Making A Better World - Milton Louw

Momentum and Metropolitan Are Breaking the Law

2026-10-16T09:35:38.752+02:00

Ordinary Namibians are being robbed of transparency, and the corporate giants are getting away with it.

An explosive audit of unclaimed monies notices reveals a staggering pattern of corporate default. Out of thousands of records examined, a single corporate family—Momentum Group, Metropolitan, and Momentum Metropolitan—accounts for over 5,000 instances of publishing unclaimed beneficiary lists where they do not provide amounts as specified, as is MANDATORY under the law.

These funds belong to everyday citizens who have trusted these financial institutions with their life savings, pensions, and retirement annuities. Yet, when it comes to publishing statutory unclaimed notices in the Government Gazette, this corporate giant repeatedly leaves out legally required benefit amounts—making it impossible for families to know what is rightfully theirs.

These funds originate from just one company that is breaking the law in relation to all these clients.

We have to ask the hard question: Where is the regulator? Why does NAMFISA (Namibia Financial Institutions Supervisory Authority) allow this massive, systemic legal non-compliance to continue unchecked while vulnerable consumers lose out?

As consumers, we demand accountability. It’s time for Momentum and Metropolitan to obey the law, and it’s time for NAMFISA to do its job.

Unclaimed Insurance Policies in Namibia: Around 5,000 Policy Records Now Searchable Online

2026-10-08T10:18:36.970+02:00

Unclaimed Insurance Policies in Namibia: Around 5,000 Policy Records Now Searchable Online

For over a decade, hundreds of millions of Namibian Dollars in active, matured, or deceased-member insurance policies have sat dormant across local financial institutions. Under Section 93 of the Administration of Estates Act, long-term underwriters are legally required to publish lists of unclaimed monies in the official Government Gazette. However, because these printed records are difficult for ordinary citizens to access and search, many families remain entirely unaware that funds are rightfully owed to them.

To address this information gap, Intelligent Tracing Solutions (IT Solutions) has compiled and published a centralised, searchable index of unclaimed insurance policies and monies in Namibia.

What Is in the Unclaimed Policy Database?

This digital register consolidates statutory publication notices issued in the Government Gazette between 2014 and 2026.

Overall Repository: Over 31,000 normalised unclaimed monies records.
Insurance Policy Lookup: Around 5,000 specific Namibian insurance policy entries featuring policy numbers.
Underwriters Included: Major Namibian long-term insurance companies, including Old Mutual Namibia, Sanlam Namibia, Liberty Life, and Momentum Metropolitan.
Key Identifiers Available: Policy numbers, beneficiary surnames, first names/initials, and dates of birth.

When information is hidden behind static PDFs or printed Gazette notices, citizens are left uninformed. By standardising and digitising these historical records, ordinary Namibians can now easily verify whether an old policy, pension payout, or family inheritance is waiting to be claimed before it is transferred to the Master of the High Court’s Guardian’s Fund.

How to Search for Your Name or Policy Number

If you suspect that you, a late relative, or a family member may have an uncollected life assurance, retirement, or funeral policy, you can search the database directly:

Access the Online Lookup Register: Search the database by surname, full names, or policy number using the direct lookup tool at [https://shorturl.at/8VP4t](https://shorturl.at/8VP4t).
Review the Results: Check the details against your records or family history.
Get Claim Assistance: If you identify a matching entry or policy number, send a WhatsApp message to Intelligent Tracing Solutions at +264 81 688 1368 with your full details for verification guidance and help with filing your claim.

Financial transparency and civic informaticism are essential for protecting consumer rights in Namibia. Take a moment to search the database today and share the link with friends and family—you may be holding the key to an unclaimed inheritance or policy payout that belongs to your family.

Driveway Ornaments, Yango Surge, and the Fuel Price Puzzle

2026-10-04T10:52:09.482+02:00

A few weeks ago, I found myself revisiting a question I'd been putting off for some time: does it still make financial sense for me to own a car?
That question sent me down a rabbit hole of comparing electric vehicles, running the numbers, and taking an honest look at my actual driving habits. The conclusion surprised me: apart from the school run and the occasional trip to friends, my car spent most of its life standing still. It had become little more than a very expensive driveway ornament. Insurance, maintenance, fuel, and depreciation costs kept rolling in regardless of whether the vehicle moved or not.
So I sold it and started using Yango.

It’s been an interesting experiment. Most of the time it works exceptionally well. But when rush hour arrives, or month-end demand kicks in, you’re quickly reminded that transport costs don’t exist in a vacuum. They are affected by the same economic forces that affect everything else.
Even though I no longer pay directly at the pump, fuel prices still govern my ride-hailing fares, my commuting expenses, and my overall monthly budget.
If you've been watching developments in South Africa recently, the headlines are enough to make any commuter nervous. Analysts and industry observers have been warning about significant fuel price pressure as global oil markets remain volatile and currencies across emerging markets come under strain. Because Namibia and South Africa are so closely linked economically, many consumers automatically assume that whatever happens there will happen here.
That’s only partly true.
We share the same global challenges. Oil is traded in US dollars, and the Namibia dollar remains pegged to the rand. When the US dollar strengthens or crude oil prices rise, importing fuel becomes more expensive for both countries. What differs is how those costs are managed locally.
Last week, the Ministry of Industries, Mines and Energy announced a N $1.50 per litre increase in the price of Petrol 95, taking the Walvis Bay price to N$ 26.58 per litre. Diesel prices, however, were left unchanged at N $27.86 per litre for Diesel 50ppm and N$ 27.96 per litre for Diesel 10ppm.
On the surface, that distinction might seem like an academic detail to someone taking a Yango across Windhoek, but in reality, it is crucial.
Diesel is the fuel that powers the productive economy. It moves freight across the country, powers agricultural operations, feeds mining equipment, and keeps the logistics networks moving between businesses and consumers. By holding diesel prices steady, the government is effectively trying to stop higher fuel costs from spreading through the entire supply chain.
Petrol motorists are still taking a direct hit. A household filling up a 50-litre tank will pay about N$75 more every time they visit the service station. But that is very different from seeing transport, freight, and grocery costs all spike simultaneously.
That is why I don’t think this month is shaping up to be a full-scale fuel shock for Namibia. A squeeze? Yes. A shock? Not yet.
For most households, the bigger story remains the combined pressure of fuel costs, interest rates, and everyday living expenses. Many consumers are already spending more on debt repayments than they were a year ago. Adding higher petrol costs simply leaves a little less room in the monthly budget.
As consumers, we should also be careful about automatically accepting every price hike that gets blamed on fuel. Because diesel prices remained unchanged this month, businesses that depend heavily on road transport have not experienced a direct increase in their primary fuel cost. That doesn’t mean prices cannot rise for other reasons, but "fuel costs" should not become a convenient blanket explanation for everything.
My journey into electric vehicles started because I was trying to reduce my own transport costs. What it ultimately reminded me is that transport remains one of the most vital expenses in any household budget—whether you're driving a petrol vehicle, considering an EV, taking a Yango, or catching a local taxi.
And right now, that budget deserves a little more attention than usual.

Is the Master of the High Court Part of the Judiciary in Namibia?

2026-09-19T10:29:46.066+02:00

I was recently interviewed by journalist Augetto Craig on The Evening Review about the work of the Namibia Consumer Protection Group and my efforts to help identify beneficiaries of funds being held by the Master of the High Court. During the discussion, a question came up that I suspect many Namibians have never really stopped to consider: Is the Master of the High Court actually part of the judiciary?

For those interested, the interview can be viewed here.

At first glance, the answer seems obvious. The office is called the Master of the High Court. Most people would naturally assume that if an institution carries the name of the High Court, it forms part of the judiciary. Yet when one looks at how Namibia's institutions are organised today, the answer is not quite as straightforward as the title might suggest.

The Master's Office performs functions that affect thousands of Namibians. It administers deceased estates, supervises trusts, deals with insolvencies, liquidations and the Guardian's Fund. Anyone who has had to deal with the estate of a deceased family member will know that the office plays an important role in people's lives. Because its work is closely linked to legal matters, many people simply assume that it belongs to the judiciary.

One of the developments that changed the landscape was the establishment of the Office of the Judiciary. Namibia's courts now have their own administration and support structures separate from government ministries. This reflects the principle that courts should operate independently and that the administration supporting judges should be distinct from the ordinary structures of the Executive.

What makes this interesting is that the Master's Office does not form part of the Office of the Judiciary. Instead, it falls under the Ministry of Justice and Labour Relations. The title may create an impression of judicial status, but administratively the office remains part of a government ministry.

This distinction is not merely a matter of administrative organisation. It is also supported by Namibian law. In the landmark case Kamuhanga v The Master of the High Court, the court described the Master as "an administrative official within the meaning of Article 18 of the Namibian Constitution". By characterising the Master as an administrative official rather than a judicial officer, the court confirmed something that is sometimes overlooked in public discussion. The Master's Office does not exercise judicial power in the way that a court does. Instead, it is a public office whose decisions and conduct must comply with the constitutional principles of fairness, reasonableness and accountability that apply to public administration.

For me, this is not merely an academic discussion about constitutional structures. Over the past few months I have spent a considerable amount of time assisting individuals and families attempting to trace and claim unclaimed monies being held by the Master of the High Court. In many cases, the beneficiaries are ordinary Namibians who did not even know the funds existed. Helping people navigate that process has given me a practical reason to think about the role and status of the Master's Office.

In the course of this work, I have occasionally gained the impression that some officials view the office as deserving the same level of deference that citizens would ordinarily show to the courts. Questions are sometimes treated as challenges and requests for information can feel like asking for a special favour. Yet if the Master's Office is an administrative office rather than a judicial one, then the relationship between citizens and the office should be viewed differently.

The funds being held do not belong to the Master. They do not belong to the officials administering the office. They belong to beneficiaries, heirs and claimants who may have a legal right to receive them. Those seeking information are not appearing before a judge. They are engaging with a public office that exists to serve citizens and administer those funds in accordance with the law. When people enquire about unclaimed monies, they are not seeking charity. They are seeking information and assistance regarding assets that may rightfully belong to them.

That is why I believe the question matters. If citizens assume that the Master's Office occupies the same position as a court, they may hesitate to question delays, challenge administrative decisions or insist on reasonable service. Yet public institutions function best when both officials and citizens understand their respective roles. Respect should always flow both ways.

The title Master of the High Court naturally focuses attention on the office's connection to the courts. That connection is real and important. However, names do not always tell the whole story. When one looks at where the office is located within government, how Namibia has structured the administration of the judiciary, and what role the office actually performs, a more nuanced picture emerges.

Perhaps the real question is not whether the Master works closely with the courts. Few people would dispute that. The more interesting question is whether every institution connected to the courts automatically becomes part of the judiciary. Once that question is asked, the answer seems far less obvious than the title of the office might suggest. More importantly, it reminds us that citizens dealing with the Master's Office are not standing before a court. They are interacting with a public institution that exists to serve the public, administer the law fairly, and account for the way it performs that duty.

Universal Service Should Mean Serving People

2026-09-13T09:44:31.468+02:00

(First published as a Letter to the Editor - The Namibian Newspaper - 11 September 2026)

A phone number used to be just a phone number. Today it is much more than that. It is how employers contact job seekers, how banks send notifications, how government departments communicate with citizens, and how schools, clinics, businesses and family members find us. For many Namibians, a phone number has become part of their digital identity.

