Is the Master of the High Court Part of the Judiciary in Namibia?

I was recently interviewed by journalist Augetto Craig on The Evening Review about the work of the Namibia Consumer Protection Group and my efforts to help identify beneficiaries of funds being held by the Master of the High Court. During the discussion, a question came up that I suspect many Namibians have never really stopped to consider: Is the Master of the High Court actually part of the judiciary?

For those interested, the interview can be viewed here.

At first glance, the answer seems obvious. The office is called the Master of the High Court. Most people would naturally assume that if an institution carries the name of the High Court, it forms part of the judiciary. Yet when one looks at how Namibia's institutions are organised today, the answer is not quite as straightforward as the title might suggest.

The Master's Office performs functions that affect thousands of Namibians. It administers deceased estates, supervises trusts, deals with insolvencies, liquidations and the Guardian's Fund. Anyone who has had to deal with the estate of a deceased family member will know that the office plays an important role in people's lives. Because its work is closely linked to legal matters, many people simply assume that it belongs to the judiciary.

One of the developments that changed the landscape was the establishment of the Office of the Judiciary. Namibia's courts now have their own administration and support structures separate from government ministries. This reflects the principle that courts should operate independently and that the administration supporting judges should be distinct from the ordinary structures of the Executive.

What makes this interesting is that the Master's Office does not form part of the Office of the Judiciary. Instead, it falls under the Ministry of Justice and Labour Relations. The title may create an impression of judicial status, but administratively the office remains part of a government ministry.

This distinction is not merely a matter of administrative organisation. It is also supported by Namibian law. In the landmark case Kamuhanga v The Master of the High Court, the court described the Master as "an administrative official within the meaning of Article 18 of the Namibian Constitution". By characterising the Master as an administrative official rather than a judicial officer, the court confirmed something that is sometimes overlooked in public discussion. The Master's Office does not exercise judicial power in the way that a court does. Instead, it is a public office whose decisions and conduct must comply with the constitutional principles of fairness, reasonableness and accountability that apply to public administration.

For me, this is not merely an academic discussion about constitutional structures. Over the past few months I have spent a considerable amount of time assisting individuals and families attempting to trace and claim unclaimed monies being held by the Master of the High Court. In many cases, the beneficiaries are ordinary Namibians who did not even know the funds existed. Helping people navigate that process has given me a practical reason to think about the role and status of the Master's Office.

In the course of this work, I have occasionally gained the impression that some officials view the office as deserving the same level of deference that citizens would ordinarily show to the courts. Questions are sometimes treated as challenges and requests for information can feel like asking for a special favour. Yet if the Master's Office is an administrative office rather than a judicial one, then the relationship between citizens and the office should be viewed differently.

The funds being held do not belong to the Master. They do not belong to the officials administering the office. They belong to beneficiaries, heirs and claimants who may have a legal right to receive them. Those seeking information are not appearing before a judge. They are engaging with a public office that exists to serve citizens and administer those funds in accordance with the law. When people enquire about unclaimed monies, they are not seeking charity. They are seeking information and assistance regarding assets that may rightfully belong to them.

That is why I believe the question matters. If citizens assume that the Master's Office occupies the same position as a court, they may hesitate to question delays, challenge administrative decisions or insist on reasonable service. Yet public institutions function best when both officials and citizens understand their respective roles. Respect should always flow both ways.

The title Master of the High Court naturally focuses attention on the office's connection to the courts. That connection is real and important. However, names do not always tell the whole story. When one looks at where the office is located within government, how Namibia has structured the administration of the judiciary, and what role the office actually performs, a more nuanced picture emerges.

Perhaps the real question is not whether the Master works closely with the courts. Few people would dispute that. The more interesting question is whether every institution connected to the courts automatically becomes part of the judiciary. Once that question is asked, the answer seems far less obvious than the title of the office might suggest. More importantly, it reminds us that citizens dealing with the Master's Office are not standing before a court. They are interacting with a public institution that exists to serve the public, administer the law fairly, and account for the way it performs that duty.

Universal Service Should Mean Serving People

(First published as a Letter to the Editor - The Namibian Newspaper - 11 September 2026)

A phone number used to be just a phone number. Today it is much more than that. It is how employers contact job seekers, how banks send notifications, how government departments communicate with citizens, and how schools, clinics, businesses and family members find us. For many Namibians, a phone number has become part of their digital identity.

That is why the issue of mobile number cancellation deserves more public attention than it receives. Most people understand that telecommunications companies need rules for managing inactive numbers. Number ranges are finite and networks must be managed efficiently. The problem arises when efficiency becomes more important than the people the system is supposed to serve.

Consider a pensioner who buys airtime only when money is available, an unemployed person who may go months without recharging a phone, or a seasonal worker whose income fluctuates throughout the year. When an inactive number is eventually cancelled and recycled, the consequences can be significant. Potential employers lose contact with job seekers. Banks lose a communication channel with their customers. Government departments lose a way of reaching citizens. Family members lose a trusted point of contact. What appears to be a simple administrative process can have real human consequences.

A mobile number is no longer merely a telecommunications product. It is an address for opportunity. Increasingly, it is how people participate in the modern economy and society. We would never accept a citizen losing their national identity because they had not used it often enough. Yet we have become comfortable with people losing the digital identities through which modern society increasingly communicates with them.

