Tribute: Uazuva Kaumbi has left the stage
"In an envelope marked
'Personal', God addressed
me a letter.
In an envelope marked
'Personal', I have given
my answer".
( Langston Hughes, circa 1930).
Uazuva Kaumbi has left the complex platform of this experience, called Namibia, to others.
He quietly battled with illness and, in the end, decided to sign off.
But he took the time to prepare all of us who wished that we could hold onto him much longer.
In the end, he said to family, friends and comrades, as well as to the nation.
"Thank you for the trenches we shared and the good times we celebrated. I know you shall miss me as much as I shall miss you. Please miss me, but let me go".
Uazuva and I met at the Döbra High School on the northern outskirts of metropolitan Windhoek in the mid-late seventies.
He enlisted as one of the younger, vibrant and brilliant kids who grew to fit into the ranks of Namibia's 'Children of the Storm' – those children who stormed the stage of the liberation struggle and gave their all.
They willingly faced the South African cannons of human destruction deployed by the ruthless apartheid regime to mete out mayhem and destruction to the resisting black population.
These kids were broadly spread among our higher and lower primary schools across the nation: Anamulenge, Odibo, Okatana, Kornelius Khoreseb, Okakarara, Martin Luther, Augustineum, Döbra, Tses, Tsaiblaagte and others.
And they came to serve as the cradle for mobilisation for the liberation struggle – these kids served as the bridge that carried us over turbulent waters.
Selfless, committed
This era produced selfless, committed and steadfast revolutionary children.
Among those that come to mind are David Uirab, Pele Damaseb, Bisey Uirab, Maureen Hinda, Nambata Kalomo, Aumama Norich, Paul Kalenga, Steve Katjiuanjo and many others.
These are the conditions and the environment that produced Uazuva Kaumbi and nurtured his revolutionary fervour.
He was a selfless, carefree child, brilliant and articulate at that.
He displayed an IQ somewhat above his age as well as academic peers, so much so that he would be pitched for leadership and mentorship two groups above his regular peers.
Uazuva and I worked together at the Council of Churches in Namibia (CCN) from the mid to late 1980's.
He served in the education sector, and I served as coordinator for the overall administration and project units. The CCN served as the de facto administration for progressive forces operating in the country. We raised financial resources and mobilised funding globally from among our ecumenical partners to provide legal defence to the victims of apartheid and provide life-sustaining lifelines to their families and dependents.
Uazuva was committed to the struggle for justice, and he was a high performer. He was active in the youth/student movements and served as a connecting rod within our CCN operations, focusing on the needs of the youth as they interacted with the liberation struggle – hard hit by the vileness of the apartheid regime.
A night to remember
The story is long, but one critical aspect of my interaction with Uazuva comes to mind.
A freedom fighter got trapped and somehow stranded.
Dan Tjongarero and Mbuti Fura Kambangula requested that I host this comrade until the next day, and this became three days.
Those were dangerous days, and having a guerilla in your house in the middle of Katutura was no fun.
I spoke to the comrade, and his position was that his logical connection would be at Otavi. Shu!
I quietly slipped into Immanuel Ngatjizeko's house, Swapo's finance kingpin.
He gave me some money and proposed that I go with Uazuva. I declined the proposition as such an arrangement had the potential to put both of us at risk, as opposed to if I went alone.
Immanuel consented, but still, he alerted Uazuva.
At 12.37 pm, I pulled off on a self-imposed mission with this freedom fighter, whom I could not talk about with anyone, for fear of spreading the story in the townships and beyond.
As I pulled away, Uazuva arrived. He would not let me face the unknown alone; if anything was to happen, it would take the two of us.
I sternly told him he could not go. We had a heated exchange, and I stood firm. I left him sitting and crying on the bonnet of his car.
I left with a heavy heart. Uazuva meant well, but I meant well too.
Still, I could not stomach leaving Uazuva crying. At the first intersection, I dropped my head, said a prayer, and from that moment on, I committed everything that would transpire into the hands of Comrade Jesus.
I drove a CCN's Toyota at an average speed of 210 kilometres per hour out of 240 kilometres per hour. And I stopped thinking of anything other than Otavi.
The journey was clear, yet punctuated by some challenges. As I left Otjiwarongo, close to the airport, I picked up a sudden puncture.
This was mid-June and extremely cold. I was so involved that, though I only had on a light shirt, I did not feel any cold. I had drilled the comrade, who sat on the rear seat, on how to slip into the boot at my slightest instructions.
As I pulled away from the scene, a speeding police van drove past and immediately turned around. I literally felt my heart drop. The two occupants lightly inspected my car's interior, and recognising me, one said: "Bob Kandetu van CCN."
They asked me a few questions and I stuck to my story.
As they left, one said: "Julle moet ligvoet loop kerrels! (You must tread carefully, guys!)".
At Otavi, I ran into a road block, and again, they let me pass since I was 'alone' in the car.
After about seven kilometres, the comrade signalled that I stop. He disappeared into the shrubs under the cover of darkness.
As he swiftly disappeared, I quickly moved back to the main road. I had to stop urgently, and while outside, I realised for the first time how cold it was.
It was 8:15 a.m. when I pulled in front of my house.
As I looked in the rearview mirror, Uazuva was pulling in behind me. He hurriedly walked to my door and opened it. As I got out, he hugged me tightly and cried profusely. This experience bound Uazuva and me together forever.
When Uazuva's father passed and was buried in Okahandja, I took my white horse to ride, and Uazuva never forgot that experience and wrote about it in 'Lone White Horse' in his column 'Ondjirijo', in the Windhoek Observer.
Namibia lost Uazuva at a time when the nation needed him most.
