… Final Speech of the Fence
Alright, Namibia. My name is Red and my surname is Line. I’ve got no parents, no relatives, and no birth certificate to my name.
I know you’ve all been talking about me.
Some of you want me gone while others pretend I don’t even exist. Well, it’s about time I set the record straight.
Let me say this first: I’m not refusing to die, but you can’t just erase my existence like I’m some minor mistake. I’ve been here for decades, standing tall, held together by wire, wood, and steel. And honestly, I’ve earned the right to exist. If you want to tear me down, at least hear me out.
I know my reputation isn’t great. I’ve been a divider, a symbol of separation and a reminder of a bitter struggle for freedom.
But here’s the thing: I didn’t ask to be built. When I was thrown up here by the Germans, no one asked me how I felt about becoming a line that split up whole communities. Then came the South Africans, who took one look at me and said: “Perfect, let’s keep this going.”
And even after independence, my job didn’t end, your leaders fed me new orders and gave me more reasons to stand my ground. So, I did my job, even when no one else would speak up.
But let’s not sugarcoat things either. I know I’ve been the villain in this story for a long time. My job became less about cattle health and more about keeping people in their place.
I saw families separated, people told where they could live, where they couldn’t, who could travel and who couldn’t.
I saw people’s meat, omaere and omafuma taken and destroyed all in the name of disease control. I am not void of feelings. I heard all your stories of pain and suffering as you grazed your skinny animals close to me.
The very ground beneath me felt the weight of injustice for years. So yes, I know I’m not winning any popularity contests.
But let’s be real: as much as you want to tear me down and move on to a ‘post-redline’ era, you’re going to miss me. You’ve lived with me for so long that imagining a Namibia without me will leave you sick. I put it to you now that if you are Namibians, then I am Namibia.
Come to think of it, why do you blame me when it’s your own people who took your meat? Do I look like I eat meat?
And yet, here I stand, battered and bruised, but still standing like Rocco de Wet, ‘Die Grensvegter’ in the eyes of some. To others I stand “ndafa od* yongula”.
So, as you prepare to end me, I ask you one thing: don’t forget me. Don’t forget the pain I caused, and remember the role I played in your history. I was there when you needed me, and I was there when you didn’t. I helped shape the Namibia you live in today, for better or worse.
One last request: Keep me as a national heritage, a monument, a reminder of our past. I may not be human, but I’ve been here long enough to deserve a place in history.
As my final moments come closer, I want to cry, but I don’t have tear glands. I want to run, but I’m held here by wire, memories and the orders I was given. But know this: my story isn’t just about the past. It’s about the future. How you handle my end will say a lot about what you want Namibia to be.
Goodbye, Namibia. You’ll miss me. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but one day, you’ll look at the space where I once stood and ask, “Are we in Owamboland yet?”
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