How Our Police Lost the Plot and Became Roadblock Bouncers

You know, it used to mean something to say, “I’m calling the police.”

It came with weight. Urgency. A sense that help was on the way. Maybe late, maybe in a second-hand bakkie with a bad clutch, but on the way, nonetheless.

These days? Saying you’re calling the cops feels about as reassuring as threatening to tell the teacher in a school where the teacher is busy playing cards with the SRC members.

We’ve entered an era where the Namibian Police have somehow rebranded themselves, quietly but completely, into what can only be described as the Ministry of Roadblocks and Breathalysers. Policing has been reduced to blowing into machines and squinting at licence discs through dusty sunglasses. The men and women we once expected to protect us from actual criminals are now out here profiling battered taxis, looking for cracked windscreens like it’s a national emergency.

If you’re wondering why we rarely see cops walking around in neighborhoods anymore, talking to people, making their presence known to would-be criminals, it’s simple: there’s no money in that. No instant gratification. Just sweaty boots and paperwork. But put them next to a tarred road on payday weekend and suddenly there’s a full tactical unit standing under a broken gazebo, armed with clipboards and breathalysers like the crime they’re trying to stop is the spirit of Johnnie Walker himself.

But let’s say, just for laughs, that you do experience an actual crime. A break-in, maybe. Or your cousin got mugged in front of witnesses. You do the right thing. You go report a case. And what do they tell you? “Sorry, we don’t have transport.” Or worse: “Come back tomorrow.” Now imagine being the victim and the one expected to figure out police logistics. That’s not justice. That’s DIY trauma recovery.

And let’s not even get started on rural policing. Imagine a police station sitting right in the middle of a bunch of villages where no one owns a car. A crime happens. The victim walks three kilometres – bleeding, limping or in shock – to go report it. And what do the officers on duty say? “Wait for tomorrow, the one with the bakkie went to Ondangwa.”

What kind of service is that? Why can’t they walk to the scene like the citizen just did? What are you telling me here? That you, in uniform, are above getting to your feet while the only reason you even have a job just hobbled down a gravel road asking for help? Are you lazy or just flat-out disrespectful?

And when they do finally show up, oh, they show up alright. In a 16-seater minibus, packed tighter than a taxi to Soweto Market. They pour out like a theatre group performing a play called ‘Operation Intimidation’. Helmets on, chests puffed, eyes scanning for defiance. You’d think they were hunting terrorists, not responding to a noise complaint. And if you dare speak English too well, they switch to street slang like, “Nxa, this one thinks he’s too educated, let’s teach him manners.”

It’s got to the point where people aren’t afraid of criminals anymore. They’re afraid of cops. And why wouldn’t they be? The only consistent thing about the police these days is how consistently they escalate situations. You call them for help, and they leave you needing a lawyer. Meanwhile, they exchange ‘awe groote’s with those they met at the holding cells. How are they friendlier with frequent visitors to correctional facilities than with those yet to cross the line?

But, let’s be honest. The police aren’t known for solving crimes. They’re known for arriving late, breaking stuff and leaving you more confused than when you called. They’re not feared for their investigative brilliance or respected for their track record. No. They’re known for roadblocks, breathalysers and having a higher chance of damaging your vehicle than your street mechanic.

And don’t you dare film them doing nonsense. That’s when they really show teeth. Suddenly it’s obstructing justice, which apparently includes having a working phone and a sense of accountability. Ask for a name or badge number, and suddenly no one remembers who trained them. Everyone becomes Sergeant I-Don’t-Have-To-Tell-You.

By the way, please tell me why on earth these roadblock security guards always ask, “Where are you headed to?” What if I am on the way to see his girlfriend, knowing that he is at the roadblock wasting taxpayers’ money? What crimes have they solved by asking people where they are going? Yeses man!

We don’t need cops who can rap in Katutura slang and puff their chests at teenagers. We need officers who understand that protecting a community is more than standing around waiting for drivers to forget to renew their licence disc. We need patrols, not parades. Investigations, not intimidation. Prevention, not punishment. We need shift controllers who understand that the criminals are in the riverbeds and on street corners – not on the roads.

But until then, we are clearly on our own.

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