A couple's struggle to survive in Windhoek
A tale of Namibia's new reality
A struggling couple, which has been sent from pillar to post, has narrated its ordeal of homelessness and hunger.
Sitting on a worn wooden chair, her feet swollen and heart heavy, an elderly woman shares the heartbreaking story of how she and her husband became homeless. Her weathered skin, still healing from old sunburns, bears witness to days spent under the relentless Namibian sun. Her voice, though soft, carries the weight of hardship, loss, and an uncertain future. Beside her, a glass of water trembles in her grasp as she recounts their journey of displacement, desperation, and resilience.
Their ordeal began long before December 11, the day they officially lost their home. For months, they had struggled to make ends meet. A single event - an unexpected financial burden - tipped the scales against them. Their rent became unaffordable, and eviction was swift and merciless. With nowhere to go, they were forced into a harsh reality where home was nowhere to be found.
Their belongings were reduced to what could fit into two suitcases, left outside under an awning. Attempts to secure a storage unit proved futile - every space was either occupied or too expensive. With no shelter, they wandered the streets, searching for safety, kindness, and a place to rest.
Seeking help, finding despair
Their first stop was the ministry of gender equality, where they hoped to find support. The woman’s husband, who had suffered from an eye condition since 2016, was unable to work. While he qualified for a pension, bureaucratic delays meant immediate help was out of reach.
That December evening, they found themselves outside the Windhoek Central Hospital, waiting, hoping. They sat on the cold ground until 10h00 at night, unsure of where to turn. Passersby ignored them, and security guards, bound by rules, told them they could not stay.
Her husband hailed a taxi to take them to a shelter. “The driver was polite, even waiting to ensure we got in,” she recalls. “But we rang the bell, again and again - no answer.”
Determined, her husband continued searching and found a security guard at a nearby church. However, the guard refused to provide a contact number. When he finally called the shelter administrator, her response was blunt. “She was absolutely rude,” the woman recounts tearfully. “She said we had woken her up and that the shelter was closed for the holiday. It would only reopen on January 8.”
Desperate, they turned to the State House. “We asked if there was someone we could talk to, but the security officer was dismissive. The office was closed for the holidays.” Out of options, they called Nampol and later the City Police, who eventually took them and their belongings to the police station.
For three days, they remained in the prosecution office, waiting for assistance. “People in the queue talked about how bad our situation was. Even the officers behind the counter reminded us that the police station is a public place - we did not belong there,” she says.
Once again, they were forced to leave. With nowhere else to go, they tried the Catholic hospital. By then, it had started to rain. “We met a kind security guard, but when another guard learned of our situation, he told us to leave. We only wanted to sit on the benches outside, but we were constantly moved along.”
That night, they found themselves at Post Street Mall, searching for a place to sleep. “We met an old acquaintance, once a decent man, now left with nothing,” she recalls.
As darkness fell, the terror began. With no shelter, the cold bit at their bones. “One night, someone gave us hospital blankets, but we had to sleep on a wooden bench, despite my muscle pain. The wind was freezing, and the rain poured down on us.”
A relative eventually brought her a blanket but only to judge them. “He insulted my husband. I was cold, upset, and just cried. My legs were shaking - my whole life felt shattered.”
Her husband called an ambulance, and she was taken to the hospital. “The doctors at Katutura State Hospital were truly helpful, despite what people say,” she says with a small smile.
“I stopped drinking water because there were no toilet facilities. That led to kidney failure,” she continues. “Imagine going a week without bathing, spending 24/7 in a wheelchair because I couldn’t sleep on the cold chairs. If you have voted, but your voice has been blown away by the wind, then you no longer have a voice. Those you voted for have already forgotten you.”
A pastor they knew stepped in and paid for temporary accommodation—until Wednesday. “We kept walking into closed doors whenever we sought help. To think that we believed things would get better, only to have to start from zero, truly breaks my heart,” she says, struggling to hold back tears.
An uncertain tomorrow
As the 83-year-old woman finishes her story, her eyes glisten with unshed tears. She does not seek pity, only understanding. Their journey is not just about losing a home - it is about the loss of dignity, security, and the fundamental human right to shelter.
“We just need a small place, as long as it has a roof and is safe,” she pleads.