That is why the issue of mobile number cancellation deserves more public attention than it receives. Most people understand that telecommunications companies need rules for managing inactive numbers. Number ranges are finite and networks must be managed efficiently. The problem arises when efficiency becomes more important than the people the system is supposed to serve.

Consider a pensioner who buys airtime only when money is available, an unemployed person who may go months without recharging a phone, or a seasonal worker whose income fluctuates throughout the year. When an inactive number is eventually cancelled and recycled, the consequences can be significant. Potential employers lose contact with job seekers. Banks lose a communication channel with their customers. Government departments lose a way of reaching citizens. Family members lose a trusted point of contact. What appears to be a simple administrative process can have real human consequences.

A mobile number is no longer merely a telecommunications product. It is an address for opportunity. Increasingly, it is how people participate in the modern economy and society. We would never accept a citizen losing their national identity because they had not used it often enough. Yet we have become comfortable with people losing the digital identities through which modern society increasingly communicates with them.

The irony is that Namibia's telecommunications laws are built on the principle that access to communication is a public good. The Communications Act provides for a Universal Service Fund to help ensure communications services reach communities that market forces alone might not serve. The principle behind the fund is straightforward: connectivity is too important to be determined entirely by commercial considerations.

Parliament recognised that some communities would remain unconnected if profitability were the only consideration. Universal service exists because participation matters. Every citizen matters, not only the customers who generate the highest returns.

Yet the history of the Universal Service Fund raises uncomfortable questions. Although the legal provisions came into force in 2016, the fund only became operational years later. The legal arguments surrounding its implementation may have been legitimate. Companies have every right to challenge regulations they believe are unfair. But while regulators and operators argued, communities waiting for improved connectivity continued to wait.

The larger question is whether we have slowly begun viewing telecommunications primarily as a business rather than as essential infrastructure. MTC's history suggests it was intended to be more than just another company. Established with government involvement and development-oriented international partners, its origins were rooted in a broader vision of national development and inclusion. That vision should still matter today.

This is not an argument against profit. Profitable companies create jobs, invest in infrastructure and contribute to economic growth. But profit should be a means to a public purpose, not the purpose itself.

The real question is not whether MTC is profitable. The real question is who that profitability ultimately serves. When a company is rooted in public ownership and developmental objectives, its performance should not be measured only by dividends and financial returns. It should also be measured by whether ordinary citizens are better connected, better served and better included in the opportunities of modern life.

The real measure of a state-owned enterprise is not how much profit it generates. It is whether it continues to advance the public purpose for which it was created. Universal service is not ultimately about towers, fibre networks or spectrum licences. It is about people.

And when corporate convenience begins to outweigh the needs of the people a public enterprise was created to serve, it may be time to ask whether it has forgotten its purpose.

A Baboon in My Kitchen Made Me Think About AI

2026-09-12T21:34:42.008+02:00

Why Namibia’s stories matter more than we might realise

I live in Avis, Windhoek, close to the dam, and almost every day baboons visit our house because they have learnt that there may be an opportunity to find food. One morning I walked into my kitchen and found a baboon sitting on the table eating raw eggs. It was a terrifying experience, although I am still not entirely sure who was more frightened: the baboon or me.

What stayed with me afterwards was the fact that the baboon was not in my kitchen by accident. Somewhere along the way, he, or perhaps the troop before him, had learnt that people leave food in bins, that open doors can lead to opportunities, and that human settlements can provide rewards if one is prepared to take the risk. None of that knowledge appeared magically. It had travelled through observation, repetition and habit.

A young baboon is not born knowing where to find water after a long dry spell, which roots can be eaten safely, where danger is likely to come from, or how to move through a familiar landscape without attracting unwanted attention. He watches the older animals, learns what they do, and benefits from experience accumulated before he arrived. In time, he develops an understanding of the world far greater than anything he could have discovered alone.

Of course, he inherits more than wisdom. A useful habit survives, but so can an unhelpful one, simply because it has become normal. The young baboon has no special ability to sort truth from error before learning it. He learns from what he sees, and only later does experience teach him which lessons serve him well and which do not.

The more I thought about it, the more I realised I was thinking about AI.

The comparison is not exact. A baboon experiences the world directly. It sees, smells, watches and remembers. AI does not do that. It learns from the traces people leave behind: words, images, code and records of experience. Yet both examples point towards the same idea. Knowledge does not appear from nowhere. It comes from what has been seen, preserved and passed on.

For all the grand language and hype surrounding AI, it is not an independent source of wisdom floating somewhere above humanity. It has been shaped by an enormous collection of things people have written, recorded and shared. When it helps us write software, summarise documents or explain a difficult idea, it can seem remarkably intelligent because it has been exposed to more information than any one person could ever hope to work through in a lifetime. Yet what it can tell us is shaped by what people have written, recorded and shared in the first place.

That is not me complaining about AI. I use it and find it genuinely useful. But it does make me wonder whose experiences become part of the record from which these systems learn.

Namibia is not invisible online. We have journalists, researchers, bloggers, academics, businesses and institutions producing useful work every day, but compared with countries with much larger populations and greater resources, our digital footprint is small.

What makes this difficult to see is that many of the things that define Namibia are not the sort of things that usually appear in official reports or databases. A map can tell you the distance between towns, but it cannot tell you whether the road is good, whether the fuel station actually has fuel, whether the rain has washed part of the road away, or who you happened to meet along the way. Some knowledge lives in books and reports. Other knowledge lives in experience.

It is easy to imagine that the internet is a broad and reasonably balanced reflection of the world. The more I think about it, the less true that seems. Some countries and communities document almost every part of their lives, while others carry much of their knowledge through family stories, practical work, memory, humour and conversation, things that never make their way into a search engine or database.

There is an enormous amount written about life in London and New York. There is far less written about everyday life in Lüderitz, Outjo or Omaheke.

This imbalance has consequences.

An AI system may know a great deal about public transport in London while having little understanding of why a family from Outjo thinks differently about distance, travel and community. It may offer advice that sounds universal while quietly assuming reliable infrastructure, dense populations, different laws or a completely different climate. Advice about water use or farming that works well in California may not always suit somebody farming in the Hardap Region.

The machine will not reject the Namibian perspective or deliberately overlook our experiences. It will simply encounter them less often.

That is a quieter problem than people usually imagine. When one set of experiences is recorded millions of times and another appears only occasionally, the most common viewpoint can begin to look like the normal human experience. Other perspectives start to seem unusual, not because they are less valuable, but because fewer people have written about them.

What interests me most, though, is not only whether AI knows enough about Namibia. It is whether we are writing enough for one another.

I suspect many of us underestimate the value of our own experiences because they feel ordinary to us. When people hear discussions about AI and data, they imagine universities, governments, large companies and technology firms. They seldom imagine themselves. Yet some of the most valuable knowledge Namibia possesses exists nowhere except in the lives of ordinary Namibians.

A teacher in Katutura understands realities that may never appear in an international report. A farmer near Mariental has practical knowledge that cannot be fully captured in a textbook written on another continent. A shop owner in Oshakati notices patterns of community life that an outside observer would miss. A nurse in Rundu, a welder in Walvis Bay or a pensioner in Keetmanshoop each carries a view of Namibia that cannot be replaced by somebody else's experience.

Then there are the smaller things that are so familiar we hardly think of them as knowledge at all. We know that a distance on a map does not tell you much about a journey, because it leaves out the road, the weather, the fuel stop, the puncture and the person travelling with you. We know how neighbours respond when infrastructure fails, how people adapt when rain refuses to arrive, and how a sense of humour somehow survives almost anything.

These are not usually statistics. They are the texture of a country.

When I speak to people about writing, blogging or sharing their experiences online, I often hear the same question:

“What would I possibly have to say that matters?”

I understand the question because most of us do not experience our own lives as remarkable. We wake up, go to work, face familiar challenges and deal with ordinary problems.

Yet that is precisely the point.

The value of a Namibian story is not that it competes with millions of others. Its value lies in the fact that nobody else can tell it.

Not every contribution needs to be an essay or a book. Sometimes it is a thoughtful comment, a family memory, a correction, a photograph with a proper caption, or a few paragraphs about an otherwise ordinary day.

Perhaps what we need is a little less liking and a little more writing.

Less scrolling past a story from our own town and more responding with what we remember, what we know or how things looked from where we stood.

Writing something in a notebook still has value, particularly for family history and personal reflection. Some stories only need to be known by the people closest to them. Yet the more I thought about this, the more I realised that some stories only become part of a larger picture when they are shared. Knowledge that remains hidden can be difficult for others to learn from. Perhaps that is why blogs, community newsletters, local newspapers, websites, podcasts and even social media matter more than we sometimes realise.

The more I thought about it, the more I realised that this is not only a Namibian issue. Every community has stories, memories and experiences that can be overlooked when louder voices dominate the conversation. The more people write about their own lives and communities, the harder it becomes for one version of the world to be mistaken for everyone’s version of the world.

Perhaps that is one of the reasons ordinary people matter so much in all of this. We are not simply leaving information behind for machines. We are leaving something behind for one another, and for the people who will come after us.

This should be done with care. Not every story, tradition or form of cultural knowledge belongs in a public database, and communities should retain the right to decide what is public, who may use it and whether it may be reproduced by commercial systems. Preserving knowledge and exploiting knowledge are not the same thing.

But perhaps the mistake is assuming that somebody else will tell our story for us.

More people are beginning to use AI as one of the ways they make sense of the world. I do not see that as a reason to fear it. I see it as one more reason to participate: to write a little more, respond a little more thoughtfully and leave a fuller record of who we are.

After all, the young baboon only learns from what the troop leaves behind. Perhaps the real question is not only what AI will learn about Namibia, but what future Namibians will learn about Namibia too.

If we do not write and share our own stories, future AI systems may know less about Namibia, but more importantly, future Namibians may know less about Namibia too. That will not be because our experiences did not matter. It will simply be because too few of them were written down, shared and remembered.

Stories survive because somebody takes the time to tell them. If AI gives us one more reason to write, publish and share our experiences, then perhaps that is not such a bad thing after all.

The Shelf Price Says One Thing. The Till Says Another. Why Namibian Consumers Deserve Better.

2026-08-29T09:34:07.111+02:00

For more than a decade, I have written about one of the most common consumer complaints in Namibia: the price on the shelf does not match the price charged at the till. Back in 2013 and 2014, consumers were already raising concerns about discounted fabric being charged at full price, canned food advertised at one amount but scanned at another, and retailers blaming "computer errors" whenever the discrepancy was discovered.

What is remarkable is not that these complaints occurred. What is remarkable is that many Namibian consumers are still reporting exactly the same problem today.

Shopping should be simple. A consumer sees a price, decides whether the product fits their budget, places it in the trolley, and pays that price at the checkout. Any other system undermines trust between the retailer and the public.

The Problem Has Never Been Technology

Retailers often explain pricing discrepancies by pointing to computer systems, barcode databases or delayed updates. While these explanations may be technically correct, they are irrelevant from the consumer's perspective.

The consumer did not create the pricing system.

The consumer did not update the database.

The consumer did not print the shelf label.

The retailer did.

When a shelf price differs from the checkout price, the problem belongs to the retailer, not the consumer.

Over the years I have seen many businesses handle these situations correctly. Some immediately honour the displayed price. Others refund the difference and apologise. A few retailers have even adopted policies whereby the consumer receives the first incorrectly priced item free of charge.

These businesses understand a simple principle: maintaining customer trust is worth more than the few dollars lost on a pricing error.

