IT is exactly nine hours left before the moment every Namibian has been waiting for.

In my environment the discussions all round seem to be too deep that attention is completely lost on the kids that should probably be in bed by this time. Every parent knows that these little dictators are really diplomatic and good listeners to adults' conversations and they have a way of picking them up and turning them into their own discussions.

I soon notice that the little dictators whom I thought had their little minds glued to TV all this time have actually been following the adults' chat.

My seven-year-old nephew asks his five-year-old brother, "Who are you going to vote for, Swapo or RDP?" The innocence of kids!

The five-year-old's immediate and loud response is: "Tate Buti." That catches everyone's attention, really funny and everyone just laughed their lungs out. But then, wait a minute! For me it did make perfect sense that at age five, my little nephew knew he would vote not for the options he is being presented but for someone he admired. And much food for thought, my seven-year-old nephew interestingly presented to his little brother only two parties.

So he is up to date with current affairs and probably for him, just like Lazarus Jacobs, this election simply means to know who the official opposition will be.

While the five-year-old can be pardoned for his naïveté on what an election is all about, I would today not forgive myself for the same naïveté during all the excitement I witnessed towards Independence in 1990 when of course, I had not yet reached voting age.

At that time, I was not questioning who was going to vote for whom, I only believed every (black) Namibian was going to vote for the one party only, and for Sam Nujoma, period.

My concern at the time was simply all about me. This was dad's little girl who needed too much attention and therefore did not find it funny seeing her place taken over by Independence excitements.

So, with the few remaining hours to this election day, a lot of reflections run through my mind as I leave my uncle's house to retire to mine and get ready for this very important day.

As the clock strikes 01h43 when I finally get into bed (seriously insomnic), I set my alarm clock for 05h00. The aim being to break the record I need to be the first to cast my vote at the nearest polling station.

The last time I could wake up at an early hour like this to go and queue for anything was in 1990, when my late grandmother would wake me up for the two-kilometre walk to the waterhole.

I hated it, because having spent my earlier childhood life in an environment where a tap, clean water and electricity, and walking five minutes to school, were the convenient packages of being my parents' child, I was just not ready to switch over to this kind of life.

Yes, we had just returned home and dad dearest was excited about finally casting his vote in our liberated country. And home was a little village in Bukalo east of Katima Mulilo where family life meant not just dad, mom and my brothers but grannies, aunties, uncles, cousins of cousins and great-grand-sisters, etc.

It was indeed an exciting homecoming with so much to learn about my culture, language, what it meant to be a growing teenage girl and everything else. But then walking two kilometres to a waterhole and no electricity in the home were just not things I was prepared to endure.

However, just like this very election moment, it was also at a time when there was so much excitement about Independence. My dad and his brothers would spend most of their time talking about earlier years of liberation, their excitement to vote, which to me didn't make much sense if I needed my dad's attention at the time. I missed the earlier life - Saturday afternoons when I could watch him play golf, when I could be helping him clean his car, when my brothers and I would go for teenage parties, shopping with mom, etc.

And here I was now being seriously taught that a girl wakes up at 05h00 if not earlier to go fetch water, comes home to cook on a smoky fire, then it is girls play this side and boys disappear elsewhere for their own thing, and over there the moms and aunties are walking longer distances in the sun to fetch firewood on bare feet on the hot sandy roads.

And yet the dads, uncles and grandpas over there are excited about nothing else but the coming of Independence. As I watch them every day they begin to look very similar, and I mean all the men around the neighbouring village.

There is this standard beard they all grow and it eventually makes me wonder why they are trying to imitate Nujoma's look!

Now, there was one thing I admired about by late grandfather. Being a Reverend he made sure Sundays were really for worship, with evenings of family gatherings around the fire just to chat.

There was so much to learn from those moments especially for this growing teenage girl. So, on one of those evenings, I just threw it all at them, why were they so much into this Independence excitement.

Yes, we were becoming independent, we were all excited, but to the extent of losing family time just for the fathers to endlessly chant about Independence this and that, I was just getting irritated.

This is Dad's only little girl who missed her time with him and I was not going to compete for my place with Independence, so I needed to know whether Independence was more important for dad than me now.

As I slipped into bed at almost 02h00 this morning, I remembered grandpa's response to my tantrum around that family evening 19 years ago. Reflecting on everything he told me that night, all I could pray was for my alarm clock not to fail me.

I needed to be the first in that queue, and for one reason.