The irony is that Namibia's telecommunications laws are built on the principle that access to communication is a public good. The Communications Act provides for a Universal Service Fund to help ensure communications services reach communities that market forces alone might not serve. The principle behind the fund is straightforward: connectivity is too important to be determined entirely by commercial considerations.

Parliament recognised that some communities would remain unconnected if profitability were the only consideration. Universal service exists because participation matters. Every citizen matters, not only the customers who generate the highest returns.

Yet the history of the Universal Service Fund raises uncomfortable questions. Although the legal provisions came into force in 2016, the fund only became operational years later. The legal arguments surrounding its implementation may have been legitimate. Companies have every right to challenge regulations they believe are unfair. But while regulators and operators argued, communities waiting for improved connectivity continued to wait.

The larger question is whether we have slowly begun viewing telecommunications primarily as a business rather than as essential infrastructure. MTC's history suggests it was intended to be more than just another company. Established with government involvement and development-oriented international partners, its origins were rooted in a broader vision of national development and inclusion. That vision should still matter today.

This is not an argument against profit. Profitable companies create jobs, invest in infrastructure and contribute to economic growth. But profit should be a means to a public purpose, not the purpose itself.

The real question is not whether MTC is profitable. The real question is who that profitability ultimately serves. When a company is rooted in public ownership and developmental objectives, its performance should not be measured only by dividends and financial returns. It should also be measured by whether ordinary citizens are better connected, better served and better included in the opportunities of modern life.

The real measure of a state-owned enterprise is not how much profit it generates. It is whether it continues to advance the public purpose for which it was created. Universal service is not ultimately about towers, fibre networks or spectrum licences. It is about people.

And when corporate convenience begins to outweigh the needs of the people a public enterprise was created to serve, it may be time to ask whether it has forgotten its purpose.

A Baboon in My Kitchen Made Me Think About AI

Why Namibia’s stories matter more than we might realise

I live in Avis, Windhoek, close to the dam, and almost every day baboons visit our house because they have learnt that there may be an opportunity to find food. One morning I walked into my kitchen and found a baboon sitting on the table eating raw eggs. It was a terrifying experience, although I am still not entirely sure who was more frightened: the baboon or me.

What stayed with me afterwards was the fact that the baboon was not in my kitchen by accident. Somewhere along the way, he, or perhaps the troop before him, had learnt that people leave food in bins, that open doors can lead to opportunities, and that human settlements can provide rewards if one is prepared to take the risk. None of that knowledge appeared magically. It had travelled through observation, repetition and habit.

A young baboon is not born knowing where to find water after a long dry spell, which roots can be eaten safely, where danger is likely to come from, or how to move through a familiar landscape without attracting unwanted attention. He watches the older animals, learns what they do, and benefits from experience accumulated before he arrived. In time, he develops an understanding of the world far greater than anything he could have discovered alone.

Of course, he inherits more than wisdom. A useful habit survives, but so can an unhelpful one, simply because it has become normal. The young baboon has no special ability to sort truth from error before learning it. He learns from what he sees, and only later does experience teach him which lessons serve him well and which do not.

The more I thought about it, the more I realised I was thinking about AI.

The comparison is not exact. A baboon experiences the world directly. It sees, smells, watches and remembers. AI does not do that. It learns from the traces people leave behind: words, images, code and records of experience. Yet both examples point towards the same idea. Knowledge does not appear from nowhere. It comes from what has been seen, preserved and passed on.

For all the grand language and hype surrounding AI, it is not an independent source of wisdom floating somewhere above humanity. It has been shaped by an enormous collection of things people have written, recorded and shared. When it helps us write software, summarise documents or explain a difficult idea, it can seem remarkably intelligent because it has been exposed to more information than any one person could ever hope to work through in a lifetime. Yet what it can tell us is shaped by what people have written, recorded and shared in the first place.

That is not me complaining about AI. I use it and find it genuinely useful. But it does make me wonder whose experiences become part of the record from which these systems learn.

Namibia is not invisible online. We have journalists, researchers, bloggers, academics, businesses and institutions producing useful work every day, but compared with countries with much larger populations and greater resources, our digital footprint is small.

What makes this difficult to see is that many of the things that define Namibia are not the sort of things that usually appear in official reports or databases. A map can tell you the distance between towns, but it cannot tell you whether the road is good, whether the fuel station actually has fuel, whether the rain has washed part of the road away, or who you happened to meet along the way. Some knowledge lives in books and reports. Other knowledge lives in experience.

It is easy to imagine that the internet is a broad and reasonably balanced reflection of the world. The more I think about it, the less true that seems. Some countries and communities document almost every part of their lives, while others carry much of their knowledge through family stories, practical work, memory, humour and conversation, things that never make their way into a search engine or database.

There is an enormous amount written about life in London and New York. There is far less written about everyday life in Lüderitz, Outjo or Omaheke.

This imbalance has consequences.

An AI system may know a great deal about public transport in London while having little understanding of why a family from Outjo thinks differently about distance, travel and community. It may offer advice that sounds universal while quietly assuming reliable infrastructure, dense populations, different laws or a completely different climate. Advice about water use or farming that works well in California may not always suit somebody farming in the Hardap Region.