Unit Pricing Remains an Unfinished Consumer Reform

One issue I raised many years ago was the importance of unit pricing.

Unit pricing allows consumers to compare products by showing the price per kilogramme, litre or individual item. It removes confusion and helps families identify genuine value rather than being misled by different package sizes.

A consumer should not need a calculator while standing in front of a supermarket shelf trying to determine whether a 750ml bottle is better value than a one-litre bottle.

The information should already be available.

Although some retailers have made progress, unit pricing remains inconsistent across the Namibian retail sector. In an era where retailers can update prices across multiple branches in seconds, there is little justification for failing to provide consumers with accurate comparative pricing information.

Transparent pricing does not only benefit consumers. It encourages fair competition and rewards businesses that genuinely offer better value.

The Law Has Finally Started Catching Up

When I wrote about these issues over ten years ago, Namibia still lacked a comprehensive consumer protection framework. Consumers often had to rely on a patchwork of older legislation inherited before Independence.

Today, the situation is changing.

The Consumer Protection Bill of 2024 proposes significant reforms, including stronger protections against misleading or deceptive conduct, false representations and bait advertising. It also proposes the creation of a Consumer Protection Authority, consumer tribunals and formal complaint mechanisms for resolving disputes. [mit.gov.na]

If enacted and properly enforced, these measures could fundamentally change the relationship between consumers and suppliers in Namibia.

More importantly, the proposed law recognises something consumers have known all along: unfair pricing practices are not merely customer service issues. They are consumer rights issues.

Why Businesses Should Welcome Consumer Protection

Some businesses still view consumer protection legislation as an inconvenience.

I believe the opposite is true.

Good businesses have nothing to fear from clear consumer laws.

Legislation creates certainty. It establishes clear rules. It protects reputable retailers from being undercut by competitors who engage in misleading practices.

The businesses that consistently provide accurate pricing, honour advertised specials and treat customers with respect will benefit most from stronger consumer protections.

Consumer trust is not an expense.

It is an investment.

Every pricing dispute resolved fairly creates goodwill. Every complaint handled professionally creates loyalty. Every consumer treated with dignity becomes an ambassador for the business.

As I often tell companies when discussing complaint management: the consumer who complains is not your enemy. They are providing you with free quality control.

A Scanner Price Accuracy Code for Namibia

The idea I proposed in 2014 remains relevant today.

Namibia should adopt a national Scanner Price Accuracy Code.

Under such a system:

The shelf price should always be binding.
If a product scans higher than the displayed price, the consumer should receive the item at the lower price.
Repeated pricing errors should trigger meaningful corrective action.
Retailers should regularly audit shelf labels and scanner systems.
Consumers should have access to a simple complaint mechanism when disputes arise.

The objective should not be punishment. The objective should be accuracy.

When consumers walk into a shop, they should not need to photograph every shelf label before approaching the checkout.

The Real Power Still Belongs to Consumers

Despite the need for stronger enforcement and modern legislation, consumers still possess the most effective tool available.

Choice.

Consumers decide where their money is spent.

Support the businesses that honour advertised prices.

Support the retailers that train their staff properly.

Support the companies that resolve complaints without arguments and excuses.

And when businesses consistently fail consumers, take your money elsewhere.

After all these years, my position remains unchanged.

A fair marketplace is built on trust.

Trust is built on honesty.

And honesty begins with something as simple as ensuring that the price on the shelf is the same price charged at the till.

Because when consumers cannot trust the price they see, they begin to question everything else they are being told.

"Here in Namibia You Still Have Real Stuff to See" – What a British Teenager Taught Me About Smartphones and Childhood

2026-08-23T10:28:25.432+02:00

My 14-year-old niece from the UK recently visited Namibia. She told my 11-year-old son: "Here you still have real stuff to see on your phone. In the UK, we mostly watch adverts between YouTube videos." That comment stayed with me. It wasn't really about adverts. It was about how much of children's attention has become a product. Large parts of the online world are designed to keep young people scrolling, clicking and watching for as long as possible.

The debate about banning smartphones for under-16s is not really about technology itself. It's about asking whether children are developmentally ready to navigate systems specifically designed by some of the world's smartest companies to capture their attention.

We don't let children drive cars, buy alcohol or gamble because we recognise that maturity matters. The same question should be asked of unrestricted smartphone and social media access.

Namibia still offers children opportunities to be connected to the real world around them—nature, community, adventure and face-to-face interaction. Before we hand every child a device that competes with all of that, we should carefully consider whether waiting until 16 is a reasonable safeguard rather than a restriction.

The issue is not whether phones are useful. They clearly are. The issue is whether childhood should be dominated by screens before young people have developed the judgement to manage them responsibly.

Bureaucracy, Public Perception, and the Crisis of Everyday Governance in Namibia

2026-08-18T19:20:27.355+02:00

The belief that government is “hopeless” rarely begins in Parliament, Cabinet, or State House. It is born in the queue at a licensing office, in the frustration of a form returned for a missing comma, in the silence of a phone that never gets answered, and in the rigid insistence on procedures that make no sense to the ordinary citizen. In Namibia, as in many countries, the public’s perception of government is shaped not by national leaders but by the bureaucrats who serve as the frontline interface between the state and its people.

Citizens do not interact with ministers or Executive Directors (permanent secretaries) on a daily basis. They interact with clerks, receptionists, inspectors, and administrators. These are the individuals who stamp documents, approve applications, process benefits, and enforce regulations. When these interactions are slow, unhelpful, or unnecessarily rigid, the entire government is blamed. A single frustrating encounter becomes a symbol of a system that feels indifferent to its citizens' needs.

This disconnect is not always the result of incompetence or malice. Often, it is the product of a bureaucratic culture built on rigid adherence to rules rather than the application of common sense. Procedures become sacred, even when they no longer serve their intended purpose. A form must be filled out exactly as it was designed decades ago. A document must be submitted in person even though digital alternatives exist. A citizen must return tomorrow because the official responsible for signing is “not available.” These small inefficiencies accumulate into a larger narrative of state dysfunction.

Leadership, meanwhile, is frequently blamed for failures that originate far below their level of control. Namibia’s political leaders may set policy directions, but the implementation of those policies rests in the hands of administrators who may lack training, motivation, or the authority to adapt processes to real-world situations. When bureaucrats fail to deliver services effectively, leaders are accused of incompetence, corruption, or indifference—even when the root cause lies in outdated systems and institutional inertia.

This dynamic creates a dangerous cycle. Citizens lose trust in government because their everyday experiences are frustrating. Leaders lose credibility because they are held responsible for failures they did not directly cause. Bureaucrats become defensive, clinging even more tightly to rules to avoid blame. And the system continues to function poorly, reinforcing the perception that government is incapable of meaningful change.

Breaking this cycle requires more than political speeches or new policies. It demands a transformation of administrative culture. Bureaucrats must be empowered to use discretion, apply common sense, and prioritise service delivery over procedural rigidity. Training must focus not only on compliance but on problem‑solving, empathy, and innovation. Leadership must reward initiative rather than punishing deviation from outdated norms. And citizens must be treated not as obstacles to be managed but as clients whose time, dignity, and needs matter.

Ultimately, the strength of a government is measured not by the eloquence of its leaders but by the competence of its administrators. Namibia’s future depends on a public service that understands its role as the bridge between policy and people. When that bridge is strong, citizens believe in the state. When it is weak, even the best leadership appears ineffective. The challenge, therefore, is clear: reform the bureaucracy, and public trust will follow.

Growing Up Du Preez: A Life Shaped by Faith, Family, and the SDA Church

2026-08-08T06:59:15.411+02:00

I grew up inside a story that was already bigger than me — a story of ministry, mission work, and a family name woven deep into the Seventh‑day Adventist Church. When people talk about “church families,” they usually mean folks who attend regularly. But the Du Preez family? We didn’t just attend. We served, we led, we built, and in many ways, we became part of the fabric of Adventism in Southern Africa and beyond.

My grandfather, Pastor Alwyn du Preez, wasn’t just a pastor. He was a man who carried the church on his shoulders, whether he was preaching in South Africa or serving far away on St. Helena Island, one of the most isolated mission posts in the world. My grandmother, Joyce, stood right beside him — the kind of woman who didn’t need a title to lead. She led through presence, through kindness, through the quiet strength that keeps a church community alive.

When my mother died, I was five years old. And from that moment until I turned fifteen, my grandparents became my world. Their home became my home. Their routines became my routines. Their faith became the air I breathed.

I didn’t just grow up in an SDA household — I grew up in the engine room of Adventist ministry.

My uncle, Dr. Ron du Preez, was the only uncle I had, and he carried the academic torch of the family. Ron wasn’t just a pastor; he was a thinker, a teacher, a global voice. When he preached, he didn’t just deliver a sermon — he delivered a worldview. His books, his lectures, his travels… they showed me that Adventism wasn’t just a local church; it was a global movement.

Then there were my grandfather’s brothers — Gerald and Ingram du Preez — each carrying their own piece of the legacy. Gerald, especially, left a mark on Adventist history. His research into the SDA Church’s development among Coloured communities in South Africa is still one of the most important historical works on Adventism in the region. He didn’t just write history; he preserved identity.

Growing up around these men — and the strong women beside them — shaped how I see service. It shaped how I see justice. It shaped how I see people.

When you live in a house where ministry is not a job but a lifestyle, you learn early that service is not optional. You learn that people’s stories matter. You learn that systems fail, and when they do, someone has to stand up and fix them.

That’s the part of my family legacy I carry into my own work today — tracing unclaimed benefits, fighting for citizens who have been forgotten, and pushing for accountability in systems that prefer silence.

My activism didn’t come from politics.

It came from watching my grandfather pray with strangers,

from seeing my grandmother feed people who had nothing,

from listening to my uncle explain truth with clarity and courage,

from hearing Gerald talk about history that was almost erased,

from seeing Ingram serve without ever asking for recognition.

I am a Du Preez.

I grew up in the shadow of pastors, missionaries, scholars, and servants.

And everything I do today — every fight, every investigation, every post — is rooted in that legacy.

This is my family.

This is my story.

This is the foundation beneath my activism.

The Namibian State’s Duty to Protect Citizens’ Rights: Why Unclaimed Benefits Demand Urgent National Attention

2026-08-03T06:51:04.266+02:00

The protection of the rights and benefits of citizens has always been a core duty of the State. Long before Independence, this principle was embedded—albeit unevenly and with racial bias—into the legal framework governing estates and public administration. One of the clearest examples is the Administration of Estates Act of 1965, a law that still shapes how Namibia safeguards the financial interests of beneficiaries today.

A Law Built to Protect the Vulnerable

The 1965 Act was drafted with four key objectives:

Consolidation of Estate Law – bringing scattered rules under one coherent system.
Clear Authority of the Master of the High Court – establishing a central figure to oversee estates and ensure accountability.
Protection of Beneficiaries and Creditors – preventing abuse, mismanagement, or loss of rightful entitlements.
Regulation of the Guardian’s Fund – creating a secure mechanism to hold money belonging to minors, untraceable heirs, and adults under curatorship.

The Guardian’s Fund remains one of the most important public institutions for safeguarding vulnerable citizens. It exists precisely because the State recognises that some individuals—children, incapacitated adults, or missing beneficiaries—cannot protect their own financial interests.

The Hidden Crisis: Unclaimed Pension Benefits

Despite these protections, many Namibian consumers remain unaware of what happens to their pension contributions when they leave an employer. When a member resigns, retires, or is dismissed, an Exit Event occurs. If the member does not claim their benefit, the money does not disappear—but it does enter a long and complex legal process.

