Veronika usually woke a few minutes before the church bells rang. This day she had been up for hours, tossing and turning in her small cot. She moved to the hostel six months earlier, after her auntie decided there were too many mouths to feed at home. As an Orphan and Vulnerable Child, Veronika could stay at the hostel for a minimum fee which her auntie neglected to pay.

Years earlier, Veronika’s father had gone south to work in the mines. Many Namibian men did. Only five at the time, she missed the way Father carried her to church on his shoulders. After he left, she asked mother every Sunday, “When is Father coming back?”

Mother answered, “Soon, very soon.”

One Sunday, after a week of Mother being irritated with the little ones, Veronika asked again.

Mother snapped, “Your father is dead. He is not coming home.” Mother’s face remined stern as she grabbed Veronika by the arm and shuffled her out the door. “We’re late.”

“But how did he die?”

“He just died.”

Death was a common visitor to her village. Every Saturday morning, she heard the singing of church members as they traveled piled in the back of bakkies headed for the cemetery. Voices rose high over the tops of the trees daring God to take notice. He never did because the funerals continued, week after week.

Veronika sat quietly on her raggedy mattress in the corner of their hut and hoped to hear more about Father, but Mother and the aunties never spoke his name. There had been a younger brother who did not make it to age two. Mother never spoke his name either. That was the way of her people. 

Not long after, Mother began coughing so hard Veronika covered her ears and ran outside. Many people in her village had the cough. They went to hospital for medicine and the cough went away, many others never returned home. Veronika’s mother did get better, for a while. The last time Mother became ill, she was so thin and weak she did not have the strength to go into the bush to relieve herself. Dozens of small plastic bags with medicines littered the floor next to her mattress. Veronika reminded Mother which pills to take and when. Aunties whispered of the wasting disease. Mother lingered for a brief time before becoming another Saturday funeral to attend.

The other hostel girls were still fast asleep in their beds when Veronika rose to wash her face. She stared at her reflection in a broken fragment of mirror which still clung to the stucco wall. Father Andrew said Veronika had the complexion of creamy chocolate. This day, her skin looked ashen with dark circles under her eyes. She rubbed a hand over her shaved head and blamed the dim lighting.

She found her shoes and walked into the bush to relieve herself. A charity organization had built two pit latrines, one for the girls’ hostel and one for the boys’. Father Andrew preached to them about not going to the toilet in the bush. But everyone hated the smell of the latrines and every morning walked pass the red plastic cubicles. Their life skills teacher read to them about washing their hands with soap and warm water after going to the toilet. They looked at pictures of children standing at sinks with soap bubbles rising into the air. Their school had no soap, or sinks, and the bore hole was too far away.

Martha walked out of the hostel as Veronika walked back. They had been friends since pre-primary. Veronika was glad to have a friend to talk with. The other girls were not always so kind.

Martha took Veronika’s hand. “Are you well? You don’t look so good.”

Veronika shrugged. She had rarely been sick except for the occasional running stomach. This day, there was no denying she felt tired and weak.

“You should go to hospital.”

“We have school.” With all the death in her family, Veronika did not want to admit that she feared hospitals.

“The teachers will not notice.” Martha eyed her suspiciously. “And since when do you care about school?”

The math teacher also asked after her. Teen pregnancy was a big problem at her school. Teacher assumed Veronika had fallen victim to the lure of a free cell phone or paid school fees offered by one of the few local men who had jobs.

“I see you talking to those men in the shebeen. Stupid girl. Go to the office and ask for a pass to hospital.”

Veronika stared at the teacher’s round belly and nodded. With this third baby, the teacher’s boyfriend finally agreed to marriage. The boyfriend had a government job and a car. She was one of the lucky ones.

Veronika did not blame her teacher for jumping to conclusions. She had seen the men hanging around cuca shops frequented by learners. They offered to buy the girls a cool drink or takeaway chicken. They shouted, “Hey. Hey! What’s your name?” Their buddies snickered. “Hey, girl, I’m talking to you. Don’t you know you stop when a man is talking to you?”

