Does Namibia Need a Secretary of War?

There is something deeply unsettling about the title “Secretary of War”, and not in the healthy “let us reflect on humanity” way. Or is it “Secretary for War”?

Either option sounds like someone introducing themselves as a professional arsonist at a Sunday afternoon braai. You do not gasp. You just pause long enough to wonder whether this person is joking. You don’t call the police. You just move your drink further away from the fire.

Now yes, historically speaking, the title existed.

Borders were redrawn and empires were built. People marched off to fight other people who appeared human but prayed facing a slightly different building. Fine. History is messy and museums exist for a reason.

But none of that explains why, in the modern world of wellness apps reminding us to hydrate, the word “war” would still be mentioned in an official government structure.

This brings us closer to home, before anyone clears their throat and starts drafting a “friendly reminder” to the media about writing responsibly on matters involving powerful friends. Namibia talks too much about war as well.

Here in Namibia, war has become a visual metaphor we use for everything except actual combat.

We have a ‘War on Poverty’, a ‘War on Hunger’, on drugs, and even on corruption. We are currently in a ‘War on Bad Driving’. At this point, if a stray dog bites someone in Katutura, we will have a multi-sectoral ‘War on Pavement Special Canine Aggression’.

So, the obvious question arises: what exactly would a secretary or minister of war be doing all day in 2026 in Namibia?

Let us imagine the absurd. Picture the office.

The plaque on the door reads: Ministry of Combating Negative Socio-Economic Vices and General Unhappiness (MCNSEVGU). Inside, the portraits of Namibia’s former leaders stare down in polite silence behind the main table, as if wondering WTFITAA.

The minister flips through files like a general surveying battle plans, except, instead of troop movements, there are colourful pie charts, stakeholder engagement reports and a memo titled ‘Urgent: War on Hunger – Drought Relief Food Stolen by Logistics Battalion’.

Because this is what usually happens when Namibia declares a ‘war’ on something.

We don’t buy ammunition; we book conference rooms. Workshops are scheduled for Swakopmund because “strategic thinking requires sea air”. Mass prayer rallies are organised at Sam Nujoma Stadium to ask for divine intervention against unemployment.

Namibia is at war, and the primary weapons are PowerPoint slides and a 120-page presentation delivered by a United Nations expert with an expensive accent. The only casualties are the per diems and the patience of the taxpayer.

And yet, the word ‘war’ refuses to leave the building.

It lingers because it sounds serious. It sounds decisive. It sounds like something irreversible is about to happen.

But “War” does not suggest a task team that will report back in eighteen months with a “preliminary scoping study”. War suggests urgency. It suggests that someone, somewhere, is about to be very uncomfortable.

Which is exactly why the idea is so tempting.

Imagine if Namibia actually leaned into it. Fully.

Perhaps renaming our ministries as “War Ministries” would mean that excuses would no longer stand, timelines would be shortened to a week and failure would be punished harsher than a reshuffle rumour.

If that were the case, then we aren’t facing a governance problem; we are facing a missed naming opportunity.

Slogans would change from ‘Poverty Alleviation’ to ‘The Total Annihilation of Poverty’.

The minister would wake up every day knowing that the enemy is the lack of housing, and that the enemy does not respect procurement delays or the familiar, tired phrase “there are no funds available”.

Targets would be clear. Progress would be visible from space. Retreat would not be rebranded as “lessons learned and action resumed”.

If the ‘War on Potholes’ were real, we wouldn’t just put a yellow cone near the crater in the road; we would treat that pothole like an invading paratrooper and eliminate it before sunrise.

But naturally, Namibia being Namibia, we would still localise the concept. Our wars would still be incredibly polite. Frontline briefings would still start forty-five minutes late because the chief of staff was stuck in traffic.

But the tone would shift. A war ministry cannot spend five years “consulting stakeholders” while the problem grows legs, gets married and sends its children to the same expensive private schools as the stakeholders.

Which brings us back to the absurd beauty of the title itself. Secretary of War. It sounds terrifying. It sounds like someone who should not be losing files or blaming a broken printer.

And that is exactly why the phrase exposes the gap between how seriously we speak and how gently we act.

So no, Namibia probably does not need a Secretary of War in the traditional sense. We have enough uniforms.

What we need is the courage to stop borrowing the language of the battlefield while marching to the pace of a turtle.

Because war, real or metaphorical, is not about the title on the door. It is about the intent and the follow-through.

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