The journey of an unclaimed benefit typically follows this path:

Missing contact details stall the payment.
Statutory tracing begins, as fund administrators are legally required to search for the member or dependants.
Unclaimed Benefit Designation occurs after five years of unsuccessful tracing.
Every January, funds must submit a sworn statement of all unclaimed amounts.
Every February, these amounts must be advertised in the Government Gazette, giving beneficiaries three months to claim.
If still unclaimed, the money is transferred to the Master of the High Court for safekeeping.

This system is designed to protect citizens—but it only works if citizens know it exists.

A National Record of Missing Money

In 2020, I began a project to collect every Government Gazette that published “Unclaimed Monies” notices. By January 2026, I had uploaded all beneficiary information from these notices online, making them publicly accessible for the first time in Namibia’s history.

The database (GRN Gazettes: https://shorturl.at/f6R21) now contains:

Beneficiaries from 2014 to 2026 (13 Gazettes)
26,928 individual claims
N$ 324.7 million in unclaimed benefits

This is not just a statistic—it is a national alarm bell. Behind every unclaimed benefit is a person, a family, or a community deprived of money that legally belongs to them.

Tracing the People Behind the Numbers

After compiling the Gazette records, I focused on the traceability of beneficiaries. Using publicly available information and the NamConsumer Database, which began in 2004, I started identifying individuals who may be unaware that money is waiting for them.

The results are clear:

Namibia does not have a problem of missing money.

Namibia has a problem of missing people.

Many beneficiaries have moved, changed phone numbers, relocated to rural areas, or passed away without their families knowing about the benefit. Others simply never understood the pension system or assumed their contributions were lost.

Why This Matters Now

The State’s duty to protect citizens is not theoretical—it is practical, measurable, and urgent. The Administration of Estates Act created mechanisms to safeguard benefits, but modern Namibia needs modern solutions:

Public awareness campaigns
Digital tracing tools
Collaboration between pension funds, government, and civil society
A national unclaimed benefits portal
Community-level outreach, especially in rural areas

The money exists. The beneficiaries exist. The gap between them is a matter of information, access, and awareness.

A Call to Action

Every Namibian deserves to know that the State has systems to protect their financial rights. Every pension fund must fulfil its legal duty to trace members. And every citizen should check whether they or their relatives appear in the unclaimed benefits records.

The principle that the State must protect its people is not new—it is older than Independence. But today, with hundreds of millions in unclaimed benefits, it is more important than ever.

Namibia cannot afford to leave its citizens’ money behind.

The Legacy I Want to Leave: Building Systems That Help People Find What Belongs to Them

2026-07-23T13:21:04.920+02:00

"True success isn’t what you leave behind—it’s what continues to benefit generations after you’re gone."

When I look back at my journey, I realise that many of the things I have done started with a simple question: Why does the system work this way, and can it work better?

As a child, I found value in what others ignored. Those torn magazine covers and discarded floppy disks opened my eyes to the fact that information has value — even when someone else thinks it is no longer useful. Years later, that same thinking followed me into technology, databases, consumer rights, and now helping people find money that belongs to them.

Over the years, I have become convinced that one of the biggest problems in society is not always the lack of resources. Sometimes the problem is that the resources exist, but ordinary people do not know where to find them.

A person can work their whole life, contribute to a pension fund, have an insurance policy, inherit money, or be a beneficiary of an estate — and yet years later that money can sit somewhere untouched because nobody knows how to claim it.

That is where the idea started: create a system that connects people with what is already theirs.

For many years now, I have been working with information that is publicly available. In 2003, I started building a consumer database using information that was available through public sources. It was not about collecting secrets. It was about organising information that already existed, and using it to solve problems.

At the time, many people did not understand the importance of data. Today, everyone talks about databases, artificial intelligence, and digital platforms. But the real value of data has always been the same: helping people make better decisions.

A database is not just rows and columns. Behind every record is a person. Behind every name is a story.

This is why the work I am doing with unclaimed monies has become so important to me.

When people hear the words “unclaimed money”, they often think it belongs to someone else. They imagine it is complicated, or that the amounts are too small to worry about.

But behind every entry in a government gazette, every pension fund record, and every estate file, there is a person or a family who may be missing something that belongs to them.

Sometimes it is a pension benefit from a previous employer. Sometimes it is money from an estate. Sometimes it is simply a case where life moved on, addresses changed, and communication was lost.

The frustrating part is that the money is often already there. The challenge is creating the bridge between the institution holding the funds and the person who should receive them.

This is where technology, tracing, and organised information can make a difference.

My vision is not just to help one person at a time. My vision is to create a system where citizens can easily check what belongs to them, understand their rights, and get assistance when the process becomes complicated.

The same principle applies to consumer protection.

For years, I have watched consumers struggle because they do not know their rights. They sign contracts they do not understand, they pay fees they cannot explain, and they often do not know where to complain when something goes wrong.

A strong consumer database and information system can help identify patterns. It can show where problems are occurring, which industries generate complaints, and where laws or regulations need improvement.

Information gives citizens a voice.

Governments have databases. Companies have databases. Banks have databases. Pension funds have databases.

But ordinary citizens often do not have a system working for them.

That is the gap I want to help close.

When I started collecting information many years ago, I did not know exactly where it would lead. I was simply trying to solve problems. I was looking at information that others ignored and asking: “How can this help people?”

Today, that same philosophy continues.

Technology is not valuable because it is modern. Technology is valuable because it helps people.

A database is not valuable because it contains millions of records. It is valuable when one person receives a phone call saying: “We found something that belongs to you.”

That moment changes lives.

As a father, I often think about what legacy means. It is not only about leaving behind possessions or money. Those things can disappear.

A true legacy is leaving behind something that continues helping people after you are gone.

My hope is that my children will look back one day and understand that their father believed information should serve people. That systems should not only benefit organisations and institutions, but also ordinary citizens.

I want them to see that one person with a computer, some curiosity, and a belief that things can be improved can make a difference.

The journey started with torn magazine covers and free floppy disks.

Today it is about finding lost money, protecting consumers, and building bridges between people and the systems that are supposed to serve them.

The technology has changed.

The mission has not.

I kept the tone reflective and story-driven like your CNA/floppy disk blog, with the focus on systems, information, citizens, and legacy rather than making it sound like a corporate article.

Namibia Has a Referendum Law… But Almost Nobody Can Use It

2026-07-22T19:49:12.082+02:00

Imagine your school announces some exciting news.

The principal says, “From now on, whenever there is a really important issue, all the learners can vote.”

Everyone cheers.

You think, “That’s wonderful! If enough learners want to change a rule, we’ll simply ask for a vote.”

Then you discover something surprising.

The learners are not allowed to ask for a vote.

They cannot collect signatures.

They cannot force the principal to listen.

They cannot even insist that the school board discuss their idea.

The only people who can decide whether there will be a vote are the principal or the school board.

Suddenly, it doesn’t feel like the learners have much power after all.

That is very similar to how referendums work in Namibia.

What is a referendum?

A referendum is one of the simplest ideas in democracy.

Instead of politicians making a decision, the people vote directly.

Everyone receives the same question and answers either YES or NO.

Countries use referendums to decide important issues such as changing their constitution, introducing new laws, or settling questions that divide public opinion.

The people themselves become the decision-makers.

Namibia has a referendum law

Many Namibians do not realise that our Electoral Act already contains detailed rules about referendums.

The law explains how polling stations should operate, how votes should be counted, and how the Electoral Commission should organise the process.

In other words, Namibia already knows how to hold a referendum.

But there is one very important problem.

Who gets to start one?

Imagine a sixteen-year-old girl asks her mother:

“Mommy, how can we get a referendum to legalise abortion?”

Her mother opens the law to find the answer.

She discovers that ordinary people cannot start a referendum.

Not if 100 people want one.

Not if 10,000 people want one.

Not even if one million Namibians agree.

Instead, only two things can happen.

The President can decide that a referendum is in the public interest.

Or the National Assembly can pass a resolution asking for one.

That means ordinary citizens have no legal way to force a referendum to happen.

Why does this matter?

This is not really about abortion.

Someone else may want a referendum about cannabis.

Another person may want one about the death penalty.

Someone else may want one about electoral reform, corruption, regional boundaries, or another important national issue.

The subject is not the point.

The principle is.

In a democracy, should ordinary citizens have the right to ask the whole country to vote on an important issue?

At the moment, the answer in Namibia is largely no.

The missing piece

Many democratic countries allow citizens to collect signatures.

If enough people support an idea, Parliament must debate it or a referendum must be held.

This is called a citizens’ initiative.

It does not guarantee that people will win.

It simply guarantees that the people can start the conversation.

Namibia has no such system.

We have rules for running a referendum once someone in authority decides there should be one.

We do not have rules that allow ordinary Namibians to begin the process themselves.

Democracy belongs to the people

Our Constitution begins with the words:

“We, the people of Namibia…”

Those words remind us that government exists because of the people—not the other way around.

If the people are trusted to elect governments every five years, perhaps they should also be trusted to ask for a referendum on issues of national importance.

That does not mean every proposal should succeed.

It simply means the people should have a lawful way to place an important question before the nation.

Namibia already has a referendum law.

What it does not yet have is a true citizens’ referendum.

Perhaps that is the next step in strengthening our democracy.

Yango’s Navigation Problem Shows a Bigger Truth: The App Does Not Understand Namibia — and It Does Not Care to Learn

2026-07-16T08:40:09.451+02:00

For months now, Namibian consumers have complained about Yango’s routing system: long detours, time‑wasting loops, and navigation choices that make no sense to anyone who actually lives in Windhoek. Drivers lose income. Passengers lose time. And Yango’s support team continues to blame drivers instead of fixing the underlying problem — their maps simply do not know Namibia.

A recent exchange between Yango Support and Milton Louw, Executive Director of the Namibia Consumer Protection Group, illustrates the issue perfectly. It reads less like customer service and more like a chatbot stuck in a loop.

𝑨 𝑫𝒂𝒊𝒍𝒚 𝑹𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒆 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑴𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒔 𝑵𝒐 𝑺𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒆
Milton lives in Avis and takes Yango every morning to Kleine Professor School. Anyone familiar with Windhoek knows the route: a short, direct drive via Auasblick, across Robert Mugabe and around the army base and into Andimba ya Toivo. Yet Yango’s app insists on sending drivers on a bizarre detour:
* Around St Paul’s College
* Up through Jan Jonker, then Robert Mugabe
* Through morning traffic
* Adding unnecessary kilometres and minutes

The app’s own ride reports show the direct route is 14 minutes faster, yet Yango repeatedly claims their system is “avoiding traffic jams.”

This is not a traffic‑based decision. It is a mapping failure.

𝑺𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝑹𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒆𝒔 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑭𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 — 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑫𝒆𝒕𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝑭𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒚
The email thread shows a pattern:

1. 𝙍𝙚𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙧𝙚𝙦𝙪𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙞𝙧𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙫𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙞𝙣𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙢𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣
Yango Support repeatedly asks for coordinates, screenshots, and technical details that the average consumer should never be expected to provide. As Milton wrote:

“No. That’s your job. I am the Director of the Namibia Consumer Group (and an IT Guru), and this is unacceptable.”

Instead of investigating, Support keeps asking whether he can “see their previous messages.”

2. 𝑩𝒍𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒅𝒓𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔 — 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆
When Milton points out that the app’s route is wrong, Support responds:

“Passengers often know a faster or more convenient route… the driver should agree to follow the route that his passengers prefer.”