With each passing day, the couple waits - hoping for a break, for a chance to rebuild. Until then, they remain in the shadows of Windhoek’s streets, clutching their suitcases, searching for a place to belong.
*The couple asked for anonymity, saying a recent article about them by another media house only exposed them to ridicule.
Their ordeal began long before December 11, the day they officially lost their home. For months, they had struggled to make ends meet. A single event - an unexpected financial burden - tipped the scales against them. Their rent became unaffordable, and eviction was swift and merciless. With nowhere to go, they were forced into a harsh reality where home was nowhere to be found.
Their belongings were reduced to what could fit into two suitcases, left outside under an awning. Attempts to secure a storage unit proved futile - every space was either occupied or too expensive. With no shelter, they wandered the streets, searching for safety, kindness, and a place to rest.
Seeking help, finding despair
Their first stop was the ministry of gender equality, where they hoped to find support. The woman’s husband, who had suffered from an eye condition since 2016, was unable to work. While he qualified for a pension, bureaucratic delays meant immediate help was out of reach.
That December evening, they found themselves outside the Windhoek Central Hospital, waiting, hoping. They sat on the cold ground until 10h00 at night, unsure of where to turn. Passersby ignored them, and security guards, bound by rules, told them they could not stay.
Her husband hailed a taxi to take them to a shelter. “The driver was polite, even waiting to ensure we got in,” she recalls. “But we rang the bell, again and again - no answer.”
Determined, her husband continued searching and found a security guard at a nearby church. However, the guard refused to provide a contact number. When he finally called the shelter administrator, her response was blunt. “She was absolutely rude,” the woman recounts tearfully. “She said we had woken her up and that the shelter was closed for the holiday. It would only reopen on January 8.”
Desperate, they turned to the State House. “We asked if there was someone we could talk to, but the security officer was dismissive. The office was closed for the holidays.” Out of options, they called Nampol and later the City Police, who eventually took them and their belongings to the police station.
For three days, they remained in the prosecution office, waiting for assistance. “People in the queue talked about how bad our situation was. Even the officers behind the counter reminded us that the police station is a public place - we did not belong there,” she says.
Once again, they were forced to leave. With nowhere else to go, they tried the Catholic hospital. By then, it had started to rain. “We met a kind security guard, but when another guard learned of our situation, he told us to leave. We only wanted to sit on the benches outside, but we were constantly moved along.”
That night, they found themselves at Post Street Mall, searching for a place to sleep. “We met an old acquaintance, once a decent man, now left with nothing,” she recalls.
As darkness fell, the terror began. With no shelter, the cold bit at their bones. “One night, someone gave us hospital blankets, but we had to sleep on a wooden bench, despite my muscle pain. The wind was freezing, and the rain poured down on us.”
A relative eventually brought her a blanket but only to judge them. “He insulted my husband. I was cold, upset, and just cried. My legs were shaking - my whole life felt shattered.”
Her husband called an ambulance, and she was taken to the hospital. “The doctors at Katutura State Hospital were truly helpful, despite what people say,” she says with a small smile.
“I stopped drinking water because there were no toilet facilities. That led to kidney failure,” she continues. “Imagine going a week without bathing, spending 24/7 in a wheelchair because I couldn’t sleep on the cold chairs. If you have voted, but your voice has been blown away by the wind, then you no longer have a voice. Those you voted for have already forgotten you.”
A pastor they knew stepped in and paid for temporary accommodation—until Wednesday. “We kept walking into closed doors whenever we sought help. To think that we believed things would get better, only to have to start from zero, truly breaks my heart,” she says, struggling to hold back tears.
An uncertain tomorrow
As the 83-year-old woman finishes her story, her eyes glisten with unshed tears. She does not seek pity, only understanding. Their journey is not just about losing a home - it is about the loss of dignity, security, and the fundamental human right to shelter.
“We just need a small place, as long as it has a roof and is safe,” she pleads.
With each passing day, the couple waits - hoping for a break, for a chance to rebuild. Until then, they remain in the shadows of Windhoek’s streets, clutching their suitcases, searching for a place to belong.
*The couple asked for anonymity, saying a recent article about them by another media house only exposed them to ridicule.
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