The machine will not reject the Namibian perspective or deliberately overlook our experiences. It will simply encounter them less often.

That is a quieter problem than people usually imagine. When one set of experiences is recorded millions of times and another appears only occasionally, the most common viewpoint can begin to look like the normal human experience. Other perspectives start to seem unusual, not because they are less valuable, but because fewer people have written about them.

What interests me most, though, is not only whether AI knows enough about Namibia. It is whether we are writing enough for one another.

I suspect many of us underestimate the value of our own experiences because they feel ordinary to us. When people hear discussions about AI and data, they imagine universities, governments, large companies and technology firms. They seldom imagine themselves. Yet some of the most valuable knowledge Namibia possesses exists nowhere except in the lives of ordinary Namibians.

A teacher in Katutura understands realities that may never appear in an international report. A farmer near Mariental has practical knowledge that cannot be fully captured in a textbook written on another continent. A shop owner in Oshakati notices patterns of community life that an outside observer would miss. A nurse in Rundu, a welder in Walvis Bay or a pensioner in Keetmanshoop each carries a view of Namibia that cannot be replaced by somebody else's experience.

Then there are the smaller things that are so familiar we hardly think of them as knowledge at all. We know that a distance on a map does not tell you much about a journey, because it leaves out the road, the weather, the fuel stop, the puncture and the person travelling with you. We know how neighbours respond when infrastructure fails, how people adapt when rain refuses to arrive, and how a sense of humour somehow survives almost anything.

These are not usually statistics. They are the texture of a country.

When I speak to people about writing, blogging or sharing their experiences online, I often hear the same question:

“What would I possibly have to say that matters?”

I understand the question because most of us do not experience our own lives as remarkable. We wake up, go to work, face familiar challenges and deal with ordinary problems.

Yet that is precisely the point.

The value of a Namibian story is not that it competes with millions of others. Its value lies in the fact that nobody else can tell it.

Not every contribution needs to be an essay or a book. Sometimes it is a thoughtful comment, a family memory, a correction, a photograph with a proper caption, or a few paragraphs about an otherwise ordinary day.

Perhaps what we need is a little less liking and a little more writing.

Less scrolling past a story from our own town and more responding with what we remember, what we know or how things looked from where we stood.

Writing something in a notebook still has value, particularly for family history and personal reflection. Some stories only need to be known by the people closest to them. Yet the more I thought about this, the more I realised that some stories only become part of a larger picture when they are shared. Knowledge that remains hidden can be difficult for others to learn from. Perhaps that is why blogs, community newsletters, local newspapers, websites, podcasts and even social media matter more than we sometimes realise.

The more I thought about it, the more I realised that this is not only a Namibian issue. Every community has stories, memories and experiences that can be overlooked when louder voices dominate the conversation. The more people write about their own lives and communities, the harder it becomes for one version of the world to be mistaken for everyone’s version of the world.

Perhaps that is one of the reasons ordinary people matter so much in all of this. We are not simply leaving information behind for machines. We are leaving something behind for one another, and for the people who will come after us.

This should be done with care. Not every story, tradition or form of cultural knowledge belongs in a public database, and communities should retain the right to decide what is public, who may use it and whether it may be reproduced by commercial systems. Preserving knowledge and exploiting knowledge are not the same thing.

But perhaps the mistake is assuming that somebody else will tell our story for us.

More people are beginning to use AI as one of the ways they make sense of the world. I do not see that as a reason to fear it. I see it as one more reason to participate: to write a little more, respond a little more thoughtfully and leave a fuller record of who we are.

After all, the young baboon only learns from what the troop leaves behind. Perhaps the real question is not only what AI will learn about Namibia, but what future Namibians will learn about Namibia too.

If we do not write and share our own stories, future AI systems may know less about Namibia, but more importantly, future Namibians may know less about Namibia too. That will not be because our experiences did not matter. It will simply be because too few of them were written down, shared and remembered.

Stories survive because somebody takes the time to tell them. If AI gives us one more reason to write, publish and share our experiences, then perhaps that is not such a bad thing after all.

The Shelf Price Says One Thing. The Till Says Another. Why Namibian Consumers Deserve Better.

For more than a decade, I have written about one of the most common consumer complaints in Namibia: the price on the shelf does not match the price charged at the till. Back in 2013 and 2014, consumers were already raising concerns about discounted fabric being charged at full price, canned food advertised at one amount but scanned at another, and retailers blaming "computer errors" whenever the discrepancy was discovered.

What is remarkable is not that these complaints occurred. What is remarkable is that many Namibian consumers are still reporting exactly the same problem today.

Shopping should be simple. A consumer sees a price, decides whether the product fits their budget, places it in the trolley, and pays that price at the checkout. Any other system undermines trust between the retailer and the public.

The Problem Has Never Been Technology

Retailers often explain pricing discrepancies by pointing to computer systems, barcode databases or delayed updates. While these explanations may be technically correct, they are irrelevant from the consumer's perspective.

The consumer did not create the pricing system.

The consumer did not update the database.

The consumer did not print the shelf label.

The retailer did.

When a shelf price differs from the checkout price, the problem belongs to the retailer, not the consumer.

Over the years I have seen many businesses handle these situations correctly. Some immediately honour the displayed price. Others refund the difference and apologise. A few retailers have even adopted policies whereby the consumer receives the first incorrectly priced item free of charge.

