Among the many things I have observed over the last ten years, both in my own life and in the lives of others, there is none that returns to my mind so frequently, and with such persistent clarity, as the quiet failure of many young men to grow up even after they have long since left home. The matter, if it were a private one, would not deserve mention here. But it is repeated with such regularity, and in so many forms, that it becomes difficult to ignore without appearing blind to what stands plainly in front of us.
A man, if he is to grow in the true sense, must at some point leave behind the comforts of his parents’ house. That much is understood. He must, as we say, go out into the world. But the act of departure, though useful and sometimes even admirable, carries no guarantee of internal change. I have known young men who moved from home, settled in towns far away, began to speak with the assurance of someone who had arrived at maturity, and yet in the small things, revealed that they were still boys dressed in borrowed titles. The world, generous as it is with its praise for appearances, has begun to confuse independence with manhood.
These men often live alone, pay their bills with inconsistency, share motivational quotes by day, and struggle quietly at night. They attend forums and repeat the vocabulary of leadership, words they barely understand but they cannot sit still long enough to think through a problem. They have mastered how to look the part but rarely ask whether they are truly becoming what they claim. It is easier, they say, to move forward. But forward from what? And toward what? Those questions, too fundamental for performance, are left unanswered.
A particular group among them troubles me even more. These are the men who become fathers before becoming men. They meet a girl, form a brief bond, and vanish the moment responsibility appears. The child is left with the mother. The cost of living is carried by one while the other moves on, starting again, often without apology. I have listened to these stories in Windhoek, and elsewhere, and the pattern rarely changes. The man leaves, explains his absence in vague language, and rebrands himself as misunderstood.
I spoke last week to a woman working in a small salon in Windhoek. She has a daughter, just over five years old. The father, she said, left when the child was a year old. He had promised to return. He had asked for time. He eventually changed his phone number. She heard, through others, that he was active on social media, speaking about growth. She no longer expects anything. She told me this calmly, without emotion, but with the steady voice of someone who has learnt to lower her expectations.
These men are not evil. They are simply unfinished. They have skipped steps. They have rushed the image without doing the work. They speak with certainty but live without consistency. They are admired by strangers who see the surface. But those who know them well their families, their children, the women they once promised to stay beside, carry a different version of their story. It is a story they rarely tell, because the telling brings shame. But the story is true nonetheless.
In my own life, I have made more mistakes than I care to list. I have failed in ways that were visible. I have spoken too soon. I have delayed what I should have done. But I kept returning. I kept facing the hard truths. I never told myself that moving to a new place was enough. I never believed that distance from home meant distance from immaturity. I chose instead to build. Slowly. Quietly. Sometimes clumsily. But always deliberately.
Growth, in its truest form, does not announce itself. It comes when we begin to take responsibility for what we once ignored. It begins when a man stops asking who failed him and begins to ask who he might be failing. It deepens when he learns to show up even when it is inconvenient, to speak clearly when it would be easier to retreat, and to honour those who rely on him without being reminded. These are small things, but they build the man.
This column is not written for applause. It is written for reflection. I am aware that many who read this will feel uneasy. Some will see themselves. Some will recognise a friend. Some may disagree with everything. That is all right. But if one young man pauses, just long enough to ask himself whether he is still pretending, then the work of writing this will have been worthwhile.
Leaving home is useful. Leaving comfort is necessary. But until a man leaves behind his need for praise, his fear of responsibility, and his refusal to be accountable, then nothing has really changed. He may pay rent. He may buy groceries. He may even attend church and wear good cologne. But unless he follows through, unless he calls his child, unless he corrects his own behaviour, then he has only shifted geography. Maturity still waits at the gate.
