The Weekender's Roast: Do social media maniacs have parents?

I refuse to believe some of you were raised by actual human beings.

There must have been a mix-up at the maternity ward. Because no parent who spent years saying, "Behave yourself when visitors are here," could have produced some of the creatures currently roaming Namibia's social media streets.

Our internet is a lawless republic.

Every day, somebody wakes up, opens Facebook or X and voluntarily posts something that would have made even Lucifer himself choke on his cup of human blood.

And they're not even anonymous. It's not "DarkLord247". It's Selma Maria Nangolo from Onalunike. Full government names. Employer listed. A quick scroll and there's a picture of her hugging her grandmother at Christmas.

Yet she posts like she's using a burner account registered in North Korea.

"Who can give it to me from behind tonight?" asks somebody's daughter. Full clan name attached. GPS location practically switched on.

Some of you discuss sex online like you're defending a PhD thesis. Deep throats. Backshots. Squirting. And bragging that sex without a condom is the best thing after sliced bread.

Yes, the world has changed. Topics whispered about behind closed doors in 1974 are discussed openly today. Fair enough.

What has never become normal is voluntarily publishing evidence that should remain between you, your partner and the ancestors.

Then there is a guy, owning a Golf 5 with mismatched rims. "My guy, I choked this hun until she begged for her life."

Congratulations. You have successfully confessed to a possible crime in front of 3 000 followers whose only qualification is owning data bundles.

And for what? Thirty-seven laughing emojis. Eight fire emojis. And a faceless guy calling you a ‘legend’ in the comments section.

But that's not even the point.

The real issue is that most of your parents subscribed to the old African wisdom: bend the tree while it's still young, so you don't have to break it later.

They raised you. Sent you to school. Queued at clinics so you got your polio vaccinations. Made sure you were baptised. Taught you to greet elders and bought uniforms two sizes bigger so they'd last longer.

Then one random Tuesday, you decide your life's calling is to become Namibia's unpaid Minister of Graphic Sexual Updates.

Do you think your parents don't see these posts?

Please. At the next funeral in the village, somebody with a smartphone – and there is always somebody with a smartphone – will quietly call your father aside.

"Come, Tate... there's something you must see."

Next thing, your dad is reading your Saturday night status explaining why your backshots deserve national recognition or why raw sex is your spiritual gift.

If he suddenly starts crying louder than everyone else at the graveside, don't automatically assume it's because his cousin has been buried. He's mourning two losses – the cousin and a son whom he no longer recognises.

Then come the TikTok philosophers. Full pimple face on camera. Phone pegged two centimetres from the nostrils, confidently broadcasting the most outrageous vulgarities known to mankind.

Meanwhile, your mother is already battling diabetes, and you're out here uploading content that raises her blood sugar faster than condensed milk.

Or do you honestly think TikTok stops at the veterinary checkpoint at Oshivelo? My friend, algorithms have no passports.

Your aunties have smartphones. Your uncles have WhatsApp. Your grandmother may not know what TikTok is, but someone in the village knows how to press "Share".

The internet never forgets.

Neither do African relatives.