This has nothing to do with the complaint. The issue is not the driver. The issue is Yango’s faulty navigation system.

Yet Support repeats the same line again the next morning — almost word‑for‑word — showing either automation or a script that ignores context.

3. 𝑵𝒐 𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘𝒍𝒆𝒅𝒈𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒃𝒍𝒆𝒎
Even after Milton explains that the app’s suggested route is three times longer, Support insists:

“The navigation system suggested the driver to select a route without any traffic jams.”

This is factually incorrect. The app’s own ride report contradicts it.

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑩𝒊𝒈𝒈𝒆𝒓 𝑰𝒔𝒔𝒖𝒆: 𝒀𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒐’𝒔 𝑺𝒚𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒎 𝑰𝒔 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝑩𝒖𝒊𝒍𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝑵𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒃𝒊𝒂
Windhoek is not Moscow. It is not Lagos. It is not Dubai.
Our road network is unique:
* Steep hills
* Shortcuts known only to locals
* Traffic patterns that differ from global models
* Suburbs with limited entry/exit points
* Roads that appear “major” on satellite maps but are inefficient in practice

Yango’s routing engine clearly relies on foreign data models that do not reflect Namibian reality. Instead of adapting to local conditions, the company expects consumers to provide technical data so they can “forward it to their Maps team.”

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐞𝐫‑𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧. 𝐈𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐜

𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐨𝐧 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐛𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐬
For passengers
* Longer travel times
* Higher costs
* Frustration and wasted mornings
* Feeling unheard by customer support

For drivers
* Lower earnings due to inefficient routes
* Blame from passengers
* Blame from Yango
* Pressure to ignore the app and rely on local knowledge

Drivers are being forced to choose between following Yango’s flawed system or following the passenger’s instructions — and then being blamed either way.

𝑨 𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑫𝒐𝒆𝒔 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝑳𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒏
The email thread shows a deeper problem: Yango’s support system is not designed to understand Namibia, and it is not designed to listen.

When a consumer explains the issue clearly, Support responds with:
* Repetition
* Scripted apologies
* Irrelevant instructions
* Blame shifting
At no point does Yango acknowledge the core issue: their maps are wrong.

𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑵𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒃𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒔 𝑫𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒆
Namibians deserve a ride‑hailing service that:
* Uses accurate local mapping data
* Respects consumer time
* Supports drivers instead of blaming them
* Provides real customer service, not chatbot‑style scripts
* Invests in Namibia instead of treating it as an afterthought

Until Yango fixes its navigation system, Namibians will continue to pay for inefficiency — in time, money, and frustration.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧: 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐨 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐃𝐨 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫
This is not a small glitch. It is a systemic failure.

Yango entered Namibia promising convenience, affordability, and modern mobility. But if the company cannot even map a simple Avis‑to‑Kleine Professor route correctly — and cannot respond to consumers with meaningful support — then it is failing in its basic duty to the Namibian public.

The Namibia Consumer Protection Group will continue monitoring this issue and collecting complaints. Yango must invest in proper local mapping, proper local support, and proper respect for Namibian consumers.

Windhoek’s Invisible Walls

2026-07-04T07:59:41.263+02:00

When South Africa’s Constitutional Court recently delivered a unanimous judgment concerning Cape Town’s urban development, it did more than settle a legal dispute. It reignited a debate that resonates far beyond South Africa’s borders: when does the legacy of apartheid become the responsibility of today’s leaders?

That question deserves to be asked in Namibia.

Not because our legal circumstances are identical—they are not. Nor because Windhoek is Cape Town—it is not. But because the underlying challenge is remarkably similar. Our cities continue to bear the imprint of decisions made decades ago, and unless we deliberately change course, future generations will inherit those same divisions.

For years, politicians have celebrated Namibia’s political independence. They have every reason to do so. Independence transformed our nation and gave us the freedom to determine our own destiny.

Yet political freedom does not automatically erase the geography of inequality.

Take a drive through Windhoek.

Within minutes you can travel from leafy suburbs with broad streets, dependable municipal services and thriving commercial centres to communities where thousands of families continue to wait for serviced land, proper sanitation, tarred roads and secure housing.

The contrast is impossible to ignore.

It is tempting to explain this simply as poverty. But poverty alone does not determine where people live. Planning does. Housing policy does. Land availability does. Public investment does.

In other words, inequality has a geography.

Where you live influences how much you spend travelling to work. It determines whether emergency services reach you quickly. It affects access to schools, healthcare, banking facilities and employment opportunities. It even shapes whether businesses choose to invest in your neighbourhood.

Location creates opportunity—or limits it.

That is why urban planners often speak of spatial inequality. In Southern Africa, many describe its historical origins as spatial apartheid: the deliberate separation of communities through planning, infrastructure and land allocation.

Namibia inherited that system.

The uncomfortable question is whether we are dismantling it quickly enough.

To be fair, progress has been made.

The City of Windhoek has expanded basic services into new areas. Government has introduced housing initiatives. Private developers continue to build. Civil society organisations have worked tirelessly to improve living conditions in informal settlements.

Yet despite these efforts, the waiting lists continue to grow.

Informal settlements continue to expand.

Affordable serviced land remains scarce.

Young families struggle to enter the housing market.

Workers continue to spend significant portions of their income simply getting to work.

These are not isolated problems.

They are symptoms of a city whose physical form still reflects yesterday more than tomorrow.

Too often our public debates descend into assigning blame. One political party blames another. Local government blames central government. Central government points to financial constraints. Citizens blame everyone.

Meanwhile, the geography remains largely unchanged.

The more useful question is not who created the problem.

History has already answered that.

The more important question is who is prepared to solve it.

Every municipal budget is, in reality, a statement about priorities.

Every decision on land servicing shapes future neighbourhoods.

Every transport project either connects communities or leaves them isolated.

Every housing development either promotes integration or reinforces separation.

These are not merely technical planning decisions. They are decisions about social justice.

For too long we have treated housing as a social expense rather than economic infrastructure.

A family living closer to employment spends less on transport, has more disposable income, enjoys more family time and contributes more effectively to the local economy. Businesses benefit from a larger accessible workforce. Municipal services become more efficient. The entire city becomes more productive.

Inclusive cities are not acts of charity.

They are engines of economic growth.

This is where the conversation must evolve.

We should stop measuring success solely by the number of houses built or kilometres of roads constructed. Those statistics matter, but they do not tell the whole story.

The real measure of success is whether opportunities are becoming more equally distributed across the city.

Can a child born in Havana realistically expect the same access to opportunity as a child born in Ludwigsdorf?

Can a domestic worker afford to live anywhere near her place of employment?

Can a young entrepreneur establish a business without spending hours every day travelling across the city?

If the answers remain uncertain, then our work is far from complete.

Windhoek deserves a new urban conversation.

One that moves beyond compliance with legislation and focuses instead on enabling opportunity.

One that recognises that social inclusion is not a slogan but a planning principle.

One that understands that land reform, affordable housing, public transport and economic development are inseparable.

Most importantly, one that accepts that the invisible walls dividing our city are no less real simply because they are no longer enforced by law.

They persist through distance.

Through infrastructure.

Through economics.

Through planning.

Namibia cannot change the history that shaped Windhoek.

But we can decide whether the next generation inherits its divisions or its possibilities.

That choice belongs not only to politicians and planners.

It belongs to every citizen who believes that a city should bring people together rather than keep them apart.

If we are serious about building the Namibia envisioned at Independence, then perhaps it is time to stop asking whether apartheid planning still exists.

Instead, we should ask a far more important question:

Are we building one Windhoek—or are we still living in two?

Reflections on Two Decades of Consumer Activism in Namibia

2026-07-01T08:26:04.320+02:00

My journey as a consumer activist began in 2006 when I founded the Namibia Consumer Protection Group, which started as a dedicated pressure group of Namibians on Facebook. Since that time, my mission has been to advocate for a fairer economic environment and the establishment of a robust consumer charter for business. Reflecting on the twenty years that have passed between my initial efforts and the ongoing parliamentary discussions in 2026, it is disheartening to see how many of the same systemic issues—specifically regarding debt and lending—continue to plague Namibian citizens.

The Path to the First Parliamentary Enquiry

The formal process toward legislative reform began in earnest in the early 2000s. After receiving specialised training in Düsseldorf, Germany between 2002 and 2003 on credit rating and business reporting, I returned to Namibia to develop a business plan for a national credit information system. This effort culminated in a significant milestone on 14 July 2006, when I made a formal submission to the Parliamentary Standing Committee on Economics, Natural Resources and Public Administration.

In that first enquiry, I argued that high bank charges and interest rates were driven by the "difficulties in assessing risk" and a lack of reliable consumer data. My proposal at the time was the creation of a Credit Bureau and an economic database through a public-private partnership to provide a reliable source of information, which would theoretically force banks to become more competitive and offer better rates to creditworthy clients.

Comparing Current Proposals (2026) vs. Historical Context

Looking at the recent June 2026 public hearing on lending law protections, the conversation has shifted toward a "social problem" specifically affecting the civil service. While the core issues of high debt and predatory lending remain, the participants in this recent committee meeting offer varying perspectives:

The Office of the Prime Minister (OPM): They identify the primary causes of debt as low salaries, easy access to credit, and the lack of control over the deduction code system. They acknowledge that the previously mandatory "one-third" net pay rule is no longer effectively enforced by the Ministry of Finance, resulting in civil servants receiving as little as N$ 500 take-home pay.
Trade Unions (TUN and PSUN): They highlight that salaries are not commensurate with the rising cost of living and inflation. They strongly criticise "loan sharks" (microlenders) charging interest rates of 37% or higher and argue that the current regulatory framework actually supports the concentration of wealth in the hands of a few "well-connected" lenders with access to deduction codes.
Microlenders Association: They maintain that their members are regulated by NAMFISA and adhere to legal interest caps—notably 30% for short-term "payday" loans—while pointing to the need for better financial literacy embedded in the national curriculum.

Comparing these to my earlier work, there is a clear stagnation in the implementation of protections. In 2011, I noted that the Information and Communications Act had taken ten years to pass, and other crucial laws like the Electronic Transaction and Privacy Protection bills had been "in the pipeline" since 2005. In 2026, officials are still lamenting that while the "regulatory framework could be good on paper," its implementation is failing to serve its purpose.

The Way Forward: Beyond Policy to Implementation

To move forward, we must stop the cycle of endless consultation and move toward specific, enforceable actions. Drawing from my book Future Namibia and the recent hearings, I suggest the following:

A Comprehensive Consumer Protection Act: This must include the "Right to Information" and "Right to Redress," ensuring that consumers can challenge fraudulent or misleading practices.
Establishment of a Small Claims Court: As proposed years ago, a court for claims up to N$ 20,000 would allow ordinary citizens to handle their own cases without the prohibitive cost of lawyers.
National Credit Register and Data Protection: We must finalise the National Credit Register and pass the Data Protection Act to ensure that consumer information is used correctly and that individuals have the right to access and correct their own data.
Reform of the Deduction Code System: As suggested in the 2006 hearing, the government must regain control over the salary deduction codes. Lenders should be forced to secure repayments through bank arrangements (debit orders) rather than having direct, unregulated access to the state payroll.
Compulsory Financial Literacy and Wellness: Financial education should be a mandatory school subject ("Citizens' Knowledge") to ensure that future generations understand both their rights and their responsibilities.

