Gwen Lister reflects on The Namibian’s 40-year journey and newsroom memories

Gwen Lister, Windhoek, 29 August

ONCE upon a time in another century, 1985 to be precise, we started a newspaper called The Namibian. 

And when we thought of a slogan, we came up with ‘Bringing Africa South’. Mainly to claim that what was then named after a direction, namely South West Africa, would one day be part of the continent and not under the control of a white regime. And it appears we did that, eventually, and with something of a vengeance it may seem today.

After Independence in 1990 we thought it was time to come up with something new, and soon ‘Telling It Like It Is’ became our motto, which quickly resonated around the country, later we adapted it to ‘Still Telling It Like It Is’, which still applies today.

On the milestone of 40 years, there’s so much to remember. It’s also an opportunity to pay tribute to those who’ve made it all possible, both past and present. There are memories both good and bad, but I think it’s appropriate on this occasion not to dwell on the history or the hardships of the past, but instead to recall some of the more lighthearted moments and the unique characters who made The Namibian their home away from home.

I often think fondly – and sometimes not so fondly – about many of the staff members who served the newspaper over the years.

From the eighties I remember individuals like Chris Shipanga, Ochrissa as I called him, and he in turn coined the phrase ‘Comrade Editor’. 

Chris was the bane of my life on deadline. I can still see him looking at me nervously, his eyes just visible over the top of our then very unwieldy computer, assuring me he was about to hit ‘send’ on his story for the front page as the printers were breathing down my neck that the front page was due and we’d be penalised if it wasn’t there soon. As I was being arrested in 1988 I also recall urging Chris to grab the camera and get a shot of me being led to the police vehicle, and couldn’t help laughing even at such a tense time at the sight of Chris squatting in the bushes trying to get a good pic as I took my time getting into the police vehicle so that he could do so. Only later we learned it was mission unsuccessful as there was no film in the camera at the time.

I remember reporter Mbatjiua Ngavirue disappearing for days into the bowels of Katutura with one of our vehicles, only for him to come up with the clearly fictitious excuse later that he’d been hijacked by the notorious Red Eye Gang. 

I recall Sara Johannes, or Ku Sara as she was known, trying to keep Frans Indongo from assaulting me after we labelled him ‘Mampara of the Week’, for a reason I can’t quite remember right now. There were risks and threats at every turn, and we’d all wait with bated breath on deadline as Dave Smuts would come by after work to look over the front page and tell us if we could go ahead, or not, with our often controversial news stories. The threats of a shutdown were very real back then.

And for those of you who weren’t even born in the 80s, it was a time of landlines and libraries. No cellphones and no Google, and certainly no ChatGPT or AI, so reporters would have to head off to the public library if research was needed, meet people or their sources face to face, and learn to write properly. 

I remember staff threatening to go on strike because very few of our reporters had vehicle licences and so I bought a pink scooter for them to use until they were able to drive a car. While they saw the scooter as an insult, they still used it. I do recall someone like Conrad Angula regaling us with stories of him and Daoud Vries or Rajah Munamava trying to balance bottles as they rode it after an evening visit to the local shebeen.

I remember the eyes of Golo and Dudley and John Liebenberg, among others, gleaming as they tried to sneak in beers without me seeing them as the newspaper production was ending for the day. ‘Greenies’ they called them, because we’d called for a ban on Namibia Breweries for having beaten workers and using scab labour during a strike and because the late Werner List called me the ‘Gaddafi of journalism’ in Namibia. 

I remember reporter Marenga ua Marenga disappearing with his camera and a bottle of wine from my fridge, never to be seen again. Another staff member, whose name shall not be mentioned, had to be taken to task for smoking marijuana during working hours, and the smell would sometimes waft through the front office even as wide-eyed and shocked diplomats came to pay courtesy calls.

