I Demand the Terms and Conditions for 2026

It feels like we do not have a choice but to enter 2026. Although, I am asking for the terms and conditions before I unlock the door.

I have lived through too many years where I wished I had read the fine print, and quite frankly I am not taking any more chances.

I will never forget what happened in 2020. That year did not even have fine print. It had a surprise sticker slapped on the bumper and then drove us all straight off a cliff.

Even this current year we are wrapping up came with glossy brochures and fake promises, and we jumped in head first like children at the municipal swimming pool on the first day of summer. Look where that got us.

I saw a video clip where another human demanded the paperwork for next year, and I agreed immediately. We all deserve to see the paperwork before we commit to another twelve-month subscription.

I am not asking for much. I just want a simple document, preferably in a PDF, outlining exactly what emotional and financial damage I am expected to endure. It can even be sent on WhatsApp.

On second thought, because this is Namibia, I demand the 2026 contract printed in triplicate, taken to the police station and stamped by a commissioner of oaths. I need that official ink. I want the stamp that says ‘Certified True Copy of the Original Promise’.

When things go wrong in July, I want to pull out the file and remind the universe that we had a binding agreement. We cannot keep doing this thing where we hope for the best. Hope is not a strategy, especially when you are trying to survive the Windhoek rental market.

The first clause I need is the financial disclaimer. I want to know if the new year comes with financial peace or if I should hand over my wallet now and get it over with. I need that clarified in Namibia dollars, not vague economic forecasts. I also need to know if the price of a kapana portion will remain reasonable or if we should start financing our salsa cravings with a bank loan.

Then we have the weather clause, which honestly feels like a breach of contract every year. I am tired of the unpredictability. Will it rain or not? I need a schedule. I need to know if October will be the kind of hot where the Oshakati sand melts the glue off the cheap soles of my shoes.

We must also discuss the emotional stability clause. I need to know exactly how many times I am legally allowed to disappear from everyone’s life without being reported missing. In Namibia, we call this going to the farm, but we all know it is really code for running away from adult responsibilities.

Let us talk about relationships.

I want full disclosure in the area of friends. Can we apply for new ones next year? The ones I have entertained so far have turned me into a mental case and a part-time alcoholic.

As for romance, I am not entering a new year without an emotional safety briefing. I want to know if the person I meet in December is fit for a twelve-month relationship.

The most important part of this proposed contract is the refund policy.

These years always come with a strict no-refund rule and it feels like a scam.

You get into April and realise the year is a lemon so dry it cannot make lemon juice. I want an opt-out clause. If I reach June and the vibe is off, or if petrol and electricity prices go up three times in one year, I want the right to step out.

Until I see the paperwork, until I see the stamped affidavit promising rainfall, financial stability and a break from black tax and wedding contributions, I am not moving.

I will be right here, waiting. You cannot trick us into another year with fireworks and a countdown.

In short, I want to speak to the manager of the year.

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