These businesses understand a simple principle: maintaining customer trust is worth more than the few dollars lost on a pricing error.

Unit Pricing Remains an Unfinished Consumer Reform

One issue I raised many years ago was the importance of unit pricing.

Unit pricing allows consumers to compare products by showing the price per kilogramme, litre or individual item. It removes confusion and helps families identify genuine value rather than being misled by different package sizes.

A consumer should not need a calculator while standing in front of a supermarket shelf trying to determine whether a 750ml bottle is better value than a one-litre bottle.

The information should already be available.

Although some retailers have made progress, unit pricing remains inconsistent across the Namibian retail sector. In an era where retailers can update prices across multiple branches in seconds, there is little justification for failing to provide consumers with accurate comparative pricing information.

Transparent pricing does not only benefit consumers. It encourages fair competition and rewards businesses that genuinely offer better value.

The Law Has Finally Started Catching Up

When I wrote about these issues over ten years ago, Namibia still lacked a comprehensive consumer protection framework. Consumers often had to rely on a patchwork of older legislation inherited before Independence.

Today, the situation is changing.

The Consumer Protection Bill of 2024 proposes significant reforms, including stronger protections against misleading or deceptive conduct, false representations and bait advertising. It also proposes the creation of a Consumer Protection Authority, consumer tribunals and formal complaint mechanisms for resolving disputes. [mit.gov.na]

If enacted and properly enforced, these measures could fundamentally change the relationship between consumers and suppliers in Namibia.

More importantly, the proposed law recognises something consumers have known all along: unfair pricing practices are not merely customer service issues. They are consumer rights issues. 

Why Businesses Should Welcome Consumer Protection

Some businesses still view consumer protection legislation as an inconvenience.

I believe the opposite is true.

Good businesses have nothing to fear from clear consumer laws.

Legislation creates certainty. It establishes clear rules. It protects reputable retailers from being undercut by competitors who engage in misleading practices.

The businesses that consistently provide accurate pricing, honour advertised specials and treat customers with respect will benefit most from stronger consumer protections.

Consumer trust is not an expense.

It is an investment.

Every pricing dispute resolved fairly creates goodwill. Every complaint handled professionally creates loyalty. Every consumer treated with dignity becomes an ambassador for the business.

As I often tell companies when discussing complaint management: the consumer who complains is not your enemy. They are providing you with free quality control.

A Scanner Price Accuracy Code for Namibia

The idea I proposed in 2014 remains relevant today.

Namibia should adopt a national Scanner Price Accuracy Code.

Under such a system:

• The shelf price should always be binding.
• If a product scans higher than the displayed price, the consumer should receive the item at the lower price.
• Repeated pricing errors should trigger meaningful corrective action.
• Retailers should regularly audit shelf labels and scanner systems.
• Consumers should have access to a simple complaint mechanism when disputes arise.

The objective should not be punishment. The objective should be accuracy.

When consumers walk into a shop, they should not need to photograph every shelf label before approaching the checkout.

The Real Power Still Belongs to Consumers

Despite the need for stronger enforcement and modern legislation, consumers still possess the most effective tool available.

Choice.

Consumers decide where their money is spent.

Support the businesses that honour advertised prices.

Support the retailers that train their staff properly.

Support the companies that resolve complaints without arguments and excuses.

And when businesses consistently fail consumers, take your money elsewhere.

After all these years, my position remains unchanged.

A fair marketplace is built on trust.

Trust is built on honesty.

And honesty begins with something as simple as ensuring that the price on the shelf is the same price charged at the till.

Because when consumers cannot trust the price they see, they begin to question everything else they are being told. 

"Here in Namibia You Still Have Real Stuff to See" – What a British Teenager Taught Me About Smartphones and Childhood

My 14-year-old niece from the UK recently visited Namibia. She told my 11-year-old son: "Here you still have real stuff to see on your phone. In the UK, we mostly watch adverts between YouTube videos." That comment stayed with me. It wasn't really about adverts. It was about how much of children's attention has become a product. Large parts of the online world are designed to keep young people scrolling, clicking and watching for as long as possible.

The debate about banning smartphones for under-16s is not really about technology itself. It's about asking whether children are developmentally ready to navigate systems specifically designed by some of the world's smartest companies to capture their attention.

We don't let children drive cars, buy alcohol or gamble because we recognise that maturity matters. The same question should be asked of unrestricted smartphone and social media access.

Namibia still offers children opportunities to be connected to the real world around them—nature, community, adventure and face-to-face interaction. Before we hand every child a device that competes with all of that, we should carefully consider whether waiting until 16 is a reasonable safeguard rather than a restriction.

The issue is not whether phones are useful. They clearly are. The issue is whether childhood should be dominated by screens before young people have developed the judgement to manage them responsibly. 

Bureaucracy, Public Perception, and the Crisis of Everyday Governance in Namibia

The belief that government is “hopeless” rarely begins in Parliament, Cabinet, or State House. It is born in the queue at a licensing office, in the frustration of a form returned for a missing comma, in the silence of a phone that never gets answered, and in the rigid insistence on procedures that make no sense to the ordinary citizen. In Namibia, as in many countries, the public’s perception of government is shaped not by national leaders but by the bureaucrats who serve as the frontline interface between the state and its people.