It was worse if the shop was next to a shebeen. It didn’t matter the time of day. Men gathered out front, in the shade, guzzling their lagers, laughing and accosting any female who happened by. Veronika always felt shamed after one of those men addressed her. Their life skills teacher had warned the girls that the men were married, had several girlfriends, and were at high risk for HIV. This same teacher was known to have relations with girls at school. One even got pregnant and dropped out.

Veronika ignored the math teacher’s instructions and walked towards her next class. Martha joined her. “Guess what. We have a new English teacher. She’s from America.”

“How do you know?”

Martha danced around Veronika. “I was here in time for assembly which you missed, again.” She pointed her finger at Veronika’s nose.

 Veronika felt too tired to get excited about a new teacher, but one from America was a different thing. “What grade?”

“Lower secondary, so that means us.”

As soon as the lunch bell rang, Martha hustled Veronika out of her chair, and they headed across the courtyard, with Martha practically dragging her friend, for a glimpse at the American. They weren’t the only ones. A group of learners congregated around the young woman. When Veronika caught sight of this new teacher, her face dropped with disappointment.

“I thought you said she was from America?”

“She is.”

Veronika wrinkled her nose. “She’s black.”

“Yes?”

“American’s are makuwa.”

“Beyonce’s not white and she’s American”

Veronika thought for a moment. “But she’s different.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s rich.”

“Don’t you watch movies, stupid? They have black people in America. Wait till you hear her talk.”

“I bet she’s Nigerian. They speak good English.”

Martha waived her off.

Veronika watched the new teacher. She looked too young in her flowered skirt which hung just pass her knees. Her hair hung in short braids that fell about her ears. She had already acquired some of the local jewelry. Veronika noticed how this teacher from America held her head up, with shoulders back, and when someone spoke to her, she looked them in the eye. Veronika never looked anyone in the eye, especially a man. She did not speak unless asked a question and answered in a whisper. She couldn’t recall who taught her this. That was just the way things were.

Veronika dragged herself back to the hostel where she hardly touched her porridge. She ate only because Martha threatened to report her to Father Andrew. Veronika wasn’t sure which she hated most, Father Andrew’s threats to send her home for misbehaving, his stench of cigarettes and liquor, or the way he touched her arm and asked if she was a good girl. She did not return to school for study period, too weak to walk the 20 minutes back. Instead, she curled up on her cot to sleep.

            The next morning, Veronika forced herself out of bed, anxious for her first class with the new teacher. Ms. Sonia never sat down behind the desk, preferring to pace up and down the aisles. She made each of them stand and introduce themselves. If they did not speak loudly and clearly enough, Ms. Sonia had them say their name again and again until she could hear. She looked directly at each of them and insisted they take their eyes off the floor, stand straight, and take their hands out from in front of their mouths when they spoke. Veronika was terrified and thrilled at the same time.

            With introductions out of the way, Ms. Sonia went on to explain what she expected from the class. “I am here to teach English. The best way to improve your spelling and vocabulary is by reading and writing. You will each be expected to read one book a week and write a book report about what you read.”

            Veronika groaned along with several others. She hated to read. School books were so boring, and she did not understand most of what they had to say.

            Martha raised her hand. “Miss, what books?”

            Ms. Sonia stepped behind her desk and lifted a box from a stack of four in the corner of the classroom. She opened the box and began stacking books on her desk, occasionally holding one up for everyone to see. Murmurs turned to excited chatter. None of them had ever seen so many books, other than textbooks. Veronika found herself intrigued by all this, but still dreaded the idea of reading.

            Ms. Sonia said, “Along with writing book reports, we will also spend time writing essays. I want to hear your opinions on several issues facing your country.”

            Veronika considered this. What was she supposed to have an opinion on? She was just a kid, and a girl. Who cared what she thought?

            Ms. Sonia continued. “I understand that you haven’t had an English teacher for a few weeks, so we have a lot of catching up to do.” It was true. Their last English teacher left on maternity leave weeks before. “You have study period in the afternoons. I expect all of you here as soon as lunch is over. I’ll sign out books for your first reading assignment and we’ll talk about how to write a book report.”

