Long-distance councillorship: Kansela wetu okuli kOvenduka

There was a time when, if a pothole swallowed half your Mazda Demio, you could march straight to your councillor’s house, knock on their door, and demand answers. They lived within arm’s reach – sometimes within shouting distance.

You would be offered a cup of tea while the councillor nodded gravely and wrote ‘omalambo mopate’ [pothole] into a notebook they would never open again.

But now, Namibia has entered a bold new era of governance: long-distance councillorship.

Last week, President Netumbo Nandi-Ndaitwah appointed seven deputy ministers – all of them constituency councillors. A masterstroke, really. Why limit yourself to disappointing one electorate when you can spread the experience nationwide?

We are now governed by a system so sophisticated it operates on the principles of quantum physics: the councillor is both present and absent – accountable and unavailable – all at once.

Back in the constituencies, however, you are on your own.

The councillor’s office – once a hive of activity – now resembles Kolmanskop, the famous abandoned diamond mining ghost town near Lüderitz. The front desk clerk pops in occasionally to access free internet. The cleaner has not been in since the last salary run, because the boss now lives some 700 kilometres away. Not metaphorically. Physically.

Picture this: Daures constituency councillor Theresia Brandt, now deep in Okahao, resolving labour disputes in her new capacity as deputy labour minister – this, while cattle herders back in Daures have not been paid since October.

Or Otjombinde councillor Wenzel Kavaka proudly inaugurating a network tower in Kongola, smiling for cameras and cutting ribbons – while his own constituents in Donkerbos are climbing trees just to catch a single bar of signal.

In Etayi, one wonders: will the donkeys finally receive reflector jackets now that councillor Hans Haikali is deputy minister of transport? Or will he first ensure that goats in Berseba are roadworthy while those back home continue their naked, lawless existence?

At this rate, the only time voters will see their councillors is on prime-time news – heroically cutting ribbons in places they do not represent, applauded by people who did not vote for them.

If you have a petition, shove it up your sweaty rural arse. Your councillor has moved to the city of bright lights. If your communal tap is dry, talk to your bald headman about it. If your communal grazing land is being fenced off by the rich and powerful, tell your wife during supper. Your councillor is busy elsewhere – delivering a deeply uninspiring World Malaria Day speech in Buitepos as health deputy minister.

Back home, the constituency office – once the nerve centre of drought relief – now stands locked. A padlock guards the entrance like Nepando Amupanda – who loyally stood behind Sam Nujoma without blinking. Spider webs hang where accountability once did.

But do not despair.

In four years’ time, the councillor will return. Not as the person you once knew, but as a well-fed political comet, descending in a black Mercedes-Benz, dust rising behind it like a campaign promise. They will shake hands, smile broadly, and remind you how much they have “worked for the people" – just not these people.

They will speak of development. Of progress. Of plans. With a Windhoek accent.

And then, just as quickly, they will vanish again – back to the nation’s capital – leaving behind nothing but tyre marks, sunburnt campaign posters, and a pothole still hungry for its next Mazda Demio.