Citizens do not interact with ministers or Executive Directors (permanent secretaries) on a daily basis. They interact with clerks, receptionists, inspectors, and administrators. These are the individuals who stamp documents, approve applications, process benefits, and enforce regulations. When these interactions are slow, unhelpful, or unnecessarily rigid, the entire government is blamed. A single frustrating encounter becomes a symbol of a system that feels indifferent to its citizens' needs.

This disconnect is not always the result of incompetence or malice. Often, it is the product of a bureaucratic culture built on rigid adherence to rules rather than the application of common sense. Procedures become sacred, even when they no longer serve their intended purpose. A form must be filled out exactly as it was designed decades ago. A document must be submitted in person even though digital alternatives exist. A citizen must return tomorrow because the official responsible for signing is “not available.” These small inefficiencies accumulate into a larger narrative of state dysfunction.

Leadership, meanwhile, is frequently blamed for failures that originate far below their level of control. Namibia’s political leaders may set policy directions, but the implementation of those policies rests in the hands of administrators who may lack training, motivation, or the authority to adapt processes to real-world situations. When bureaucrats fail to deliver services effectively, leaders are accused of incompetence, corruption, or indifference—even when the root cause lies in outdated systems and institutional inertia.

This dynamic creates a dangerous cycle. Citizens lose trust in government because their everyday experiences are frustrating. Leaders lose credibility because they are held responsible for failures they did not directly cause. Bureaucrats become defensive, clinging even more tightly to rules to avoid blame. And the system continues to function poorly, reinforcing the perception that government is incapable of meaningful change.

Breaking this cycle requires more than political speeches or new policies. It demands a transformation of administrative culture. Bureaucrats must be empowered to use discretion, apply common sense, and prioritise service delivery over procedural rigidity. Training must focus not only on compliance but on problem‑solving, empathy, and innovation. Leadership must reward initiative rather than punishing deviation from outdated norms. And citizens must be treated not as obstacles to be managed but as clients whose time, dignity, and needs matter.

Ultimately, the strength of a government is measured not by the eloquence of its leaders but by the competence of its administrators. Namibia’s future depends on a public service that understands its role as the bridge between policy and people. When that bridge is strong, citizens believe in the state. When it is weak, even the best leadership appears ineffective. The challenge, therefore, is clear: reform the bureaucracy, and public trust will follow.

Growing Up Du Preez: A Life Shaped by Faith, Family, and the SDA Church

I grew up inside a story that was already bigger than me — a story of ministry, mission work, and a family name woven deep into the Seventh‑day Adventist Church. When people talk about “church families,” they usually mean folks who attend regularly. But the Du Preez family? We didn’t just attend. We served, we led, we built, and in many ways, we became part of the fabric of Adventism in Southern Africa and beyond.

My grandfather, Pastor Alwyn du Preez, wasn’t just a pastor. He was a man who carried the church on his shoulders, whether he was preaching in South Africa or serving far away on St. Helena Island, one of the most isolated mission posts in the world. My grandmother, Joyce, stood right beside him — the kind of woman who didn’t need a title to lead. She led through presence, through kindness, through the quiet strength that keeps a church community alive.

When my mother died, I was five years old. And from that moment until I turned fifteen, my grandparents became my world. Their home became my home. Their routines became my routines. Their faith became the air I breathed.

I didn’t just grow up in an SDA household — I grew up in the engine room of Adventist ministry.

My uncle, Dr. Ron du Preez, was the only uncle I had, and he carried the academic torch of the family. Ron wasn’t just a pastor; he was a thinker, a teacher, a global voice. When he preached, he didn’t just deliver a sermon — he delivered a worldview. His books, his lectures, his travels… they showed me that Adventism wasn’t just a local church; it was a global movement.

Then there were my grandfather’s brothers — Gerald and Ingram du Preez — each carrying their own piece of the legacy. Gerald, especially, left a mark on Adventist history. His research into the SDA Church’s development among Coloured communities in South Africa is still one of the most important historical works on Adventism in the region. He didn’t just write history; he preserved identity.

Growing up around these men — and the strong women beside them — shaped how I see service. It shaped how I see justice. It shaped how I see people.

When you live in a house where ministry is not a job but a lifestyle, you learn early that service is not optional. You learn that people’s stories matter. You learn that systems fail, and when they do, someone has to stand up and fix them.

That’s the part of my family legacy I carry into my own work today — tracing unclaimed benefits, fighting for citizens who have been forgotten, and pushing for accountability in systems that prefer silence.

My activism didn’t come from politics.

It came from watching my grandfather pray with strangers,

from seeing my grandmother feed people who had nothing,

from listening to my uncle explain truth with clarity and courage,

from hearing Gerald talk about history that was almost erased,

from seeing Ingram serve without ever asking for recognition.

I am a Du Preez.

I grew up in the shadow of pastors, missionaries, scholars, and servants.

And everything I do today — every fight, every investigation, every post — is rooted in that legacy.

This is my family.

This is my story.

This is the foundation beneath my activism.

