ROAST: Medicine shortage and the return of the sangoma economy

Namibia’s medicine shortages may be devastating for hospitals, but somewhere in the shadows, sangomas, prophets and spiritual healers are already licking their lips, clearing their throats and preparing for the greatest economic boom since the discovery of diamonds.

Because while pharmacies are empty, the ancestors are apparently fully stocked.

Herbs. Tree bark. Mysterious roots. Leopard skins. Powder in recycled ice cream containers.

Public hospitals have run out of medication. Clinics are now dispensing disappointment over the counter. Free condoms disappeared faster than Vision 2030 promises.

And in this vacuum of collapsing pharmaceutical certainty, traditional healers are emerging like Marvel superheroes from the mysterious, dark recesses of the galaxy.

For years, sangomas operated quietly from backrooms, village huts and mysterious corrugated iron structures with signs promising to bring back lost lovers, cure infertility, win soccer bets and solve financial problems using methods that would give pharmacists cardiac arrests.

Now they are no longer the alternative. They are the main event.

Because while western medicine is trapped in procurement chaos, supply-chain collapse and tender drama, the traditional healer industry has one unbeatable advantage: their stock never runs out.

Roots are always available. Leaves are always available. Suspicious brown liquid stored in old Coke bottles? Unlimited supply.

No shortages. No invoices. No parliamentary questions.

Meanwhile, desperate Namibians are slowly crossing over.

Yesterday’s hardened sceptic today sits barefoot in Okuryangava while a man named ‘Fire on the Mountain’ waves a dead chicken over his head to remove hypertension, unemployment and bad luck simultaneously.

Traditional healers also understand customer service better than many public institutions.

A hospital tells you: “Come back next month.”

A sangoma tells you: “Sit down, my child. The spirits are already working.”

Immediate attention. No referral letter required. And unlike doctors, spiritual healers never lack confidence.

A physician may cautiously say: “We are still investigating the cause.”

A sangoma stares directly into your soul and announces: “You were bewitched in 2017 by a jealous cousin who couldn’t stomach the fact that you got admitted to IUM.”

If they can bewitch you over IUM, how about Yale? A mysterious shack fire?

Back to the sangomas. These are not healthcare practitioners. These are final bosses in a spiritual video game.

Even politicians may eventually surrender. Imagine a Cabinet briefing where officials announce: “Government has not yet secured insulin supplies, but we are pleased to report progress in the procurement of healing roots from Oshikoto.”

At this stage, the prophets are probably preparing expansion strategies already.

New branches. Mobile apps. Online consultations.

“Please upload a picture of your curse for faster assistance.”

And somewhere, a pharmacist who spent eight years studying molecular chemistry is now competing with a barefoot man shaking bones next to a Toyota Corolla with no doors.

Worse still, the barefoot man is winning.

Because when institutions fail, superstition becomes efficient customer service.

Namibia is now drifting dangerously close to becoming the first country where national healthcare depends entirely on ancestors, WhatsApp voice notes and an uncle who insists that inhaling smoke from elephant dung can cure absolutely everything.