Go well, comrade. Best.
Bob Kandetu
'Personal', God addressed
me a letter.
In an envelope marked
'Personal', I have given
my answer".
( Langston Hughes, circa 1930).
Uazuva Kaumbi has left the complex platform of this experience, called Namibia, to others.
He quietly battled with illness and, in the end, decided to sign off.
But he took the time to prepare all of us who wished that we could hold onto him much longer.
In the end, he said to family, friends and comrades, as well as to the nation.
"Thank you for the trenches we shared and the good times we celebrated. I know you shall miss me as much as I shall miss you. Please miss me, but let me go".
Uazuva and I met at the Döbra High School on the northern outskirts of metropolitan Windhoek in the mid-late seventies.
He enlisted as one of the younger, vibrant and brilliant kids who grew to fit into the ranks of Namibia's 'Children of the Storm' – those children who stormed the stage of the liberation struggle and gave their all.
They willingly faced the South African cannons of human destruction deployed by the ruthless apartheid regime to mete out mayhem and destruction to the resisting black population.
These kids were broadly spread among our higher and lower primary schools across the nation: Anamulenge, Odibo, Okatana, Kornelius Khoreseb, Okakarara, Martin Luther, Augustineum, Döbra, Tses, Tsaiblaagte and others.
And they came to serve as the cradle for mobilisation for the liberation struggle – these kids served as the bridge that carried us over turbulent waters.
Selfless, committed
This era produced selfless, committed and steadfast revolutionary children.
Among those that come to mind are David Uirab, Pele Damaseb, Bisey Uirab, Maureen Hinda, Nambata Kalomo, Aumama Norich, Paul Kalenga, Steve Katjiuanjo and many others.
These are the conditions and the environment that produced Uazuva Kaumbi and nurtured his revolutionary fervour.
He was a selfless, carefree child, brilliant and articulate at that.
He displayed an IQ somewhat above his age as well as academic peers, so much so that he would be pitched for leadership and mentorship two groups above his regular peers.
Uazuva and I worked together at the Council of Churches in Namibia (CCN) from the mid to late 1980's.
He served in the education sector, and I served as coordinator for the overall administration and project units. The CCN served as the de facto administration for progressive forces operating in the country. We raised financial resources and mobilised funding globally from among our ecumenical partners to provide legal defence to the victims of apartheid and provide life-sustaining lifelines to their families and dependents.
Uazuva was committed to the struggle for justice, and he was a high performer. He was active in the youth/student movements and served as a connecting rod within our CCN operations, focusing on the needs of the youth as they interacted with the liberation struggle – hard hit by the vileness of the apartheid regime.
A night to remember
The story is long, but one critical aspect of my interaction with Uazuva comes to mind.
A freedom fighter got trapped and somehow stranded.
Dan Tjongarero and Mbuti Fura Kambangula requested that I host this comrade until the next day, and this became three days.
Those were dangerous days, and having a guerilla in your house in the middle of Katutura was no fun.
I spoke to the comrade, and his position was that his logical connection would be at Otavi. Shu!
I quietly slipped into Immanuel Ngatjizeko's house, Swapo's finance kingpin.
He gave me some money and proposed that I go with Uazuva. I declined the proposition as such an arrangement had the potential to put both of us at risk, as opposed to if I went alone.
Immanuel consented, but still, he alerted Uazuva.
At 12.37 pm, I pulled off on a self-imposed mission with this freedom fighter, whom I could not talk about with anyone, for fear of spreading the story in the townships and beyond.
As I pulled away, Uazuva arrived. He would not let me face the unknown alone; if anything was to happen, it would take the two of us.
I sternly told him he could not go. We had a heated exchange, and I stood firm. I left him sitting and crying on the bonnet of his car.
I left with a heavy heart. Uazuva meant well, but I meant well too.
Still, I could not stomach leaving Uazuva crying. At the first intersection, I dropped my head, said a prayer, and from that moment on, I committed everything that would transpire into the hands of Comrade Jesus.
I drove a CCN's Toyota at an average speed of 210 kilometres per hour out of 240 kilometres per hour. And I stopped thinking of anything other than Otavi.
The journey was clear, yet punctuated by some challenges. As I left Otjiwarongo, close to the airport, I picked up a sudden puncture.
This was mid-June and extremely cold. I was so involved that, though I only had on a light shirt, I did not feel any cold. I had drilled the comrade, who sat on the rear seat, on how to slip into the boot at my slightest instructions.
As I pulled away from the scene, a speeding police van drove past and immediately turned around. I literally felt my heart drop. The two occupants lightly inspected my car's interior, and recognising me, one said: "Bob Kandetu van CCN."
They asked me a few questions and I stuck to my story.
As they left, one said: "Julle moet ligvoet loop kerrels! (You must tread carefully, guys!)".
At Otavi, I ran into a road block, and again, they let me pass since I was 'alone' in the car.
After about seven kilometres, the comrade signalled that I stop. He disappeared into the shrubs under the cover of darkness.
As he swiftly disappeared, I quickly moved back to the main road. I had to stop urgently, and while outside, I realised for the first time how cold it was.
It was 8:15 a.m. when I pulled in front of my house.
As I looked in the rearview mirror, Uazuva was pulling in behind me. He hurriedly walked to my door and opened it. As I got out, he hugged me tightly and cried profusely. This experience bound Uazuva and me together forever.
When Uazuva's father passed and was buried in Okahandja, I took my white horse to ride, and Uazuva never forgot that experience and wrote about it in 'Lone White Horse' in his column 'Ondjirijo', in the Windhoek Observer.
Namibia lost Uazuva at a time when the nation needed him most.
Go well, comrade. Best.
Bob Kandetu
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