Aunty Norah and the Green Volvo
A bedtime story for curious hearts
Long before the city lights of Windhoek glowed as brightly as they do today, there lived a woman whose footsteps were soft, but whose influence stretched far beyond the borders of Namibia. Her name was Aunty Norah Schimming Chase, and to many she was a diplomat, an activist, a fighter for justice. But to one young boy—me—she was something else entirely.
She was the lady with the green Volvo.
It wasn’t just any car. It was a left‑hand‑drive Volvo, the kind that made people turn their heads as it hummed down Independence Avenue. She brought it back with her after working for the World Council of Churches, where she spent her days helping people who had no voice, and her nights dreaming of a fairer world. That car carried stories from faraway places, stories of courage and compassion, stories she never bragged about but lived quietly, every day.
And somehow, she trusted me to drive it.
I remember the first time she handed me the keys. My hands trembled a little—who wouldn’t be nervous driving a diplomat’s green Volvo? But she just smiled that calm, knowing smile of hers, the one that said, “You’ll be fine. I see you.”
Often, her daughters would be in the back seat.
Essi, the eldest—sharp‑eyed, thoughtful, already carrying the confidence of someone who would one day become the first female Supreme Court judge in Namibia.
And Afra, full of laughter and mischief, the kind of friend who made even the quiet moments feel like adventures.
But here’s the thing about families like the Schimmings: they didn’t open up to just anyone. They were strong, proud, protective of their space. And I was just a boy from down the road, trying to find my place in the world.
Then came the moment that changed everything.
One day, while the grown‑ups were talking and the children were restless, someone pulled out a deck of cards. The game was klawwer jas—a game of strategy, memory, and just a little bit of luck. I joined in, not expecting much. But card by card, round by round, something shifted.
I could play.
Not just play—I could win.
And suddenly the room warmed. Smiles appeared. Laughter bubbled up. The family looked at me with new eyes, as if I had unlocked a secret door.
From that day on, I wasn’t just a visitor.
I was family.
Years passed, and life carried us all in different directions. But some traditions never faded. On Christmas days when I wasn’t on the farm at Okomitundu, when the city felt too quiet and the world felt a little too big, I would wander over to Aunty Norah’s home.
And without fail, the door would open.
Inside, there would be a full plate of food, the kind that fills not just your stomach but your spirit. There would be a drink or two. And always—always—a game of klawwer jas waiting on the table.
Those were the moments that stitched themselves into my memory.
Not the big speeches.
Not the international work.
Not even the famous green Volvo.
But the warmth.
The welcome.
The way she fought for women, for children, for all of us—quietly, steadily, with the same calm confidence she had when she handed me those car keys.
Aunty Norah was one of the unsung godmothers of our nation. She didn’t need statues or headlines. Her legacy lived in the people she lifted, the daughters she raised, the rights she defended, and the young boy she made feel seen.
And so, when the night is quiet and the world slows down, I sometimes imagine that green Volvo again—its engine humming softly, its headlights cutting through the dusk. Aunty Norah at the wheel, her daughters laughing in the back, and me beside her, learning without even knowing I was being taught.
Learning kindness.
Learning courage.
Learning that sometimes the greatest heroes are the ones who simply open their doors and say, “Come in. You belong.”
And that, my child, is the story of Aunty Norah, the lady with the green Volvo—a woman who helped shape a nation, one gentle act at a time.