Twenty years is too long to wait for the "fruits of freedom" to reach the average consumer. We need a culture of innovation in government that acts fast to protect its most vulnerable citizens from the cycle of debt.

More Than N$200 Million Is Waiting. The Question Is: Will You Claim What Is Yours?

2026-06-09T12:51:38.704+02:00

For years I have spent my time tracing people.

Not criminals. Not missing persons.

People who are owed money.

Sometimes it is an insurance benefit. Sometimes a pension payout. Sometimes an estate distribution. Sometimes money that has been sitting untouched for years because nobody knew it existed.

What continues to surprise me is not how much money is unclaimed in Namibia.

It is how little the public knows about where to look.

During my work as a tracer of beneficiaries and policyholders, I discovered that more than N$200 million is believed to be lying unclaimed at the Office of the Master of the High Court alone. Add to that unclaimed insurance benefits, pension fund benefits, deceased estate distributions and other forgotten payments, and the amount becomes staggering.

The money belongs to ordinary Namibians.

The problem is that many people never receive the information.

The Information Exists – But It Is Hidden in Plain Sight

Every week, government notices are published in the Namibia Government Gazette.

These notices contain valuable information about:

Deceased estates
Insolvent estates
Company liquidations
Trustee notices
Estate distributions
Legal notices
Public announcements

For decades, the information has been publicly available.

The challenge is that finding it has often been difficult.

Many people do not know where to search. Others do not have the time to go through hundreds of gazettes. Some simply do not know that a family member’s name may appear in a notice connected to money or an estate.

As a result, assets remain unclaimed while families struggle financially.

A Typical Story

Imagine that your grandfather worked for a company many years ago.

He passes away.

An insurance policy or pension benefit remains unpaid because no beneficiary comes forward.

Years pass.

The records still exist.

The money still exists.

But nobody claims it because nobody knows where to look.

This is not an unusual situation.

I have seen cases where beneficiaries were completely unaware that funds existed in their name.

In some cases, the amount is modest.

In others, it can change a family’s circumstances significantly.

Why I Created the Gazette Lookup Service

After spending years helping people locate information, I realised that access to information was the biggest obstacle.

That is why I started compiling and digitising Namibia’s Government Gazettes.

What began as a simple project has grown into a substantial searchable database.

The collection currently covers thousands of gazette entries and continues to expand as older gazettes are digitised.

The aim is simple:

To make it easier for ordinary Namibians to discover information that may affect them or their families.

You can search the gazette lookup service here:

GRN Gazette Lookup Service

Why People Should Check

Many people assume that if money belongs to them, somebody will contact them.

Unfortunately, that is not always how the system works.

Addresses change.

People move.

Employers close down.

Family members pass away.

Records become outdated.

The responsibility often falls on the beneficiary to come forward and prove entitlement.

That is why a simple search can be worthwhile.

You may find:

A deceased estate involving a relative.
An estate distribution notice.
Information that assists with a claim.
Evidence that helps trace a long-forgotten benefit.
A lead worth investigating further.

I Can Help

Finding a name is often only the first step.

Understanding the notice, locating supporting documentation, identifying the correct office and following the claims process can be confusing.

This is where my experience as a tracer can help.

I have spent years working with beneficiaries, estates and unclaimed monies, helping people navigate the process and understand what information is required.

No genuine beneficiary should lose out simply because they did not know where to look.

The Bottom Line

More than N$200 million may be waiting at the Master of the High Court.

Millions more may be sitting elsewhere in unclaimed benefits and estates.

The money already belongs to someone.

The real question is whether that person knows it exists.

If there is even a small chance that you, a family member or a deceased relative may have unclaimed funds, it may be worth spending a few minutes searching.

After all, if it is yours, why not claim it?

Search the Gazette Lookup Service:
https://shorturl.at/f6R21

Need assistance interpreting a notice or tracing a possible claim? Contact Milton Louw for guidance and support.

Remembering Andimba Toivo ya Toivo – 9 Years Later

2026-06-09T11:10:57.871+02:00

Today marks nine years since Namibia lost one of her greatest sons — Herman Andimba Toivo ya Toivo. A man whose courage was loud, but whose humility was even louder.

Andimba never saw nation‑building as speeches or slogans.

For him, it was simple, disciplined, everyday work:

Stand for justice, even when you stand alone.
Treat your enemy as a future neighbour.
Build a country where no child feels forgotten.
Leave anger behind so the next generation can walk lighter.

Sixteen years on Robben Island could have broken him.

Instead, they sharpened him.

He walked out without bitterness, carrying only one mission:

to help build a Namibia where dignity is not negotiable.

Those who knew him will tell you — he didn’t talk about leadership, he lived it.

He believed that a nation is built not by the loudest voices, but by the most consistent hands.

Hands that lift others.

Hands that forgive.

Hands that keep working long after applause has faded.

Today, we honour his life, his discipline, and his unshakeable belief that Namibia’s strength lies in her people — all of them.

May we continue his work.

May we raise our children with the same courage.

And may we remember that the freedom he fought for is a responsibility we must carry forward.

Rest in power, Tate Andimba.

Your fire still lights our path.

When the Body Learns What the Heart Already Knows

2026-05-28T08:39:43.398+02:00

There are days when life speaks softly, and there are days when it speaks through a doctor’s scale.

Today, it chose the latter.

I stepped into the clinic expecting routine numbers — blood pressure, pulse, the usual checklist of adulthood. Instead, the scale delivered a quiet truth: I now weigh 82.6 kg, down from 97.8 kg in October 2025. A 15.2‑kilogram shift. A BMI drop from 30.19 to 25.49. Numbers that look clinical on paper but feel spiritual in the body.

People often talk about weight loss as if it’s a battle of willpower. But willpower is a spark — bright, emotional, and short‑lived. What carried me through these months wasn’t a spark. It was a slow‑burning purpose.

It was my son.

His dietary needs forced me to rethink everything: what we buy, what we cook, what we celebrate, what we avoid. And somewhere between reading labels, planning meals, and saying “no” to things I once said “yes” to without thinking, something shifted. The discipline I built for him became the discipline I built for myself.

This wasn’t a diet. It was a re‑alignment.

A reminder that the body listens when the heart leads.

The Philosophy of Losing Weight Without Trying to Lose Weight

There’s a strange paradox in life: The things we chase directly often run from us. But the things we pursue indirectly — through purpose, through love, through responsibility — often find us anyway.

I didn’t chase weight loss. I chased being a better father. And weight loss followed like a shadow.

When you live for something larger than yourself, your habits shift quietly. You stop negotiating with yourself. You stop making excuses. You stop treating your body like an afterthought. You begin to live with intention, not intensity.

And intention, unlike willpower, doesn’t burn out.

The Doctor’s Office as a Mirror

As the doctor read out the numbers, I didn’t feel pride. I felt alignment.

My health. My parenting. My discipline. My purpose.

All pointing in the same direction for once.

It’s not that the journey is over — far from it. But today reminded me that transformation doesn’t always announce itself with fanfare. Sometimes it whispers through a digital display, reminding you that the work you do in the quiet corners of your life matters.

What I Carry Forward

I’m not chasing a perfect body. I’m chasing a life where my son sees consistency, care, and commitment — not as speeches, but as habits.

If the scale wants to keep rewarding that, so be it. But even if it doesn’t, the purpose remains.

Because this journey was never about weight. It was about becoming the kind of father whose actions answer the questions his son hasn’t learned to ask yet.

When Privacy Protects Power - Evidence From a 1.8 million–View Experiment on Unclaimed Pension Benefits in Namibia

2026-05-24T11:15:46.562+02:00

Abstract

In this discussion paper, I examine whether, in Namibia, privacy frameworks disproportionately harm low-income and uninformed populations by restricting access to information that materially affects their lives. Using a natural experiment from Facebook engagement data — where public views on posts about unclaimed pension benefits increased from approximately 20,000 (1 – 20 December 2025) into over 1.6 million (1 - 20 April 2026) — the study demonstrates that information scarcity, not apathy, is the primary barrier preventing citizens from claiming owed financial benefits. The findings support the hypothesis that privacy rules, when misapplied, function as structural barriers that protect institutions rather than vulnerable citizens.

1. Introduction

Across Africa and globally, unclaimed pension benefits represent billions in dormant assets. In Namibia alone, industry reports indicate hundreds of thousands of affected members and hundreds of millions of dollars in unclaimed funds . Yet despite the scale, public awareness remains low.

A common justification for withholding beneficiary information is privacy. Pension funds, administrators, and regulators often argue that publishing names or detailed lists would violate data protection principles. But this raises a critical question:

Does privacy, as currently implemented, protect individuals — or does it protect institutions at the expense of individuals?

This article uses a real-world data event — a sudden, massive increase in public engagement with simple, accessible information — to test that question.

2. Background: The Information Gap Around Unclaimed Benefits

In my previous research and blog posts, I have documented:

• Over 374,000+ Namibians with unclaimed benefits

• Over N$218 million in dormant pension assets

• A lack of a centralised, publicly accessible registry

• A reliance on passive tracing methods (letters, SMS, employer records)

• A regulatory environment that prioritises privacy over transparency

Internationally, countries that have reduced unclaimed benefits — such as Australia, the UK, and South Africa — have done so by increasing public visibility, not restricting it.

3. Methodology: A Natural Experiment on Facebook

Before January 2026, my Facebook page averaged:

• ~20,000 (1 – 20 December 2025)

After I began posting simple Excel-based images showing:

• the number of affected members

• Surnames, names and Date of Birth of Beneficiaries

• Contact details of where to get assistance in claiming the monies

my reach increased to:

• over 1.5 million views in 20 days (1 – 20 April 2026)

Figure 1 - Facebook Insights 1-20 December 2025

Figure 2 - Facebook Insights 1-20 April 2026

This was not due to paid promotion, algorithm manipulation, or viral entertainment content. It was purely public interest financial information.

This creates a natural experiment:

What happens when previously inaccessible information is made visible in a simple, shareable format?

4. Findings

4.1. Public demand for financial transparency is extremely high

The increase in views within a period of 20 days indicates that:

• People are actively searching for information about money owed to them

• They share such information widely within their networks

• The demand far exceeds what institutions assume

This contradicts the narrative that “people don’t care” or “people won’t understand.”

4.2. Simplicity beats institutional opacity

My posts were not polished infographics. They were:

• screenshots of Excel

• plain lists

• simple numbers

This suggests that the barrier is not literacy or design — it is access.

4.3. Privacy rules are being misapplied

My posts did not reveal personal data.

They revealed public interest financial data.

Yet institutions routinely cite privacy to avoid publishing:

• lists of unclaimed benefits

• names of deceased members

• dormant account summaries

• tracing progress reports

My data shows that when information is freed from institutional silos, the public responds immediately and at scale.

4.4. The poor and uninformed are disproportionately harmed

Those with:

• limited digital access

• low financial literacy

• no formal employment records

• no access to legal assistance

are the ones most likely to have unclaimed benefits. Privacy rules that restrict transparency therefore, reinforce inequality.

5. Discussion: Privacy as a Structural Barrier

The findings support my hypothesis:

Privacy frameworks, when rigidly applied, protect institutions from scrutiny while preventing vulnerable citizens from accessing information that could materially improve their lives.

This is not a critique of privacy itself — privacy is essential. It is a critique of privacy without proportionality.