            Veronika expected more groans from her classmates. Instead, the other learners pointed at the stacks of books and speculated on their contents. She was a little excited, as well, but more about Ms. Sonia than the books. This teacher did not just write things on the board that they were expected to copy and memorize. Nor did she yell at them for being lazy and stupid. They never had a teacher who expected anything of them. After Ms. Sonia left, several learners crept over to the desk to get a closer look at the books. They all scurried back to their seats when the math teacher walked in.

            It took every ounce of strength for Veronika to get back to school that afternoon, but sick or not, she was not going to miss out on anything involving this new teacher. She anxiously awaited as Ms. Sonia handed out the books. Learners flipped pages. Everyone leaned over in their seats to see what their neighbors’ books looked like. Veronika was handed a book with the words Super Fudge across the top and a cartoon picture of two boys. She had no idea what super fudge meant, but the book seemed short enough and had more pictures on the inside. She showed it to Martha. Martha’s book had a girl with a bicycle on its cover. They were both surprised that the girl looked like them, only with natural curls instead of a shaved head.

            Ms. Sonia explained as she handed out plastic grocery bags. “I see that most of you don’t have a place to keep your books, so they’re scattered all over the floor getting dirty. That is not how you take care of books. I’m giving you new ones and I expect them to stay that way.” She explained things like dog earing and how not to break the spine. Veronika slipped the book into the plastic bag as if it might break.

            Ms. Sonia went on to explain what she wanted them to write about in their book report. She did not seem to notice the snickers any time she pronounced a word oddly.

            “Now, we will talk about your first essay.”

            Martha raised her hand along with several others.

            Ms. Sonia pointed to Martha.

            “Miss, we have a book report and essay?” Grumbling started around the room.

            Ms. Sonia wrote on the board as she spoke. “The essay is due Monday, so you will have the weekend to work on it.” She wrote Essay = Monday. Under that, she wrote Book Report = two weeks. Sweat soaked her shirt causing it to stick to her body. Veronica saw that the new teacher wore a black bra. She thought they only came in white.

            Ms. Sonia moved around to the front of her desk and leaned against it. She clapped to get the attention of several learners who were still discussing their new books.

            “Okay, ladies and gentlemen, we are going to start with what is called a personal essay. I am going to talk to you about a critical social issue facing Namibia. You will give this issue some serious thought about how it has affected you personally. In your essay, you will answer some questions. There’s no right or wrong answer. I want to hear what you think.”

            Veronika listened hard to understanding the American accent. She looked at Martha who seemed as confused as she felt. They glanced around the classroom. Several learners whispered among themselves, others sat quietly waiting for more. 

            Ms. Sonia returned to the chalkboard and started writing. She wrote .06 and 13.4 with big fat dots for the decimals. She pointed to the .06. “This is the percentage of HIV cases in the United States, where I come from. The decimal is in front of the 0-6. The infection rate in this country is 13.4.” She pointed to the decimal. “I assume you know your math. Twenty-three percent of the deaths in this country are from AIDS.” She wrote a large 23%.

            “You go to funerals every Saturday. Two, three funerals, every Saturday.” She emphasized the word ‘every’. “What do you think these people are dying of? They’re not dying of TB. They’re not dying of cancer. Or my favorite answer, ‘Oh, he just died.’ No one just dies. I’m talking about AIDS. Until you stop pretending, people will keep dying.” She paused to let this sink in.

            Veronika thought about how many times she had been to a friend’s hut, where someone was sick and plastic bags of medicines littered the floor as with her own mother. How many times had she heard, “She just died.” Or “He just died.” She assumed that Father had an accident in the mines. And what about Mother? She had men friends who often stayed overnight. Veronica took a deep breath to force down the emotions that wanted to bubble up. It wasn’t like anyone lied. They just never said anything.

            Ms. Sonia was still talking when Veronika looked up from her shaking hands.

            “How hard is it to put on a condom? After years of education on the importance of condoms,” she circled the 13.4, “after all this time you still won’t do something as simple as put a condom on.” She looked around.