David Lush, ‘Shirumbu’ as he was called by residents of Katutura, as he jogged before work in the mornings, neighbourhood dogs snapping at his heels. Oswald Shivute, in Oshakati, who would slaughter a goat when any of our team went up there, and much to the horror of someone like David, who was a vegetarian, a strange species of human not known about in those parts back then. 

Daoud Vries, who made me dance at a staff function, which I always resisted doing because I felt it was both inappropriate and bad luck. In the early hours of that morning, they firebombed our offices again. How angry our readers would be in various parts of the country when the newspaper was late due either to printing deadlines missed, vehicles breaking down en route, or simply because security forces were preventing delivery.

There was always time for laughter too, in between the tears and the torture of bringing out a newspaper in an unfree era. Neither should we forget the dedication of so many and those who served the paper with such loyalty over the years. 

After independence, a bigger team with new faces. Jean came on board as news editor and her desk space was something for the history books. During the Caprivi insurrection when we reported on torture of some of the dissidents, we were warned the police might come to confiscate photographs. 

And so Jean hid a pic of the badly scarred back of one of the victims in her pile of papers, and it was never found again. By the way, I can hardly talk. Late Niko Bessinger, former tourism minister, declared my office an environmental hazard. Eric Boois, who was annoyed with me at the time for one or other reason, called me in the early hours of the morning – I always answered my landline phone, at whatever time, in case it was a story – to say he’d named his dog after me. 

He thought I’d be upset, but as a dog person myself, I was not as insulted as he thought I might be. He was flabbergasted when I thanked him for the honour. Tileni Mongudhi, who started to come to work wearing a hard hat, because he said he was being crapped on all the time. I also think of members of the informal sector, the vendors, many of who made a good living from the sale of newspapers. 

How I wish it could still be so today at a time when print is at risk. Ulla, who was brought on board from a corporate background to adapt our struggle culture to a new dispensation, whose patience was sorely tested at times with the informal setup at the newspaper and egos that resisted change. 

But in time what was once just a newspaper expanded to become a group under the umbrella of the Namibia Media Trust, with a printing press, WordPress, Desert Radio and the NMT Media Foundation and a more diverse team than ever before, but good journalism in service of the people still lies at the core of what it is all about.

It was always heartwarming to see how many of our staff went from strength to strength in their careers after they left the newspaper, often excelling in other areas, even though I was often, but not always, sad to see them go. From selling newspapers at the coast, Christof Maletsky went on to later become news editor and is now the big chief at another media establishment. 

I remember Zoe as a young woman who was doing layout in our advertising department, telling me she wanted to become a reporter, and she quickly learned the ropes, becoming editor of the Weekender, then going on to head up the Media Institute of Southern Africa, and today, glad to say, she’s back with us again heading up the NMT Media Foundation.

I could keep you busy all day with anecdotes, but time is not on our side.

So, the lighthearted moments aside, The Namibian hit the streets with a mission in mind on August 30, 1985. First was to free the country from the yoke of colonialism, and I think we can say we helped do that by exposing what was happening under the jackboot of apartheid and speaking truth to power, even as we were threatened, banned, jailed and firebombed and reviled by most whites. 

We aimed to be the voice of the voiceless people of Namibia, and also to instill the importance of a free and independent press, and we were often dubbed ‘the peoples paper’. We were rewarded, after emerging from a draconian era, when our Independence Constitution guaranteed this right. Back then it was all about print, and today The Namibian has expanded to include online and radio. 

Much of The Namibian’s founding ethos that I’ve just mentioned still holds true today, even in a multi-media environment. To Tangeni and the current, as well as future staff of The Namibian, let’s keep it that way and continue to serve the people first and foremost because it is their support, first and foremost, which has kept us alive and kicking for four decades.

We tend to always focus on editorial, because news is at our heart. But my thanks includes staff, past and present, in all departments, like distribution, advertising, finance, who keep the wheels rolling and enable the news team to do their job. And finally, because there are those who are no longer with us, a thought for those we’ve lost along the way.

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