The Namibian State’s Duty to Protect Citizens’ Rights: Why Unclaimed Benefits Demand Urgent National Attention

The protection of the rights and benefits of citizens has always been a core duty of the State. Long before Independence, this principle was embedded—albeit unevenly and with racial bias—into the legal framework governing estates and public administration. One of the clearest examples is the Administration of Estates Act of 1965, a law that still shapes how Namibia safeguards the financial interests of beneficiaries today.

A Law Built to Protect the Vulnerable

The 1965 Act was drafted with four key objectives:

• Consolidation of Estate Law – bringing scattered rules under one coherent system.
• Clear Authority of the Master of the High Court – establishing a central figure to oversee estates and ensure accountability.
• Protection of Beneficiaries and Creditors – preventing abuse, mismanagement, or loss of rightful entitlements.
• Regulation of the Guardian’s Fund – creating a secure mechanism to hold money belonging to minors, untraceable heirs, and adults under curatorship.

The Guardian’s Fund remains one of the most important public institutions for safeguarding vulnerable citizens. It exists precisely because the State recognises that some individuals—children, incapacitated adults, or missing beneficiaries—cannot protect their own financial interests.

The Hidden Crisis: Unclaimed Pension Benefits

Despite these protections, many Namibian consumers remain unaware of what happens to their pension contributions when they leave an employer. When a member resigns, retires, or is dismissed, an Exit Event occurs. If the member does not claim their benefit, the money does not disappear—but it does enter a long and complex legal process.

The journey of an unclaimed benefit typically follows this path:

• Missing contact details stall the payment.
• Statutory tracing begins, as fund administrators are legally required to search for the member or dependants.
• Unclaimed Benefit Designation occurs after five years of unsuccessful tracing.
• Every January, funds must submit a sworn statement of all unclaimed amounts.
• Every February, these amounts must be advertised in the Government Gazette, giving beneficiaries three months to claim.
• If still unclaimed, the money is transferred to the Master of the High Court for safekeeping.

This system is designed to protect citizens—but it only works if citizens know it exists.

A National Record of Missing Money

In 2020, I began a project to collect every Government Gazette that published “Unclaimed Monies” notices. By January 2026, I had uploaded all beneficiary information from these notices online, making them publicly accessible for the first time in Namibia’s history.

The database (GRN Gazettes: https://shorturl.at/f6R21) now contains:

• Beneficiaries from 2014 to 2026 (13 Gazettes)
• 26,928 individual claims
• N$ 324.7 million in unclaimed benefits

This is not just a statistic—it is a national alarm bell. Behind every unclaimed benefit is a person, a family, or a community deprived of money that legally belongs to them.

Tracing the People Behind the Numbers

After compiling the Gazette records, I focused on the traceability of beneficiaries. Using publicly available information and the NamConsumer Database, which began in 2004, I started identifying individuals who may be unaware that money is waiting for them.

The results are clear:

Namibia does not have a problem of missing money.

Namibia has a problem of missing people.

Many beneficiaries have moved, changed phone numbers, relocated to rural areas, or passed away without their families knowing about the benefit. Others simply never understood the pension system or assumed their contributions were lost.

Why This Matters Now

The State’s duty to protect citizens is not theoretical—it is practical, measurable, and urgent. The Administration of Estates Act created mechanisms to safeguard benefits, but modern Namibia needs modern solutions:

• Public awareness campaigns
• Digital tracing tools
• Collaboration between pension funds, government, and civil society
• A national unclaimed benefits portal
• Community-level outreach, especially in rural areas

The money exists. The beneficiaries exist. The gap between them is a matter of information, access, and awareness.

A Call to Action

Every Namibian deserves to know that the State has systems to protect their financial rights. Every pension fund must fulfil its legal duty to trace members. And every citizen should check whether they or their relatives appear in the unclaimed benefits records.

The principle that the State must protect its people is not new—it is older than Independence. But today, with hundreds of millions in unclaimed benefits, it is more important than ever.

Namibia cannot afford to leave its citizens’ money behind.

The Legacy I Want to Leave: Building Systems That Help People Find What Belongs to Them

 "True success isn’t what you leave behind—it’s what continues to benefit generations after you’re gone."

 

When I look back at my journey, I realise that many of the things I have done started with a simple question: Why does the system work this way, and can it work better?

As a child, I found value in what others ignored. Those torn magazine covers and discarded floppy disks opened my eyes to the fact that information has value — even when someone else thinks it is no longer useful. Years later, that same thinking followed me into technology, databases, consumer rights, and now helping people find money that belongs to them.

Over the years, I have become convinced that one of the biggest problems in society is not always the lack of resources. Sometimes the problem is that the resources exist, but ordinary people do not know where to find them.

A person can work their whole life, contribute to a pension fund, have an insurance policy, inherit money, or be a beneficiary of an estate — and yet years later that money can sit somewhere untouched because nobody knows how to claim it.

That is where the idea started: create a system that connects people with what is already theirs.

For many years now, I have been working with information that is publicly available. In 2003, I started building a consumer database using information that was available through public sources. It was not about collecting secrets. It was about organising information that already existed, and using it to solve problems.

At the time, many people did not understand the importance of data. Today, everyone talks about databases, artificial intelligence, and digital platforms. But the real value of data has always been the same: helping people make better decisions.

A database is not just rows and columns. Behind every record is a person. Behind every name is a story.

This is why the work I am doing with unclaimed monies has become so important to me.

