The dark underbelly of Rehoboth's drug trade

The yard is full of life – children run around playing, while older girls balance babies on their hips, the infants belonging to either clients or the drug dealer himself. At the far end, next to an unpainted brick wall, hardcore drug addicts gather to ‘kop skiet’, inhaling a mix of marijuana and mandrax through broken bottle necks.Soon, they fall off their makeshift brick chairs after a puff, collapsing like congregants in a Pentecostal church.A mere five metres away, beneath the shade of a sprawling Camelthorn tree, sits a different crowd. More modern clientele – men with oiled, curly hair, perfumed Polo shirts, and fresh Vans or Ellesse sneakers – gather, drinking and chatting.I am offered a wooden stool with missing panels, and as I sit, it sinks into the soft Kalahari sand, bringing me eye to eye with one of Rehoboth’s most feared drug dealers. They trickle in: hobos dragging lame legs, others pushing rundown wheelchairs. Young girls with fluttering eyelashes and iPhone 15s in hand seek out a 'balie skunk'. The dealer works swiftly, pulling product from his pockets, while his partner, a baby on her lap, oversees the operation. The addicts who can’t pay in cash sweep the yard or measure out traditional beer, providing a cover should the police arrive. An untrained eye would miss the entire transaction.A life of crime and desperationJohn*, one of Rehoboth’s leading drug dealers, claims he no longer wants to be in this trade, but between an empty house without food and the lure of quick money, he sees no way out.“I started doing drugs as a kid,” he says, explaining how he landed in prison at 13 after breaking into a bungalow at Reho Spa. When he was released a year later, he discovered his uncle smuggling mandrax and marijuana. That was a turning point.“I got to know his hiding places. How to stash the mandrax when the police hit. What to do, what to say. He trusted me. I became his butler, learning the ropes. When I went back to prison, I knew even more. When I got out, my uncle was still in business, and I invested the money I made from housebreaking. This game has money. It’s like a shop – people in and out.”Like many dealers, John operates out of his late parents’ home, a house he shares with his brother and his own growing family. He laughs when he recalls how he only started having children and settling down later in life. "There was no time for that when I was smuggling."His wife, Martha*, joined him in the trade, though her own past is just as tragic – pregnant at 14, robbed of innocence. Now, she pleads with John to leave this life behind.“I don’t want to do this anymore,” he says, his voice tinged with desperation. He knows the pain his trade has inflicted, even within his own family. His seven-year-old son started smoking skunk while still in nappies, after clients or his parents jokingly blew marijuana smoke into his face.“When he was two, he asked for his own joint. He’d get aggressive if he didn’t get it. Now he’s struggling in school,” Martha says, cradling their baby.Their business takes a toll, not just on their morals but on their finances. A stolen phone pawned for drugs once led the police straight to them, and no one reimbursed them for the lost product.“It’s not a life,” Martha sighs. "People come to us selling Sunday lunch, a warm plate just dished up. Or a leg of lamb their mother left out to defrost. They bring it here, and stupidly, I take it. Then that same mother comes, tears in her eyes, looking for her stolen food.”Trapped in the tradeJohn struggles with health issues – he has only one lung and suffers from severe asthma. He claims he’s unable to secure a disability grant because he’s a marked man in Rehoboth. Even the farmland he inherited is out of reach – fencing it off and running it requires money.“I’ve tried working as an artisan, but my boss always calls Martha to say I’m sick. I can’t even walk far without gasping for air.”Martha, meanwhile, insists she can work, but she wants John to provide for her, having been forced into work from the moment she gave birth at 14. “Everything requires money – even to start a legitimate business. We’d have to sell drugs to raise that capital.”She’s tried selling food, cigarettes, traditional beer – anything to escape the drug trade. But life is expensive, and every attempt leads back to the same trap.The system that enablesJohn claims he only sells marijuana and mandrax, avoiding skunk because schoolchildren come in their uniforms, and neighbours take photos for Facebook. He also refuses to sell to younger children because their parents will come knocking.But in the broader Rehoboth drug scene, the situation is even darker.Recovered addict Ricardo Mathys, founder of Soldiers for Christ, explains how drug sellers use minor children as "butlers" to avoid severe legal consequences. “The police will just release them into their parents’ care – there’s no implication for the merchant.”The most tragic victims are young girls, gang-raped for a fix. “The merchant doesn’t even touch them,” Mathys explains. “He hands them to his butlers. Sometimes there are six men in that house. She won’t resist – she wants that rock.”At 'Die Gat', an infamous drug den, the dealer flatly denies his involvement. “I know nothing. Who sent you here?” But after a pause, he mutters, “You can see for yourself – there are no jobs.”At 'Mama Grey’s' house, a notorious crack den just 500 metres from M&K High School, clients flock to the 'Queen of Rocks'. She refuses to speak but runs an empire, catering to students, bankers, lawyers and even law enforcement. Her butlers – young boys – are trained to swallow or hide drugs when the police arrive.A never-ending cycleBack at John and Martha’s, night falls. The house fills with builders fresh off work, dust from concrete still clinging to their hands. A young man, his frame skeletal, his eyes sunken, sits clutching a bar of Sunlight soap and a few teabags – his only currency for a fix.The transactions are seamless, almost imperceptible. A handshake, a glance. The drugs pass hands.Then, chaos. A shadow leaps over a half-built wall. “Die gattas is hier!”Martha shoves her baby into a friend’s arms, and we flee into the darkness. The neighbourhood watch truck rolls by, but by then, all evidence has vanished. The drugs, the marijuana – gone.No way out?John knows the system is rigged. “The police are tipped off by merchants. If the government was serious, they’d set up real roadblocks with scanning machines.”He details how drugs slip through: tablets hidden in bus dashboards, crack cocaine transported internally by couriers. Even transport drivers, underpaid and desperate, are roped in for easy cash.Meanwhile, back in Rehoboth, addicts light up under a tree, collapsing into a stupor. A dealer crushes mandrax under his heel, preparing another pipe.In the end, the cycle repeats. The money flows, the addicts return, and another mother weeps for her lost child.*Not their real names.

The dark underbelly of Rehoboth's drug trade

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Namibian Sun 2025-01-31

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The dark underbelly of Rehoboth's drug trade

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Namibian Sun 2025-01-31

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