Namibia's Godfathers

Long ago, when Daddy Milton lived in a faraway city called Paris, he worked in a tall building where people from many nations came together to talk about building a better world. He was young, curious, and always ready to help — the kind of person who notices things others walk past. One morning, the Namibian Embassy held a special event near the Arc de Triomphe, a place where the streets curve like the spokes of a giant wheel. Daddy Milton volunteered to stand outside and guide the important visitors so none of them would get lost in the maze of Paris. As he stood there, watching the taxis glide by, he saw a man step out of one — a man dressed so sharply he looked like he had been ironed by angels. But something was wrong. His face was tight with worry. Daddy Milton walked up to him and said, “Is everything alright, Mr da Costa?” The man sighed. “I’ve lost my tie‑pin,” he said. “A gift. Very important.” He pointed to where he had stepped out of the taxi. But Paris is a city where peop...

Junior, my boy, come closer. Not too close — just close enough so you can feel the warmth of the fire on your shins and the cool night on your back. That is how your great‑grandfathers told stories: half in the world of people, half in the world of spirits. Tonight is olupale. The time when the fire burns low, the shadows grow long, and the ancestors lean in to whisper, “Trust in us.” You see, long before you were born, long before even your father was a thought in the wind, Namibia had men and women who worked with hands that never complained. Some worked for great men like Dr. Frans Indongo, in the early days when the country was still learning its own heartbeat. These workers — your godfathers and godmothers — earned their money the hard way. And because they were wise, they said: “Let my wife be safe. Let my children be safe. Let my money rest in a Beneficiary Trust, so that even when I am gone, my fire will still warm them.” That was the promise. A promise made in sweat, sealed in...

Junior, lie however you want — upside down, sideways, legs in the air — this story works in every direction. Because tonight’s godfather didn’t stand still either. He climbed. This is the story of Jonathan Sam, the boy who saw the big picture before anyone else did. Chapter: The Ladder That Reached the Future Once upon a time, long before you were born, your dad was a skinny matric boy at David Bezuidenhout High School. It was 1987, and Namibia was still called SWA by the people who claimed to own it. But the children — oh, the children — they already knew the truth. They knew the land belonged to its people. Your dad and his friends were rehearsing a strange, modernistic play. Not the kind with kings and queens. No. This one was about begging for help, about standing up, about fighting the Owners of the Land with nothing but voices, courage, and imagination. And in the middle of it all was your dad’s girlfriend, Collette — the lead actress, fierce and brave. But this story isn’t about...

My mother was a teacher — and a singer, pianist, dancer, a woman who could move between instruments the way some people move between breaths. Piano, organ, flute, harmonica, penny whistle… and she could imitate every Elvis Presley dance move with a smile that filled a room. When she passed away and I was only five, the music went quiet. I went to live with my grandmother. She understood that music helped me remember, so she taught herself the pan flute, the instrument made famous by Gheorghe Zamfir. I enjoyed it, but I still couldn’t hear the passion. The notes were there, but the feeling was missing — like reading a book without understanding the story. Fast‑forward to 2004.   I’m in Rehoboth.   And then comes Gonny Klazen. He had heard I was a “computer nerd,” so he called me over to look at his system. I expected guitars, keyboards, microphones — a room full of instruments. But no.   Just a computer.   One musician recorded at a time.   Layer by layer.  ...

Once upon a time — not too far from Windhoek, not too far from Lüderitz, and not too far from the place where dreams wait for children to fall asleep — there lived a young university student named Milton. Milton was clever, curious, and always asking why. He asked why the sky was blue, why people argued, and why grown-ups sometimes forgot how to dream. One day, a man appeared in Milton’s life like a gust of theatre smoke. His name was Freddie Philander, a director who loved stories so much he sometimes forgot to wear clothes on stage — but that’s a story for grown-ups, not bedtime. Freddie had wild ideas, loud laughter, and a heart that beat like a drum calling people to listen. He looked at Milton and said: “You. Yes, you. Come play a drunk married man who is losing his house.” Milton blinked. He wasn’t drunk. He wasn’t married. And he certainly wasn’t losing a house. But Freddie didn’t care about that. Freddie cared about truth, and stories, and teaching children that the world could...