            Veronika wanted to yell, “You don’t understand. I’m a girl. I can’t tell a man to put on a condom. He’ll get angry and will think I don’t trust him or don’t love him. If he’s paying your school fees, buying your clothes, buying you and your baby food, he should be able to do what he wants.”

            Ms. Sonia went on to say that even the girls should carry condoms, because the boys won’t.

            Veronika bite back the words, “But then he’ll think you’re a whore and won’t love you. People will think you have HIV.” Ms. Sonia doesn’t understand. How can she when she dares to look you in the eye and speaks her mind?

            Ms. Sonia continued. “Do you want to know what the rest of the world is asking? They’re asking, ‘How stupid are these people?’ So, how stupid are you?” She paused and took a deep breath. “I’ve been here long enough to know, you aren’t stupid. That’s not the reason. I want you to explain to me in your essay, why the rate of HIV infections continues to be so high? Why do you refuse to save yourselves by simply putting on a condom? And don’t tell me you don’t have sex because I know most of you in this room are sexually active.”

            Nervous snickers went up around the room.

            “I want you to tell me what you can do to change this problem. I don’t want to hear what the government can do, or what other people should do, I want to hear what you can do. Stopping this plague is up to your generation. You have to fix this problem.” She went from learner to learner and pointed. “What are you going to do? What are you going to do? What are you going to do?” The bell rang, but no one moved. “I want at least a one-page essay. You have until Monday.” Ms. Sonia put away the leftover books as learners slowly began to leave. Veronika heard energized talk coming from outside. She was still at her desk, the last one left, when Ms. Sonia looked up. “Do you have a question?”

            ‘No, Miss.” Veronika clutched the plastic bag with the precious new book to her chest and rose to leave, but a pain stabbed at her lower abdomen sending her to her knees.

            Ms. Sonia hurried over and knelt. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

            “I’m okay, Miss.”

            Ms. Sonia helped Veronika to her feet, but she could not straighten with the pain.

            The teacher asked, “Have you been to the clinic?”

            Veronika knew she meant the HIV clinic. She shook her head no.

            Ms. Sonia helped her back to her seat. “Could you be pregnant?”

            “No, Miss.” Veronika saw the doubt in the teacher’s face.

            “How long have you been feeling sick?”

            “A couple of days.”

            Ms. Sonia put a hand on her forehead. It felt cool and soft. “You feel warm. Where’re your parents?”

            “Dead, Miss.”

            “Do you have a guardian?”

            “I stay at the hostel, Miss.”

            “I’ll be right back.”

            Ms. Sonia returned a few minutes later with the principal, who didn’t look pleased. “I need you to drive us to the hospital.” Veronika was shocked by Ms. Sonia’s tone. Even more shocked that the principal agreed.

            The man made his disapproval known as they helped Veronika to the car. “The girl’s probably just pregnant. She’ll be the tenth one we’ve had this year. These girls think they can get what they want by opening their legs. The Ministry makes us keep them. Thankfully, most drop out.” When Ms. Sonia didn’t respond, the man stopped talking.

            The principal drove away as soon as they were out of the car. In the late afternoon, the hospital waiting area was without its usual mass of patients. Ms. Sonia told Veronika to sit while she spoke to the man at the reception desk. She soon returned and sat next to Veronika. “Now, we wait.” Veronika could barely keep her eyes open. “Put your head on my lap if you want to sleep. We could be here a while.”

            Veronika still had trouble putting Ms. Sonia’s face together with her voice. This young woman could be anyone walking thought her village, yet when she spoke, Veronika heard a white person’s voice. Could she dare put her head on a makuwa’s lap? Exhaustion finally caught up with her and she gave in. Veronika hated the smell of hospital and the sad memories that came with it. But Ms. Sonia’s lap felt warm and she smelled of soap. 

            Veronika thought about the teacher’s words and asked, “Do you think we’re stupid?”

            “No, sweetie. I don’t think you’re stupid. But I do think if you don’t take your education seriously, you’ll never be able to make things better. This is a wonderful country. It hurts me to see your people suffer.”

            Veronika was on the edge of sleep, still clutching her grocery bag with Super Fudge inside, when she heard a nurse call her name.  Maybe she would read this book after all.