My landlord is a professor of electrical engineering at the University of Namibia. An Indian, he arrived 11 years ago after three in Saudi Arabia. In Windhoek, he owns two lodging complexes and wants to open an Indian restaurant, if only to feed himself. Pinchy on spices yet liberal with onions and tomatoes, all existing ones in Windhoek suck donkey’s, according to him. Each time he discusses one, I can see nausea, if not rage, boiling up inside this otherwise mild-mannered man.
He has a son of about 20. Unlike his dad, the young man doesn’t seem nearly as comfortable here, and it’s easy to guess why. Educated in Namibia and India, he’s a cultural and social mutt, so will have an even harder time sniffing out a snug wife.
Yes, yes, we’ll get to blackest Africa, so bright right now. Be patient! My landlord told me two revealing tales about Namibian employees. He hired a carpenter, long term, to fix his properties. When this man requested a few days off to do a side job at a village, my landlord agreed.
The very next day, the man called to ask for money to be wired, for his generator had been stolen. Weirder, it had been taken by a cousin, who sold it to the only store around. The carpenter needed money to buy it back.
“Why don’t you go to the police?”
“I can’t. He’s my cousin.”
“Ask him to give the money back!”
“He said it’s gone. He drank it.”
“In one night?!”
The second tale is about a housekeeper. This woman was a fine worker, then she made enough to buy her first smartphone. Thereafter, she became mostly one-handed and unfocused, because she was fixated by her phone. Despite repeated warnings, the excitement of being somewhere else was irresistible.
Worse, she would show up in the morning half asleep, because she had stayed up much of the night staring at her phone. Her addiction to a much vaster virtual life caused her actual one to shrink, inevitably. She lost her job.
I will add a third story, to explain how I ended up in my apartment. My first month in Windhoek, I stayed down the street, in a smaller yet more expensive room, but it was the best I could find, coming in. My landlady, a native Namibian, was very sweet, thorough and church going. When she dropped by to fix my Wi-Fi router, we had a longish chat about Namibia, South Africa, Germans in Namibia, the USA, Vietnam and Africa as seen by outsiders. When I confessed I was a writer, she even promised to drive me around, to show me the best and worst of Windhoek. This never happened, unfortunately.
Happy enough there, I told my landlady I wanted to stay another month. Great, she said, but she never sent me a bill, as requested. With just ten days left on my lease, I asked her to confirm I was indeed staying on, but she never answered. Three more requests were also ignored, so on my last evening, I had to book another room.
Her silence was so baffling, I thought she had seen my Wikipedia page, where it said, preposterously, that I think “blacks are biologically inferior.” That’s like claiming Lebron James is biologically inferior to me! I’ve also caught Wikipedia putting me on a list of American Fascists. I must admit, though, to have gotten a kick out of seeing my name near Ezra Pound’s. Canceled, washed up poet crawled from the grave.
Five days in my new space, I got an email from my old landlady. She hadn’t even noticed I was gone! We did clear up our misunderstanding without acrimony, so that’s good.
Now I have a living room, fully equipped kitchen, bedroom and bathroom, plus access to my landlord’s garden and gazebo, for just $551 a month, all utilities included. It’s the best deal in Windhoek! This complex was the residence of a German family, and they even had a swimming pool. The dozen varieties of cacti they planted continue to charm.
Thirteen weeks here, and I’ve only made one day-trip, to Rehoboth. There, I met an old broad who was ready to marry me, without knowing my name. At the very least, she insisted I stayed the night to “comfort” her, but I managed, quite adroitly, to wiggle out of that deal. All I had asked of her was to show me a church or two. There was one ugly spire visible from afar. Somehow I ended up paying her sister’s electricity bill. I rode back to Windhoek on a van delivering watermelons and canteloupes.
Anyway, no one comes to Namibia to space out in its rather boring capital, but I’m so exhausted, man. Of this country’s famed wildlife, I’ve only seen some parakeets, lizards and millipedes. I can’t be more pathetic.
Yesterday, I did spot three millipedes together. I had lamented their apparent lack of a social life, so OK, I’m no insectologist, but at least my bad science doesn’t kill millions.
This morning, I placed a trespassing millipede in my palm. Proving they’re not that different from humans, he shat out of fright, then relaxed and uncurled, thinking his danger over. Laughably gullible and with an absurdly short memory, millipedes are like our twins, yet they don’t cheerfully commit suicide en masse. Contemporary man is in a class by himself!
Onward with our safari! From my kitchen window, I can see the top ledge of a wooden gate, a favorite spot for lizards to sun themselves. For them, it’s a kind of nudist beach or fashionable corniche, but they’re also getting their vitamin D, a deterrent against all sorts of illnesses, including Covid, so like the millipedes, these lizards are also way wiser than contemporary man!
Most stupid right now are the more advanced, higher IQ countries, because they all boast a high percentage of people who have gladly agreed to be ineffectively “vaccinated” against a mostly phantom virus. Worse, they’re ready to sacrifice even their babies. To push the Covid “vaccine” scam, caged animals have also gotten Pfizered. The world has never seen a greater display of mass idiocy. Though the earliest to be “vaccinated” couldn’t have known what they were getting into, the truth came out soon enough. Even as nurses tear off their scrubs and run for the hills, screaming, militant fools march in to be maimed or killed.
With stringy, rubbery clots nearly the length of their legs, many will collapse mid-stride, with the luckier merely amputated. Embalmers worldwide are aghast.
Writing from Rome six weeks ago, an Italian friend said vaccines were extremely important, because the unvaccinated were clogging up hospitals. Delaying the end to Covid, they overburdened doctors and nurses, and even killed other patients by hogging ventilators. Living near three hospitals, he could see the havoc caused by the unvaccinated, he claimed, and that’s why he was ready for his booster.
Writing from Saigon, a Vietnamese-American friend said he had gotten Pfizered twice. Vietnam’s thousands of deaths after “vaccine” roll out were due to the Delta variant, he added, and the unvaccinated should be banned from hospitals because they threatened the vaccinated. When I pointed out this meant the “vaccines” didn’t work, he just ignored me. My preoccupation with Covid “vaccines,” he attributed to a morbid mindset that comes from thinking too much. “I got vaccinated, and it’s over. Now, I’m just enjoying my life.”
Everyone has many such friends, plus relatives. To see them healthy and alive years from now, we would gladly be wrong, yet we’re still strident about this, because there are lives to be saved, no less.
Forget erudition, verbal facilities, musical sophistication or grasp of mathematical complexities, if you can be suckered into destroying yourself by obvious conmen, you’re dumber than, well, everything.
Meanwhile, the “vaccination” rates in Sub-Saharan Africa are astoundingly low, such as 0.1% for Burundi, 0.2% for Democratic Republic of the Congo or 0.8% for Chad. In Nigeria, with its 215 million people or 20% of black Africa, the “vaccination” rate is just 2.6%. Least “vaccinated,” black Africans have also suffered the least from Covid in terms of cases, deaths or disruption to daily life.
Long perceived as more inept and, well, stupid, they’re showing their common sense and wisdom right now, during this unprecedented crisis, as the rest of the world goes to hell.
Sub-Saharan Africa is a living rebuttal to all Covid lies.
