A sea of shacks made from corrugated iron, wooden boards and sheets of plastic, pans and pots covering holes and collecting water under leaky roofs. This is Babylon. 

This is one of the many slums surrounding Windhoek.

Hundreds of people live here in very close quarters, and there is little privacy. Some were born here, while some found it to be the only place they could afford when they moved to the city in search of opportunities.

Many here describe this part as “gramadoelas”, an Afrikaans word that means wild, remote country. 

New Era last week paid a visit to this area.

Dirty stagnant water, clogged drains, narrow makeshift streets, cramped houses, heaps of garbage and a pungent smell of sewage welcome visitors daring these streets.

As we made our way through the shacks, we could feel many eyes staring at us with suspicion as well as some hope. But soon we realised that the locals are friendly as they gathered around us, sharing their grievances and how each day for them is filled with a struggle for basic necessities.

Nonetheless, all have made an effort to turn their dwellings into homes.

Just a few hours in those slums made us feel drained as it is difficult to imagine how anyone could spend their whole life there, which was the case with the majority of those we talked to. Residents of these informal settlements have no running water and electricity, no sewage or waste disposal facilities, and live in unsanitary conditions in overcrowded makeshift homes.

Yet, despite these conditions, this has been a refuge for many.

A regular morning in Babylon sees speeding cars, mostly taxis, bounce along muddy paths as drivers navigate one pothole after another, and dodging children who have nowhere to play but the streets.

Sheekeni Silas lives at the last house in Babylon. 

He has been a resident of Babylon for over a decade after relocating from northern Namibia in search of a better livelihood for him and his children.

He lives in an extremely tiny square shed that only contains a single iron bed, a flat mattress and a paraffin stove placed beside the bed.

The caving roof is so low that its residents have to bend to get in and out.

It belongs to his cousin, and was only meant to be a temporary shelter after his own shack was burnt to ashes. But three years on, he has not been able to find anywhere else to live.

He shares the room with his two children.

When New Era visited Silas (42), we found him returning from fetching wood on a hill close by.

He was getting ready to cook for his two children what appeared to be their only meal of the day. To make a living, they have to find means of survival.

This family mostly relies on a soup kitchen for food and donations of clothing from neighbours. “I have known poverty my entire life. It is nothing new, but sometimes it becomes hard because I have children to take care of. I have to make sure they go to school and they are well-fed,” he observed.

While showing New Era the shed, a modest structure made of a few planks of wood and plastic sheeting for a roof, he explains that life has been quite harsh for him and his children.

“I was telling my daughter just now that I don’t have salt, and I don’t know where I will get it from. That is how terrible the situation can get.” He volunteers as a community police officer, but rarely makes any penny from his daily job.

“A few months ago, our constituency councillor donated blankets and maize meal. We survive on donations and help from good Samaritans,” he explained.

New Era noticed holes in the roof, and asked what they do during the rainy season.

“We plug the holes with plastic bags,” he replied. Silas narrated the dangers of the environment, as well as his hopes and frustrations.

“We have to walk a long distance to get water and with the queue [at the water point], there is no physical distancing, especially now with the deadly virus. We don’t have electricity, so we use a fire to cook. Sometimes, I wish the government could do something to help us. But for how long will we be begging them to help us? Maybe, just maybe, we will reap the fruits of independence,” he added.

Silas’ story is far from unique.

Estimates presented by the Shack Dwellers Federation of Namibia (SDFN) and the Namibian Housing Group last month show that around one million people live in shacks in Namibia.

According to the Namibia Multidimensional Poverty Index (MPI) 2021, more than 43.3% of Namibia’s population live in multidimensional poverty.

The average intensity of poverty is 44%, meaning that poor people in Namibia experience, on average, 44% of the weighted deprivations, based on malnourishment, disrupted or curtailed schooling, absence of any household member who has completed six years of schooling, child mortality in the household within the last five years, as well as a lack of access to safe drinking water or basic sanitation services, clean cooking fuel, basic modern assets like radio, TV, telephone, computer, bike, motorbike and a lack of access to reliable electricity.

In an interview with New Era, Okahandja Park resident Christine Kanguvi also explained what it is truly like to live in slums.

 She said when it rains, the surrounding riverbed overflows into their rooms, with water coming through the roof.

Kanguvi lives in a small shack with her disabled mother and her son.

The 29-year-old mother felt downtrodden.

“I used to do odd jobs around the city, but when my mom’s health deteriorated, I had to stop the hustle to take care of her. I don’t have other means of income, so my toddler son and I only depend on my mother’s social grant from the government,” she lamented.

Kanguvi said her pensioner mother gets a monthly grant of N$3 000. However, that cannot sustain them because she has high medical bills.

Constantia Kanguvi (Christine’s mother) is suffering from epilepsy, diabetes, hypertension, and one of her legs just got amputated.

“Half of her pension money goes to her medical bills, and the rest we use to pay the municipal bill, which is also increasing every day,” she added.

She also complained that her son will be starting kindergarten next year, and she is worried that he might miss out on school because there is no money to enrol him.

“We go to bed, fearing our shack will fall apart because it is unstable. But our only hope is in God. Other than just the deplorable housing and living conditions, we also go to bed on an empty stomach countless times. What we are going through is more than just what people see. Many people talk about poverty, but they don’t know what it’s like to live in poverty,” she stressed.

Asked what she wishes could be done, the teary Kanguvi said she hopes that the government will cut out “unnecessary” costs and focus on eradicating poverty in Namibia.

“I just feel like I get one piece of good news that makes me [think] life isn’t gonna be that bad, and then here come 30 things to basically push me right back down in this hole that I feel like I have been trying to dig myself out of,” she said.

Silas and Kanguvi’s experiences portray the struggles many Namibians face each day in their quest for housing and a dignified life.

In 2019, President Hage Geingob said the government should declare the situation in all informal settlements a human settlement disaster.

“Therefore, we should get rid of these informal settlements,” he said in a meeting that was aimed at discussing the resolutions of the second land conference concerning the situation in informal settlements.

In the last year, the City of Windhoek has started formalising informal settlements and allocated thousands of plots to informal settlement dwellers. But progress is slow, mainly because of a lack of funds and a protracted land development value chain.

- ashikololo@nepc.com.na