When people hear the words “unclaimed money”, they often think it belongs to someone else. They imagine it is complicated, or that the amounts are too small to worry about.

But behind every entry in a government gazette, every pension fund record, and every estate file, there is a person or a family who may be missing something that belongs to them.

Sometimes it is a pension benefit from a previous employer. Sometimes it is money from an estate. Sometimes it is simply a case where life moved on, addresses changed, and communication was lost.

The frustrating part is that the money is often already there. The challenge is creating the bridge between the institution holding the funds and the person who should receive them.

This is where technology, tracing, and organised information can make a difference.

My vision is not just to help one person at a time. My vision is to create a system where citizens can easily check what belongs to them, understand their rights, and get assistance when the process becomes complicated.

The same principle applies to consumer protection.

For years, I have watched consumers struggle because they do not know their rights. They sign contracts they do not understand, they pay fees they cannot explain, and they often do not know where to complain when something goes wrong.

A strong consumer database and information system can help identify patterns. It can show where problems are occurring, which industries generate complaints, and where laws or regulations need improvement.

Information gives citizens a voice.

Governments have databases. Companies have databases. Banks have databases. Pension funds have databases.

But ordinary citizens often do not have a system working for them.

That is the gap I want to help close.

When I started collecting information many years ago, I did not know exactly where it would lead. I was simply trying to solve problems. I was looking at information that others ignored and asking: “How can this help people?”

Today, that same philosophy continues.

Technology is not valuable because it is modern. Technology is valuable because it helps people.

A database is not valuable because it contains millions of records. It is valuable when one person receives a phone call saying: “We found something that belongs to you.”

That moment changes lives.

As a father, I often think about what legacy means. It is not only about leaving behind possessions or money. Those things can disappear.

A true legacy is leaving behind something that continues helping people after you are gone.

My hope is that my children will look back one day and understand that their father believed information should serve people. That systems should not only benefit organisations and institutions, but also ordinary citizens.

I want them to see that one person with a computer, some curiosity, and a belief that things can be improved can make a difference.

The journey started with torn magazine covers and free floppy disks.

Today it is about finding lost money, protecting consumers, and building bridges between people and the systems that are supposed to serve them.

The technology has changed.

The mission has not.

I kept the tone reflective and story-driven like your CNA/floppy disk blog, with the focus on systems, information, citizens, and legacy rather than making it sound like a corporate article.

Namibia Has a Referendum Law… But Almost Nobody Can Use It

Imagine your school announces some exciting news.

The principal says, “From now on, whenever there is a really important issue, all the learners can vote.”

Everyone cheers.

You think, “That’s wonderful! If enough learners want to change a rule, we’ll simply ask for a vote.”

Then you discover something surprising.

The learners are not allowed to ask for a vote.

They cannot collect signatures.

They cannot force the principal to listen.

They cannot even insist that the school board discuss their idea.

The only people who can decide whether there will be a vote are the principal or the school board.

Suddenly, it doesn’t feel like the learners have much power after all.

That is very similar to how referendums work in Namibia.

What is a referendum?

A referendum is one of the simplest ideas in democracy.

Instead of politicians making a decision, the people vote directly.

Everyone receives the same question and answers either YES or NO.

Countries use referendums to decide important issues such as changing their constitution, introducing new laws, or settling questions that divide public opinion.

The people themselves become the decision-makers.

Namibia has a referendum law

Many Namibians do not realise that our Electoral Act already contains detailed rules about referendums.

The law explains how polling stations should operate, how votes should be counted, and how the Electoral Commission should organise the process.

In other words, Namibia already knows how to hold a referendum.

But there is one very important problem.

Who gets to start one?

Imagine a sixteen-year-old girl asks her mother:

“Mommy, how can we get a referendum to legalise abortion?”

Her mother opens the law to find the answer.

She discovers that ordinary people cannot start a referendum.

Not if 100 people want one.

Not if 10,000 people want one.

Not even if one million Namibians agree.

Instead, only two things can happen.

The President can decide that a referendum is in the public interest.

Or the National Assembly can pass a resolution asking for one.

That means ordinary citizens have no legal way to force a referendum to happen.

Why does this matter?

This is not really about abortion.

Someone else may want a referendum about cannabis.

Another person may want one about the death penalty.

Someone else may want one about electoral reform, corruption, regional boundaries, or another important national issue.

The subject is not the point.

The principle is.

In a democracy, should ordinary citizens have the right to ask the whole country to vote on an important issue?

At the moment, the answer in Namibia is largely no.

The missing piece

Many democratic countries allow citizens to collect signatures.

If enough people support an idea, Parliament must debate it or a referendum must be held.

This is called a citizens’ initiative.

It does not guarantee that people will win.

It simply guarantees that the people can start the conversation.

Namibia has no such system.

We have rules for running a referendum once someone in authority decides there should be one.

We do not have rules that allow ordinary Namibians to begin the process themselves.

Democracy belongs to the people

Our Constitution begins with the words:

“We, the people of Namibia…”

Those words remind us that government exists because of the people—not the other way around.

If the people are trusted to elect governments every five years, perhaps they should also be trusted to ask for a referendum on issues of national importance.

That does not mean every proposal should succeed.

It simply means the people should have a lawful way to place an important question before the nation.

Namibia already has a referendum law.

