Quit the act, you’re not gay!

There are gay people. Then there are… entrepreneurs. Not the Silicon Valley kind, but the asylum kind.

A dude, straight as they come, appears just before their embassy appointment – with hot red lipstick on.

Men with bricklayer hands seeking a route to Vancouver. The ones who wake up one morning, look at their empty wallets, and suddenly discover a long-suppressed passion for people of the same sex, just in time for a visa interview.

Because, let’s be honest, Namibia is peaceful – almost offensively so. No bombs, no Trump threats to snatch Netumbo Nandi-Ndaitwah. Her calm soul, however, blocks some people’s economic opportunities – like the Strait of Hormuz.

So our brave economic adventurers improvise: "I am gay. I am persecuted. Please fast-track me to Toronto.”

Now, Namibia is not exactly a Pride paradise. We are not handing out wedding cakes to two missuses at the altar – just yet.

Swapo said same-sex weddings would cost it votes, so who are we to defy Sophia Shaningwa?

But we’re not the medieval Sodom and Gomorrah either.

If you wanna kiss another dude outside Chez Ntemba, apply Vaseline to your lips and kiss him. If you want to hold hands in the CBD with another girl – just make sure Jerry Ekandjo doesn’t see you. Besides Jerry, no one else gives a shit!

Let’s not exaggerate. Windhoek has its fair share of idiots, yes. But per capita, we’re not exactly exporting them at Manchester levels. So this idea that London is some glittering gay utopia while Mariental is a live-action documentary of doom? Bollocks! Nobody is chasing you with a pitchfork between Piet’s butchery and the Engen service station.

My brother, if your goal is Canada, just say that. Tell them you can work. Tell them you’re ready to suffer through winter, factory shifts and pot-bellied supervisors named Greg. Tell them you will milk cows, shovel snow and smile politely when someone says “eh?” every three minutes.

Because last I checked, Drake is not clocking in at a dairy farm, and Justin Bieber is not elbow-deep in a cow’s arse to facilitate artificial insemination.

Don’t appropriate gayness like it’s a winter jacket at a clearance sale. That lane is occupied – by real people, many of whom are right here, minding their business and building the same Namibia you’re trying to escape via creative writing.

Kom ons net bly nxa, manne. In Netumbo se land. Yes, things are messy. Jobs are scarce, degrees are decorative and state hospitals now have VIP sections like it’s a nightclub. But you don’t fix a leaking roof by emigrating into a new personality.

Because here’s the thing: the man who runs from his problems might arrive early – but his problems have booked the same flight.

So bly stil. Bly realisties. And if you must act – at least audition properly.