The Kierie Cartel Nobody Sees

We’re talking about those Angolan children selling wooden utensils and medieval brain-rearrangement sticks on Namibian streets.

Yes, those tiny merchants who know their target market better than most political parties. They show up with perfectly identical spoons and handcrafted ‘don’t-mess-with-me’ sticks called ‘ombani’ or ‘kierie’.

Meanwhile, the rest of us pretend to care online while doing absolutely nothing offline. This is the classic example of Namibian bravery.

Let’s start with the obvious. Everyone swears they’re ‘concerned’ about the plight of these children. The reality is that ‘concerned’ is the national sport.

We’ve also got the Amoomo clique doing ‘bollemakiesie’ on social media so fast you’d swear Facebook likes are a constitutional right.

They post very helpful comments like “this is unacceptable” and “the authorities must act”, but not one of them seems to know who these authorities are. I mean, they could try walking into a ministry and talking to someone.

They could track where these children actually come from. Or, a revolutionary thought, they could help. But that’s too practical.

They limit their activism to social media captions. Namibia’s version of ‘doing something’ is typing furiously, pressing send, nodding, then moving on to reels of cats speaking with an Mbalantu accent.

Now let’s talk about the wooden weapons. These children are selling brain-damage sticks on the roadside. Let that sink in. The police can confiscate the same stick immediately after you buy it.

So, a child sells you a weapon, the police take it from you on the other street and the child sells another one. You lose 50 bucks, everyone claps, and the cycle continues. Honestly, what do you call this? A recycling programme? A business model? Shared custody of danger?

Imagine if Pick n Pay sold knives then had police stationed outside kindly retrieving them from shoppers. But because Nomsa from Facebook is typing “my heart bleeds”, we pretend progress is happening.

These children also sell wooden spoons for stirring oshifima.

Not just spoons, but the Rolls-Royce of wooden utensils. They know the Namibian household better than some ministers know their ministries. These little chief executives know exactly what to sell and to whom. Forget Harvard Business School. Forget the University of Namibia.

These children understand market segmentation. They know which households prefer big spoons, small spoons, or spoons you can use for both porridge and disciplining rebellious goats. They found the niche, colonised it, are thriving and sending the profits somewhere we know nothing about.

Actually, have you noticed all the spoons and sticks look identical? Same size. Same finishing. Same everything. You’d swear they came out of the same production line. And that’s where things get interesting. Either there’s a hidden factory somewhere or there’s a shoemaker-level genius in the bush banging out a thousand spoons before lunchtime.

So where is this factory? Angola or Namibia? If someone followed the supply chain, we might find out where the cash flows.

But we don’t because we’re busy pretending someone else is working on it.

Also, the children don’t sleep in trees. Or do they? If they do, then shame on us for failing to locate the forest. We’ve all seen them with parents or, let’s be serious, handlers. This thing looks organised. Mafia vibes. Somebody is collecting the money.

Somebody is supplying the goods. Somebody is orchestrating this. Which tate is banking? Is it one of our own comrades doing a side hustle? Are we looking at a politician with a quiet export deal in ombani sticks? Imagine the real story.

But who would dare investigate? The ombudsman? The Anti-Corruption Commission? Please. The Ministry of Gender and Incoherent Matters? We know better.

Here’s an idea: Why don’t the Namibian Police or whichever minister protects children follow the money? Just follow the coins, guys.

There must be someone collecting. No child wastes their time selling spoons all day just to hand in 20 bucks to a random adult for nothing.

That’s how syndicates work. We all learned that from Netflix documentaries. The children are the front, the adults are the muscle, and the government is asleep.

These children are not here doing summer internships. This is real. Child labour. Possibly trafficking. Organised exploitation.

But instead of action, we get Facebook quotes with dramatic emojis, radio hosts asking “where are the parents?”, and ministries drafting statements so bland even toast feels flavourful.

Yes, it’s serious. Yes, it’s ugly. Yes, it deserves real intervention.

But here we are, a nation so good at pretending that we could win Oscars for looking shocked.

Meanwhile, tomorrow morning, the children will be back on the same corners, with the same spoons, same sticks, same handlers, same story.

And we, the people of emotional buffering, will pretend it’s new.

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