Thanks to technology my radio switches on at an automatically set time of 06h00 and that made me jump out of bed like someone who dreamt of missing her flight. I probably had the quickest bath of my life. And then it was me and my voter's card off to the polling station.

I don't believe the sight as we arrive there. I walk straight to the station just to check the procedure time and that calculated, I go back to my car, collect my camp chair and join the queue.

As I gaze around, I notice there is something about this election that any comparisons I could make could only be with that of 1990.

I was only an escort to the voters in the family at the time. It was only in that year that I saw all Namibians of all races, of voting age from the young to the elderly too determined to stand for hours no matter how long the queue, and without complaining, to cast their votes.

But the difference then was that it was visibly clear for this naïve teenage girl that my fellow blacks would be looking at the whites angrily and saying in their hearts, "this is our moment, your time is up".

And the whites would not even want to be standing next to a black person, telling their hearts, "your party we shall not vote for and a black President will never have our vote either".

In this 2009 voting queue, I see the same sight I last saw in 1990. There is so much determination, enthusiasm, so many youths from all races, so many elderly people, disabled in wheelchairs but all with smiling faces. Much to my amusement, there is something very distinct and unique which I pick up.

This was an unusual sight even during all the campaign period. So much stretching of hands to exchange greetings with smiles, the free and comfortable uttering of unfamiliar words released with so much humour: "Are you ready? Vote wisely. You know which party to vote for, don't make a mistake, take your time to put your cross on the right place".

I add mine too, "well, the ECN has just informed me that you can also have someone vote on your behalf, may I have your voter's cards and proxies?"

Well, am shocked that even the old white woman in the wheelchair in front of me laughs her lungs out. I learn this very moment that I too have a sense of humour. While everyone around is still chuckling at my joke, I rush off to the polling station to speak to a Police officer who was very friendly. I could sense the inquisitive minds all around, wondering what it was I was talking to her about.

I rush back and tell the man who was pushing the old white lady in a wheelchair to take her straight to the polling station. I then go and take a colleague who also didn't need to stand in the queue. As I leave her to go back to my place in the queue, I hear a voice: "Charity begins at home, you really are Charity!"

It is a reporter who knows me too well. I immediately tell her, no interviews please, only after I have cast my vote.

About 10 minutes in the queue, I then remembered that at the business dinner with President Pohamba at State house two days earlier, he requested businesspeople to allow their employees at least two hours for voting.

I seriously did not want my boss to keep looking at his watch, so I offer my camp chair to an excited born-free right in front of me and give her my number to call me when we are almost there.

I get my laptop and find my way to a nearby restaurant to do some work - thanks to MTC's fast-paced technology I have my mobile office with me everywhere.

Waiting, waiting, and patiently waiting at exactly 12h33 I make my first cross and elect my President. At exactly 12h36 I elect the party of my choice.

As I leave, I see a former high school colleague who asks how I feel. I smile widely, pleasant thoughts run through my mind as I feel a complete relief that I chose wisely, like I have always done.

My choice clearly based on my grandfather's response following my tantrum that evening 19 years ago: Today, he lies peacefully in his grave alongside a tarred road that does not witness the darkness I was so terrified of during my village-life experience.

My people in that former little village of Bukalo are now building on plots of a declared settlement that harbours two secondary schools within five minutes' walk from each other.

For every visit home, I see no sight of any teenage girl walking long distances to a waterhole. I drink clean ice-cold water from almost every home in this growing settlement.

That means our tax dollars have been invested in building, rebuilding and upgrading our nation's infrastructure, improving our children's education and the livelihood of our communities.

A vision was set, thus my choice was finally made because I want to see history being made for the reference of the current generation. This is for my grandparents and all of my family that came before them that did not live to see how far our country has come.

I want to see the struggles and sacrifices that they made honoured. Today I voted in an environment where all Namibians from different backgrounds were able to shake hands in a voting queue and use those long hours to share their humour without looking at each other with questioning eyes.

This election is also for my son who can see that he too can rise to the highest office in this land given tenacity and hard work. It is one thing to be told you can do it. It is another to see it. So, as we celebrate the victory, knowing that my vote counted, let my leaders be reminded firstly that I put you in power.

Secondly, five years from now, my house will have double votes (yes 100 per cent voter registration increase), because my son will also be voting for the first time.

In the meantime, know that he has read carefully the manifesto of the party I chose for him today. Unlike his 1990 naïve mom, he will be watching for the next five years and will fully understand what an election will mean for him when he will cast his vote for the first time. Will you win his vote as well?