Men without testicles: A guide to Namibia’s fragile masculinity

There is a curious epidemic stalking Namibia. It is not malaria. It is not even unemployment. It is men without testicles. Not medically. Not surgically. Metaphorically.

These are the fellows who confuse possession with love, noise with authority and violence with masculinity. They are the ones who say, “If I can’t have her, no one will,” as if a woman were a Nissan March they personally bought from Jan Japan.

They are the ones who stalk, threaten, punch, stab and shoot – and then call it “a crime of passion”. Passion? Please. The only thing burning is their insecurity.

Somewhere between those shebeens in Eveline Street and the WhatsApp status, a myth was born that a “real man” must dominate. That a woman who earns more, speaks louder, leaves first or refuses sex is a threat to the cosmic order.

So when she says, “I’m done,” he hears, “You are nothing.”

And because he has built his entire identity on controlling someone else, he collapses like a cheap camping chair. Apparently the woman is ‘his’. Yours? In that case, sir, we humbly request documentation. The purchase agreement, transfer of ownership form, proof of payment and the serial number.

Because if you truly own this human being, surely there must be paperwork lodged somewhere between the deeds office and heaven.

Or are we operating under divine assumption? Just because she washes shit stains from your cheap trousers on a Saturday doesn’t mean she’s your sudden slave.

Let us proceed carefully. When you say you own her, did you assemble her in a celestial factory? Install the lungs? Wire the nervous system? Programme the personality settings? Did you breathe life into her nostrils?

Because ownership typically requires authorship. Creation. Capital investment. Divine-level engineering. If you did not sculpt the rib cage or draft the soul, you may wish to reconsider your claim of possession.

The fascinating part is that many of these cowards do not even own the basics. Not a house, not a car, not a decent job. The less said about a varsity paper, the better. Yet somehow, in a world where they are tenants in most areas of life, they imagine they are landlords in romance. The irony is Shakespearean.

And here is another small theological complication. If you equate ownership with authority, then do you believe yourself superior by design? Appointed? Anointed? Crowned by testosterone alone?

Because the last time we checked, divinity did not issue power of attorney to insecure boyfriends.

Relationships are partnerships, not slave plantations. Love is consent, not conquest. Marriage is a covenant, not captivity. It’s small d*ck vibes when your partner needs permission to breathe socially, dress autonomously, speak freely or leave if she so chooses. Quit that Stone Age mentality, Petrus. We’re in 2026 now!