In the valley ahead, shiny and new, was their destination — Maerua Mall. The wide, empty streets spread out in front of them, flanked by sand and rock, in the absence of any pavement. Acacia trees and bottle brushes as far as the eye could see, green after the recent rain, but usually they blended right in with the sand. Over in the distance, one could see the National Museum and Park, also unusually green. Beyond that, the Gingerbread Church and the statue of the German man on a horse. They were lucky, Clara thought, Windhoek being so beautiful and all. She felt as though she was on top of the world whenever they came up this hill, in the car or walking, it was the same. Right now, fresh from the rain, everything was lush and green. She could have looked forever, but they carried on walking.
“Did you watch That 70s Show last night?” Zen asked.
“No — we don’t have SABC.”
“Oh. So what do you have?”
“NBC.”
‘Nothing But Crap!’ they both burst out, laughing.
“Ag shame man,” said Zen, “you should come watch it at mine. It’s on on Tuesdays at 7. You could eat dinner with us too, you know my family loves you.”
They walked on in silence for a little longer.
“I hope the movie doesn’t start for a little while yet,” Zen said, “I want to hang out in the ciggie shop.”
“Man, it’s so crazy. I asked the owner the other day if he knows how old I am. He just said he doesn’t want to know.”
“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, my man!” said Zen. She was starting to slouch now, the heat was getting to them. She brightened, suddenly,
“The rain was so crazy the other day,” she said, “our power went out for almost a whole day.”
“No way?”
“Yeah, what about yours?”
“No, ours was fine. I love the rain, you know. My mom always used to make us tomato soup. The day after it rains I like to sit on that rock in our garden. You can see half the city from there. It goes from dusty and yellow to lush and green so quickly.”
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“And what about now?”
“Uhhh, ja it’s pretty green right now.”
“No, your mom. You said she used to make tomato soup. What about now?”
“Oh. No. She’s not home much any more. Always working.” Clara hung her head ever so slightly. She didn’t want to make a big deal about it.
“Ja — I’m so jealous. That’s why we get to do so much fun stuff at your house.” Zen had a way of making everything seem great.
A car screeched past them and Zen pretended to jump, clinging on to Clara.
“Bloody drunken drivers,” she shouted, letting go of Clara and waving her fist in mock anger, a parody of her policeman dad.
Clara wondered how drunk her own dad had been when he drove home last night. Whether he had hurt anyone. She had heard the car over-revving and screeching tyres, before he crashed into the fence. She had gone to help him walk up the forty stairs to their house. He leaned his whole weight on her and almost fell in the rocky flower beds twice as the dogs nipped at his legs, protective and anxious. She had given him water and panadol, and put him to bed. He must have been pretty drunk because he had no recollection of getting home when she went to check on him that morning.
“What’s up my dude?” Zen asked, pushing into Clara in an attempt to be silly and light-hearted, to get a smile out of her suddenly sullen friend.
“Just thinking, that’s all.”
“Sharing is caring.”
Clara grasped around for something to say that wouldn’t be admitting how messed up her family were. She didn’t think she could stand Zen looking down on her the way everyone at her school did.
“Do you think we’ll get bored of it here? Everyone else does. They sit in Steers and Panarottis all afternoon and complain about how there’s nothing to do. I love it here. I never want to leave.” She was getting upset, thinking again about the conversation her mom had brought up at dinner the week before — about getting a new job, moving them all to England. She thought they needed a change.
They were at the entrance of the mall now, and walked into a shaeded smoking area. “I’m not a fortune teller, chick. If we get bored, we can leave. If we don’t, we can stay. Don’t worry your pretty little head over it.”
She smiled and lit another ciggie, then handed it over to Clara, who took it, nodding her appreciation.
She took a long drag and looked out at the parking lot, plastic bags caught in the branches of the acacia trees blowing gently in the wind. She wished it was that simple.
