I’m also a hero, tsek!

Namibians are back at their favourite national sport – arguing about who is a hero and who is not.

This debate never dies. It merely takes a short break until somebody kicks the bucket.

Back in the day, before Heroes’ Acre had even been thought of, heroism was fairly straightforward. You fought. You sacrificed. You suffered. You did things that could genuinely get you killed.

These days, things have become a little more sophisticated. Heroism increasingly depends on who you know in the system. This is Namibia. Even to eat at a funeral, you need connections.

We have reached a point where men and women who did nothing particularly remarkable are being polished into prime Hendrik Witbooi.

Suddenly, fictional stories are concocted to fit the narrative.

“Comrade Bazooka trained fellow soldiers to survive underwater for three hours without breathing.” My brother, you struggle to hold your breath while taking a shower.

They never fired a shot. Never carried a wounded combatant. Never delivered water to somebody under fire. Never spent a night on a picket line.

But somehow, decades later, the war stories become more dramatic than a low-budget Ndjeke yaMalimba movie.

And let’s be honest about why everybody is suddenly so passionate about heroism. It is not merely the title. It is the package that comes with it.

The huge white tent. The fancy casket. The NDF brass band. The gun salute. The important people sitting in the front row. The speeches about your made-up immense contribution to the nation. Basically, a state-sponsored ego spa.

Remember that boy from Omusati? The one who saved twins from drowning?

Nobody complained much when he was declared a hero. Then we heard he would also receive N$200,000 – and that is when the country lost its collective mind. The temperature shot through the roof.

People who had spent decades doing absolutely nothing heroic suddenly started rummaging through their family histories.

“My son once saved a man who fell off a donkey…”

Martha, you don’t even have a son. What you have is envy. And please leave the donkey out of this. That poor animal already suffers enough.

Someone else will tell you their cousin once rescued a chicken from a pit latrine. Another will remind you that their uncle donated blood in 1998. And someone in Oshakati is probably preparing an affidavit explaining how he once chased a thief in 1997 after the fellow snatched a woman’s handbag at Kuthilandjeko.

Then there are the modern-day heroes who need social-media recognition for performing the most basic duties. The father who buys milk. The mother who attends a school meeting. The husband who takes his own child to the clinic. The boyfriend who remembers his girlfriend’s birthday.

Suddenly, we need a medal ceremony and a 21-gun salute.

We even have those fellows who climb Omatako Mountain just to announce on Facebook that they are present fathers. Excellent, Simon. But why are we celebrating your attendance at a job you applied for yourself?

Being a father is not a community outreach programme. Perhaps we should calm down with this hero business.

Not every good deed needs a title. Not every sacrifice needs a cheque. Not every funeral needs a gun salute.

And certainly not every man who spent the liberation struggle hiding behind a tree needs to be dug up and polished into Nelson Mandela.

Because if N$200,000 is the going rate for heroism, Namibia is about to discover an astonishing number of heroes. Including me, tsek!