What it does not yet have is a true citizens’ referendum.

Perhaps that is the next step in strengthening our democracy.

Yango’s Navigation Problem Shows a Bigger Truth: The App Does Not Understand Namibia — and It Does Not Care to Learn

For months now, Namibian consumers have complained about Yango’s routing system: long detours, time‑wasting loops, and navigation choices that make no sense to anyone who actually lives in Windhoek. Drivers lose income. Passengers lose time. And Yango’s support team continues to blame drivers instead of fixing the underlying problem — their maps simply do not know Namibia.

A recent exchange between Yango Support and Milton Louw, Executive Director of the Namibia Consumer Protection Group, illustrates the issue perfectly. It reads less like customer service and more like a chatbot stuck in a loop.

𝑨 𝑫𝒂𝒊𝒍𝒚 𝑹𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒆 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑴𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒔 𝑵𝒐 𝑺𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒆
Milton lives in Avis and takes Yango every morning to Kleine Professor School. Anyone familiar with Windhoek knows the route: a short, direct drive via Auasblick, across Robert Mugabe and around the army base and into Andimba ya Toivo. Yet Yango’s app insists on sending drivers on a bizarre detour:
* Around St Paul’s College
* Up through Jan Jonker, then Robert Mugabe
* Through morning traffic
* Adding unnecessary kilometres and minutes

The app’s own ride reports show the direct route is 14 minutes faster, yet Yango repeatedly claims their system is “avoiding traffic jams.”

This is not a traffic‑based decision. It is a mapping failure.

𝑺𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝑹𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒆𝒔 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑭𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 — 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑫𝒆𝒕𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝑭𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒚
The email thread shows a pattern:

1. 𝙍𝙚𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙧𝙚𝙦𝙪𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙞𝙧𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙫𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙞𝙣𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙢𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣
Yango Support repeatedly asks for coordinates, screenshots, and technical details that the average consumer should never be expected to provide. As Milton wrote:

“No. That’s your job. I am the Director of the Namibia Consumer Group (and an IT Guru), and this is unacceptable.”

Instead of investigating, Support keeps asking whether he can “see their previous messages.”

2. 𝑩𝒍𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒅𝒓𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔 — 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆
When Milton points out that the app’s route is wrong, Support responds:

“Passengers often know a faster or more convenient route… the driver should agree to follow the route that his passengers prefer.”

This has nothing to do with the complaint. The issue is not the driver. The issue is Yango’s faulty navigation system.

Yet Support repeats the same line again the next morning — almost word‑for‑word — showing either automation or a script that ignores context.

3. 𝑵𝒐 𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘𝒍𝒆𝒅𝒈𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒃𝒍𝒆𝒎
Even after Milton explains that the app’s suggested route is three times longer, Support insists:

“The navigation system suggested the driver to select a route without any traffic jams.”

This is factually incorrect. The app’s own ride report contradicts it.

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑩𝒊𝒈𝒈𝒆𝒓 𝑰𝒔𝒔𝒖𝒆: 𝒀𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒐’𝒔 𝑺𝒚𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒎 𝑰𝒔 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝑩𝒖𝒊𝒍𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝑵𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒃𝒊𝒂
Windhoek is not Moscow. It is not Lagos. It is not Dubai.
Our road network is unique:
* Steep hills
* Shortcuts known only to locals
* Traffic patterns that differ from global models
* Suburbs with limited entry/exit points
* Roads that appear “major” on satellite maps but are inefficient in practice

Yango’s routing engine clearly relies on foreign data models that do not reflect Namibian reality. Instead of adapting to local conditions, the company expects consumers to provide technical data so they can “forward it to their Maps team.”

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐞𝐫‑𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧. 𝐈𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐜

𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐨𝐧 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐛𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐬
For passengers
* Longer travel times
* Higher costs
* Frustration and wasted mornings
* Feeling unheard by customer support

For drivers
* Lower earnings due to inefficient routes
* Blame from passengers
* Blame from Yango
* Pressure to ignore the app and rely on local knowledge

Drivers are being forced to choose between following Yango’s flawed system or following the passenger’s instructions — and then being blamed either way.

𝑨 𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑫𝒐𝒆𝒔 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝑳𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒏
The email thread shows a deeper problem: Yango’s support system is not designed to understand Namibia, and it is not designed to listen.

When a consumer explains the issue clearly, Support responds with:
* Repetition
* Scripted apologies
* Irrelevant instructions
* Blame shifting
At no point does Yango acknowledge the core issue: their maps are wrong.

𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑵𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒃𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒔 𝑫𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒆
Namibians deserve a ride‑hailing service that:
* Uses accurate local mapping data
* Respects consumer time
* Supports drivers instead of blaming them
* Provides real customer service, not chatbot‑style scripts
* Invests in Namibia instead of treating it as an afterthought

Until Yango fixes its navigation system, Namibians will continue to pay for inefficiency — in time, money, and frustration.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧: 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐨 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐃𝐨 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫
This is not a small glitch. It is a systemic failure.

Yango entered Namibia promising convenience, affordability, and modern mobility. But if the company cannot even map a simple Avis‑to‑Kleine Professor route correctly — and cannot respond to consumers with meaningful support — then it is failing in its basic duty to the Namibian public.

The Namibia Consumer Protection Group will continue monitoring this issue and collecting complaints. Yango must invest in proper local mapping, proper local support, and proper respect for Namibian consumers.