That Which Eats the Bean Must Be Inside the Bean: Namibia’s Male Problem

There’s an old Namibian saying that goes, “That which eats the bean, is certainly inside the bean.”

Wise words. It’s one of those sayings you hear and think, “Yah, our forefathers were really onto something.”

The question of today is what’s eating Namibian men? Is it something crawling around inside, chewing, sipping and making a proper mince of the whole system?

Let’s start with the horror question that headlines every other newspaper: what drives men to rape?

Every panel discussion, every campaign, every glossy non-governmental organisation poster asks this question. Yet, no one seems to have an answer. But if we apply the bean philosophy, the answer is clear: whatever is chewing on men’s brains is already inside the bean.

Maybe it’s entitlement. As one lady at Tsumeb asked “ohura po oviyoze hapo?”

Translation: Is it hura or yoze?

Whatever it is, it’s homegrown, not imported. It’s not like Hardap Couriers delivers rape tendencies with the monthly Takealot parcel. It’s already there in the bean, and until we face that, we’re just circling around in workshops eating muffins and nodding politely.

Now, let’s move on to the one thing that fuels half the stories in The Namibian’s crime section: alcohol and drugs. The eternal question is, what drives Namibian men to drink until they forget their own date of birth?

According to our bean theory, the answer is not Namibia Breweries, and it’s definitely not your cousin who always knows a guy who “makes lekker tombo”.

No, my friends. It’s something inside the bean. Something gnawing at the male psyche that says, “The best way to solve a problem is to buy another round or another ‘zol’”.

You can take a man out of the shebeen, but you can’t take the shebeen out of the man. They don’t drink because Windhoek Lager tastes like German engineering. They do it because the bean inside insists on being soaked in 4.5% alcohol.

Speaking of being soaked, let’s talk about our roads. Every Monday, the traffic updates sound like war bulletins.

Car overturned at Otjiwarongo. Minibus collides with donkey near Outjo. Drunk driver does Olympic gymnastics with his Corolla at Outapi.

And everyone asks, “What drives Namibian men to drive like they are auditioning for ‘Fast and Furious: Khomas Edition’?” Again, let’s dust off our proverb. It’s the bean, my friends. It’s not the Toyota Stout’s fault, nor the donkey’s. It’s that voice inside the bean that says, “Bru, just overtake here, blind corner or not. What could go wrong?” or “Owatila oku sa?” And then boom, headline news.

If beans could talk, ours would be screaming.

But it doesn’t stop there. Let’s also ask: what drives Namibian men to beat up their partners like it’s ‘Fight Club’? Surely not NBC content, surely not poverty alone, surely not the price of petrol. No. The bean strikes again. There’s something deep inside, something rotten, that insists violence proves manhood.

I can hear an ex-People’s Liberation Army of Namibia fighter screaming: “Some of us died for this country so that our women will be protected from harm”. And then he goes home and breaks his own woman’s jaw with a brick. Our forefathers didn’t fight colonialism for us to turn around and fight our girlfriends. Yet here we are, men busy doing WWE at Katutura while the rest of the world moves on.

And let’s not ignore the small daily behaviours that show the bean’s work.

Why do Namibian men queue at the ATM like they are solving the national budget? Why do we insist on wearing socks with sandals to weddings? Why do we clap loudly when the plane lands as if we were the ones flying it? The bean is speaking, ladies and gentlemen. The bean is eating us alive.

Now, before we get too depressed, let’s accept the truth: no one has the actual answers. Every time a new report comes out, it says the same thing: “More research is needed.” Translation: we have no clue but the directorate has a budget and we can’t return it to the treasury. Meanwhile, men keep acting like beans left too long in the pot, soft on the outside but still hard and bitter on the inside.

I wonder is men’s brains are like oshingali or more like crunchy peanut butter? Should we round-up a few and stick cameras inside the skulls to analyse whatever is left?

So maybe it’s time we stop pretending we know what we’re doing and just admit we need drastic measures.

The state has declared emergencies for floods, droughts and foot-and-mouth disease before. Why not declare a state of emergency for Namibian men’s beans?

A full-on psychological emergency. Call in the experts, bring the priests, summon the traditional healers – and maybe those fake pastors from old Zaire.

Because, clearly, whatever is eating our beans is not something we can handle with another ‘Men’s Conference’ where people just sit around and talk about polygamy.

Until that happens, let us laugh at ourselves, because crying won’t help. And as for the women, I am coming for you soon. What the hell is going on with you lot these days? Huh?

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