A balanced system would distinguish between:

• Personal data (which must be protected)

• Public interest financial data (which must be accessible)

Namibia’s current approach collapses these categories, resulting in:

• unclaimed benefits growing year after year

• families unable to access deceased relatives’ funds

• pension funds holding money that should be circulating in the economy

6. Policy Implications

6.1. Introduce a Public Interest Transparency Clause

Privacy laws should explicitly allow publication of:

• unclaimed benefit lists

• deceased member lists

• dormant account summaries

• tracing progress reports

6.2. Establish a Central Unclaimed Benefits Registry

A single, searchable national database — as used in other countries — would dramatically reduce unclaimed assets.

6.3. Mandate proactive public communication

Funds should be required to:

• publish quarterly unclaimed benefit updates

• run public awareness campaigns

• collaborate with community organisations

6.4. Encourage citizen-driven tracing

My Facebook data comparison between December 2025 and April 2026 proves that communities will self-organise when given information.

7. Conclusion

The 1.6 million view spike is not a social media anomaly.

It is evidence of a deeper truth:

• People are not apathetic — they are uninformed.

• Privacy, when misapplied, keeps them uninformed.

This natural experiment demonstrates that transparency is not a threat to privacy; it is a tool for empowerment. If Namibia wants to reduce unclaimed benefits, stimulate economic activity, and restore trust in financial institutions, it must rethink how privacy is interpreted and applied.

121 Miljoen Redes Hoekom Ons Finansiële Stelsel Gewone Namibiërs Faal — En Die Burokratiese Swart Gat Wat Dit Verslind

2026-05-17T13:26:51.240+02:00

Het jy al ooit gewonder wat met jou swaarverdiende geld gebeur wanneer jy van werk verander, aftree, of wanneer ’n familielid ongelukkig sterf? Jy sou dink die pensioenfondse en finansiële instellings wat ons met ons spaargeld vertrou, sou alles doen om daardie geld by jou of jou kinders uit te bring.

Dink weer.

Ek het die afgelope paar weke diep gedelf in ’n groot databasis van kennisgewings wat tussen 2020 en 2024 in die Regeringskoerant gepubliseer is — dit gaan oor onopgeëiste geld in Namibië. As Direkteur van die Namibia Consumer Protection Group (NCPG) het wat ek ontdek het, my nie net geskok nie — dit het my woedend gemaak.

Nou, in 2026, sit daar ’n verstommende N$ 121,822,452.04 — meer as 121 miljoen Namibiese dollar — net daar, ongebruik. Hierdie geld behoort aan 11,370 gewone Namibiërs of hul gesinne wat sukkel om kop bo water te hou.

Terwyl mense sukkel met hoë kospryse, duur elektrisiteit en die daaglikse stryd om ligte aan te hou, lê meer as N$ 121 miljoen van ons kapitaal net en wag.

Die Menslike Gesig Agter Die Syfers

Wanneer ons na groot korporatiewe bedrae kyk, soos N$ 121 miljoen, voel dit maklik soos net ’n koue boekhouprobleem. Maar agter elke ry in daardie data is ’n menslike storie.

Die gemiddelde onopgeëiste bedrag is sowat N$ 11,025.65, maar die mediaan is net N$ 1,863.02. Dit wys dat die meeste van hierdie inskrywings aan die “klein man” behoort — fabriekswerkers, plaasarbeiders, winkelklerke en sekuriteitswagte. Vir ’n gesin in Katutura, Rundu of Walvisbaai beteken ’n onverwagte N$ 2,000 nie net ekstra geld nie — dit beteken skoolklere, medisyne of kos op die tafel.

En dan is daar die groot bedrae wat net vergeet is. Kyk na hierdie werklike voorbeelde:

UM Hijarunguru
– N$ 2,361,241.06
JW Beukes
– N$ 1,507,891.61
KJ Lohmann
– N$ 1,296,857.22
A Damian
– N$ 1,097,138.41

Is hierdie mense nog lewendig? Weet hul kinders van hierdie geld? Of leef hul families in armoede terwyl hul erfenis stof vergader?

Die Korporatiewe “Tekkie-Box” En Die Koerant-Charade

Wie dra die skuld vir hierdie reuse-mislukking in verbruikersopsporing? Die data lieg nie. ’n Handvol private pensioenfondse hou die meeste van hierdie geld vas:

Organisasie	Bedrag	Oop Gevalle
Orion Pension Fund	N$ 71,668,123.47	6,287
Orion Provident Fund	N$ 23,279,929.12	2,556
Novanam Group Retirement Fund	N$ 1,823,621.38	236
Standard Bank Namibia	N$ 1,652,398.55	—
Nored Electricity (Pty) Ltd	N$ 1,575,227.04	—

Die Orion-fondse alleen hou 78% van al die onopgeëiste geld — byna N$ 95 miljoen. Hoe kan een fondsbestuurder soveel vermiste lede hê sonder dat die owerhede alarm maak?

Die finansiële sektor sê: “Ons het aan die wet voldoen — ons het die name in die Regeringskoerant gepubliseer.” Maar kom ons wees eerlik: wie van ons lees die Regeringskoerant oor ontbyt? Dis ’n charade — ’n manier om ’n regsboksie af te merk sonder om werklik mense te help.

Uit Die Pan, In Die Burokratiese Vuur

Wanneer hierdie fondse hul “plig” gedoen het, dra hulle die geld oor aan die Guardian’s Fund by die Hooggeregshof. Op papier klink dit veilig — die staat hou nou jou geld. Maar in werklikheid beteken dit dat jou geld nou vasgevang is in ’n stadige, papiergebaseerde stelsel.

Dink aan ’n ouma in Kunene wat hoor haar oorlede man se naam was in die koerant. Sy moet honderde kilometers reis, dokumente laat sertifiseer, en dan maande — soms jare — wag vir ’n uitbetaling wat lankal haarne moes wees.

Ons het die probleem net verskuif van korporatiewe apatie na staatsburokrasie.

Die NCPG se Plan Vir Regte Finansiële Geregtigheid

Die staat moet ophou om net ’n stoorplek vir verlore geld te wees. Ons eis:

’n Sentraliseerde, Aanlyn Soekportaal
– Elke Namibiër moet hul ID of familienaam kan intik om te sien of hulle geld het.
Streekskantore vir Toegang
– Mense moet nie Windhoek toe hoef te reis nie; elke streek moet ’n hulpdesk hê.
Aktiewe Datavergelyking
– Die Hooggeregshof en Binnelandse Sake moet name kruisverwys met die bevolkingsregister om families op te spoor.

Jou telefoonnommer, jou data, en veral jou pensioen behoort aan jou. Laat ons ophou om finansiële instellings en staatsargiewe toe te laat om ons kapitaal as ’n dooie buffer te hou.

Het jy of jou familie al probeer om ’n ou pensioenvoordeel te eis of met die Guardian’s Fund te werk? Hoe lank het die papierwerk en wagtyd geneem? Deel jou ervaring hieronder — dis tyd dat ons saam druk vir verandering.

121 Million Reasons Why Our Financial System is Failing Ordinary Namibians—And the Bureaucratic Black Hole Swallowing It Up

2026-05-16T13:16:57.238+02:00

Have you ever wondered what happens to your hard-earned money when you change jobs, retire, or when a family member sadly passes away? You would naturally assume that the pension funds and financial institutions we trust with our life savings would knock on your door, ring your phone, or do everything in their power to make sure that money reaches you or your children.

Think again.

Over the last few weeks, I have been diving deep into a massive dataset of Government Gazette entries published between 2020 and 2025 detailing unclaimed monies in Namibia. As the Director of the Namibia Consumer Protection Group (NCPG), what I uncovered didn't just shock me—it made me incredibly angry.

Right now, as we sit in 2026, there is a staggering N$ 121,822,452.04—over 121 million Namibian Dollars—sitting completely idle. This money belongs to 11,370 ordinary Namibian citizens or their struggling families.

Let that sink in for a moment. While our people are facing rising food prices, high electricity tariffs, and a daily battle to keep the lights on, over N$ 121 million of our capital has been left floating in limbo.

Whose money is it anyway, and why is it so hard to get it back?

The Human Face Behind the Spreadsheets

When we look at big corporate numbers like N$ 121 million, it is easy to treat it as just a clinical accounting issue. But as a consumer advocate, I see the human faces behind every single row of that data.

The average unclaimed amount is about N$ 11,025.65, but the median sits at a much lower N$ 1,863.02. What does that tell us? It tells us that the vast majority of these entries belong to the "little guy"—the factory workers, the farm labourers, the retail clerks, and the security guards. For a family in Katutura, Rundu, or Walvis Bay, an unexpected N$ 2,000 payout isn't a minor bonus; it means school uniforms for the kids, medical attention for an elderly grandparent, or basic groceries on the table for months.

And then there are the life-changing fortunes that have simply been forgotten. Imagine waking up to find out that you or your late father is owed a million dollars. Look at these actual examples from the register:

UM Hijarunguru is owed N$ 2,361,241.06 from old workplace benefits.
JW Beukes, who would be around 68 years old today, has N$ 1,507,891.61 sitting untouched.
K J Lohmann, now around 70 years old, is owed N$ 1,296,857.22.
A Damian has N$ 1,097,138.41 waiting to be claimed.

Are these individuals still alive? Do their children know this money exists? Or are these families living in poverty while their inheritance gathers dust?

The Corporate Ticking Box and the Gazette Charade

We must ask ourselves: which organisations are responsible for this massive failure in consumer tracing? The data doesn't lie. A tiny handful of private retirement and corporate funds are responsible for accumulating the lion's share of our people's money before abandoning it:

Orion Pension Fund: A mind-boggling N$ 71,668,123.47 across 6,287 open cases.
Orion Provident Fund: Another N$ 23,279,929.12 across 2,556 open cases.
Novanam Group Retirement Fund: Holding N$ 1,823,621.38 for 236 claimants.
Standard Bank Namibia: Holding N$ 1,652,398.55.
Nored Electricity (Pty) Ltd: Holding N$ 1,575,227.04.

If you do the maths, the Orion-managed funds alone control nearly 78% of all the unclaimed money in this dataset (N$ 94.9 million). How is it possible that a single fund manager can accumulate thousands of missing members without serious red flags being raised by our regulatory authorities?

The financial sector loves to shield itself behind the law. They will tell you, "But Milton, we complied with the regulations! We publicised the names in the Government Gazette!"

Let's be completely honest with each other: Who among us reads the Government Gazette over breakfast? Publishing a list of names in an expensive, obscure official document that the ordinary citizen cannot access is an absolute charade. It allows companies to tick a bureaucratic box and say they "attempted" to find people.

Furthermore, as someone who has advocated for electronic governance and proper database integration in Namibia for decades, the state of this historical data is deeply disappointing. There are 321 entries publicised without any benefit amount listed at all—just blank spaces. Even worse, 4,271 records completely lack a Date of Birth. If a family wants to claim money on behalf of a deceased relative, how are they supposed to verify identity when the fund itself cannot even provide a basic birth date? To add insult to injury, almost all 11,370 records list the exact same generic corporate telephone number ( $+264\ 81\ 150\ 0038$ ) as the contact point.

The entire system is structured to make the consumer do all the heavy lifting.

Out of the Frying Pan, Into the Bureaucratic Fire

This brings us to the latest legal twist in this saga. Once these private funds tick their regulatory boxes and publish the names in the gazettes, they wash their hands of the cash. The law states that these long-term unclaimed assets must be transferred over to the state’s Guardian’s Fund, administered by the Master of the High Court, for safekeeping.

On paper, this sounds like a victory. Your money is out of corporate hands and safely protected by the state. But let’s strip away the legal jargon and look at the boots-on-the-ground reality for an ordinary Namibian consumer. Moving over N$ 121 million from private corporate accounts into a government institutional vault isn't a solution—it is simply shifting the problem from corporate apathy to a state-sponsored bureaucratic black hole.

We have jumped straight out of the frying pan and into the fire.

If you thought dealing with a private insurance company involved too much red tape, try navigating an understaffed, heavily centralised government office in Windhoek. Imagine an elderly lady living in a remote village in the Kunene region. She finds out through word of mouth that her late husband's name was publicised, and that his life savings are now sitting with the Master of the High Court.

What happens next? She cannot simply log onto a modern, digital portal to submit her identity documents. She cannot call a quick, reliable customer service helpline to check the status of her claim. Instead, she is sucked into an archaic, paper-based administrative machine. She has to travel hundreds of kilometres, secure certified copies of death certificates, marriage certificates, and old employment records, and then wait months—sometimes years—for a state system to process a payout that should have been hers a decade ago.

By moving these funds to the High Court without modernising the way people can claim them, we are effectively locking the wealth of our most vulnerable citizens behind an unscalable wall of analogue bureaucracy.

The NCPG Roadmap for Real Financial Justice

This passive, cold form of governance must be reined in. The state is currently acting as a passive storage unit for the public's missing wealth when it should be acting as a proactive consumer champion. If our government can track down citizens when it is time to collect taxes, register voters, or issue national documents, why can we not use that exact same database integration to reunite people with their inheritance?

The Namibia Consumer Protection Group is demanding immediate structural changes to return this wealth to the Namibian economy and into the pockets of our families:

We Need a Centralised, Publicly Searchable Portal: The Ministry of Justice and NAMFISA must take this data out of dusty PDFs and put it into a secure, free online registry. Every Namibian should be able to type in their national ID number or a relative's name on a mobile phone to see instantly if they are owed money.
Decentralised Regional Access Points: Namibians should not have to travel to Windhoek to claim what is rightfully theirs. Magistrate courts and regional offices across all 14 regions must be equipped with dedicated desks to help elderly and rural citizens file their unclaimed money applications seamlessly.
Mandatory Proactive Data-Matching: The Master of the High Court and the Ministry of Home Affairs must establish an active data-matching initiative. Cross-reference the names on that gazette list with the national population registry. If a claimant has passed away, actively find their registered dependents.

Your telephone number belongs to you, your data belongs to you, and your pension definitely belongs to you. Let us stop letting financial institutions and state archives treat consumer capital as an idle financial buffer.

If you think your name or a relative's name might be on these lists, do not let it slide. Reach out, ask questions, and demand what is rightfully yours.

What are your thoughts? Have you or your family members ever tried to claim an old pension benefit or deal with the Guardian’s Fund at the Master of the High Court? What was your experience with the paperwork and the waiting times? Let’s talk about it in the comments below!

The Guardian’s Fund: How it Works and How to Claim

2026-05-06T10:25:00.000+02:00

In Namibia, there is a large amount of money held in a special account called the Guardian’s Fund. This money does not belong to the government; it belongs to private individuals. Managed by the Master of the High Court, the fund acts as a safe storage space for money that cannot be paid out immediately.

Why is money put into the fund?

Money is usually transferred here to protect people who cannot manage it themselves or when the rightful owner cannot be found. Common reasons include:

Inheritances for Minors: Children under 18 cannot legally receive large sums of money directly. The fund holds it until they become adults.
Deceased Estates: If someone dies and their heirs haven't claimed their inheritance yet.
Untraceable Owners: If the person entitled to the money cannot be located.
Legal Delays: If there is a dispute or paperwork issue that stops a payment.

Is it government money?

No. This is a common misunderstanding. The State is only a "babysitter" for these funds. The money remains private property, and the government's only job is to keep it safe until the correct person proves it belongs to them.

The Challenge: A System That Waits

The biggest hurdle is that the Guardian’s Fund does not look for you. It does not send reminders, advertise names, or call people to tell them they have money waiting. It simply waits for you to start the process.

Because of this, many people suffer financial hardship while money that is rightfully theirs sits untouched for years.

How to Claim

The process is strict to prevent fraud, but it is not meant to be a barrier. To get your money, you must:

Prove your identity (valid ID documents).
Provide bank details that can be verified.
Show legal proof that you are entitled to the funds.

Why are there delays? If your paperwork is perfect, claims are usually paid out within days. Delays almost always happen because of:

Missing documents.
Outdated or incorrect information.
Names on IDs not matching the records in the fund.

The Bottom Line

The Guardian’s Fund isn't a "bureaucratic trap"—it’s a legal filter. It preserves your money so no one else can take it. However, the responsibility is on you to be aware of your rights and follow through with the paperwork to claim what is yours.

The Guardian’s Fund: A System That Waits

2026-05-06T09:59:00.001+02:00

In Namibia, there is a quiet institution that holds millions of dollars belonging not to the State, but to its people. It does not advertise itself loudly, nor does it actively seek out those to whom the money belongs. It simply exists, functioning in the background of the legal system, holding funds in trust until the rightful owners come forward. This is the Guardian’s Fund, administered by the Master of the High Court.

At its core, the Guardian’s Fund is neither complex nor mysterious. It is a mechanism of protection. When money cannot immediately be paid out—whether due to legal uncertainty, the absence of a claimant, or the vulnerability of a beneficiary—it is transferred into this fund. The intention is straightforward: to preserve the financial interests of individuals until such time as those interests can be lawfully realised.

Money typically finds its way into the Guardian’s Fund under predictable circumstances. The most common is through deceased estates, where an inheritance has not yet been claimed or where the beneficiary is not in a position to receive it. In cases involving minors, the law does not permit direct payment, and so the funds are held until the child reaches legal age or until a guardian is properly authorised. There are also instances where beneficiaries cannot be traced, or where administrative processes stall, leaving funds in a state of suspension. In each of these scenarios, the State intervenes not to appropriate the money, but to hold it.

This distinction is critical. A persistent misconception in public discourse is that money held in the Guardian’s Fund somehow becomes government property. It does not. The State acts merely as custodian. The funds remain the private property of the individuals entitled to them, and the role of the Master is to ensure that they are released only when the legal requirements have been satisfied.

The process of claiming from the Guardian’s Fund reflects this legal caution. It is not designed to be obstructive, but it is uncompromising. A claimant must establish identity, provide verifiable banking details, and demonstrate entitlement to the funds. These requirements are not arbitrary; they are safeguards against fraud, misdirection, and error. However, they also introduce a level of rigidity that can be unforgiving to those who are unprepared or uninformed.

It is here that the real challenge emerges. The Guardian’s Fund does not fail because of inefficiency or lack of capacity. Rather, it exposes a broader gap between systems and citizens. Many individuals remain unaware that funds exist in their names. Others encounter the process, begin to engage with it, but fail to complete it due to missing documentation or misunderstandings. The system, by design, does not pursue them. It does not send reminders or initiate outreach. It waits.

This waiting is both a strength and a weakness. On the one hand, it ensures that funds are preserved indefinitely, protected from misuse or premature distribution. On the other, it means that money can remain unclaimed for years, even decades, while the individuals to whom it belongs face financial hardship. The existence of the fund, therefore, highlights not only a legal mechanism, but a structural disconnect—one in which access to resources is contingent not merely on entitlement, but on awareness and administrative follow-through.

The efficiency of the system, when engaged correctly, is often underestimated. Where documentation is complete and accurate, claims can be processed within a matter of days. Delays, contrary to popular belief, are seldom arbitrary. They arise from inconsistencies in records, outdated information, or incomplete submissions. In this sense, the Guardian’s Fund operates less as a bureaucratic obstacle and more as a legal filter, separating valid claims from those that cannot yet be substantiated.

Ultimately, the Guardian’s Fund serves as a reflection of a broader reality within Namibia. The issue is not the absence of resources, but the mechanisms through which those resources are accessed. The fund holds money that is legally owned, yet practically out of reach for many. Bridging this gap requires more than procedural compliance; it requires awareness, persistence, and a clear understanding of how the system operates.

The Guardian’s Fund does not create opportunity, nor does it deny it. It simply preserves it. Whether that opportunity is realised depends entirely on whether those entitled to it step forward, equipped with the knowledge and determination to claim what is already theirs.

Andimba, the Godfather Who Carried Light - Namibia Bedtime Series Episode 4

2026-04-19T17:01:00.001+02:00

Junior, my boy, come closer. Get comfortable under your blanket. Tonight’s story is about someone very special — someone I call your godfather, even though he left this world before you arrived. His name was Andimba Toivo ya Toivo, and he was one of the bravest men Namibia has ever known. But this story isn’t only about bravery. It’s about kindness, forgiveness, and how a heart can stay warm even when the world tries to make it cold.

Before you were even three months old, a woman named Vicky, the wife of Andimba Toivo ya Toivo, came to see you. She brought you a Namibian present — a cubed box for you to match pieces into — and she rubbed money under your tiny nose.

That’s an Owambo tradition, a blessing to say:

“May this child never struggle. May he always know abundance.”

Andimba wasn’t there in person, but his spirit was. That’s why I call him your godfather — because his family blessed you first, and because his life is a lesson worth carrying.

Long before you were born, Andimba was a young boy in the north. He herded cattle, ran barefoot through the dust, and listened to the elders tell stories under the stars — just like you’re listening now. He loved his people so much that he wanted them to be free.

Free to speak.
Free to learn.
Free to dream.

But in those days, freedom was not something everyone was allowed to have.

One day, because he spoke up for what was right, Andimba was taken far away to a place called Robben Island. It was a hard place — cold, windy, full of stones that prisoners had to break with their hands. Andimba stayed there for 16 years. Sixteen birthdays, sixteen Christmases and sixteen years of waking up and seeing the same grey walls.

If you were there, Junior, you might have asked him:

“Uncle Andimba, aren’t you angry?”

And maybe he would have smiled his quiet smile and said:

“Anger is heavy. I must stay light so I can go home.”

Every morning, the guards tried to make him feel small. Every night, the cold tried to make him lose hope. But Andimba had a secret. He carried Namibia in his heart. He remembered the smell of mahangu cooking. He remembered the sound of children laughing. He remembered the warm hands of his mother. He remembered the songs of his people.And he told himself like this:

“One day, I will go home. And when I do, I will not carry anger with me. I will carry peace.”

After many years, the gates finally opened. Andimba walked out — thinner, older, but still standing tall. People expected him to shout. To blame. To demand revenge. But he didn’t. He looked at the world with calm eyes and said: “We must build, not break. We must forgive, not fight.” Junior, imagine that. Sixteen years taken from him — and he still chose peace.

When he returned home, he worked to build a Namibia where children like you could grow up safe, curious, and free. He believed that freedom is not complete unless it is shared. He believed that forgiveness is stronger than anger. He believed that a nation is a family, and families must care for one another. And that is the gift he left for you. Not a toy. Not money. But a story — a story of a man who refused to let darkness win.

So tonight, as you close your eyes, remember your godfather Andimba. Remember that he walked through storms but kept his heart warm. Remember that he chose peace even when he had every reason to be angry. Remember that you carry a blessing from his family — the blessing of abundance, courage, and kindness.

And maybe, just maybe, you can whisper a promise:

“I will grow up brave.

I will grow up kind.

I will grow up with a heart that stays light.”

Goodnight, Junior. Sleep well under the same stars that once shone over your godfather. His story is now yours.