ZINC HEARTS, DUSTY FEET, UNBREAKABLE SOULS

Come walk with me for a moment. Not on the tar roads where things are neat and names are known. Turn off where the dust starts rising even before your feet touch the ground. Where the wind talks to zinc like it is angry. This is where we stay. This is the location.

Shacks stand close to each other, not because there is no space, but because even zinc understands community. Rust on the outside, life on the inside. The smell of kapana smoke mixes with firewood and sand after rain. Streets do not have names here, only directions. “Turn by the green shack.” “Next to that container.”

People pass us fast. Windows up. Eyes forward. Like if they look too long, poverty will follow them home. They say it quietly, sometimes loudly. Those people are dirty. All because we live in shacks. All because our struggle is visible.

But inside these shacks, life is busy happening. A mother wakes up before sunrise, not because she wants to, but because survival does not sleep. She boils water on a paraffin stove, counting in her head how to stretch little into enough. Her child sleeps on the floor, wrapped in thin blankets, dreaming big dreams in a small space.

Outside, kids play with whatever they can find. A plastic bottle becomes a football. Laughter fills the air, loud and careless, because joy is free even when everything else is expensive. Bare feet hit hot sand, and nobody complains. This is normal here.

Yes, we struggle. Rain does not knock before it enters. Wind shakes the shack and your faith at the same time. When it is cold, it is cold everywhere. When it is hard, it is hard for everyone. But still, we wake up. Still, we hustle. Still, we say, tomorrow will be better, neh.

They look at us like we are less. Like intelligence needs brick walls. Like dignity comes with money. They forget that wisdom also grows in dust, that strength is built in hardship, not comfort.

Here, neighbors share sugar. Here, children belong to everyone. Here, when someone passes on, the whole location mourns. Not because we have much, but because we have each other. Community is the only wealth we were guaranteed.

They call us filthy, but filth is seeing a human being and judging them by their address. Filth is comfort without compassion. We may not have electricity all the time, but our hearts are switched on. We may not have titles, but we have stories worth hearing.

From these shacks will rise voices you did not listen to. From this dust will come leaders you did not expect. From the ghetto you laughed at will come people shaped by struggle and sharpened by pain.

So do not just slow down when you pass through our area. Do not just look. See us. See the systems that failed us. See the policies that forgot us. See the leaders who campaign here, promise heaven, then disappear once the votes are counted.

Stop talking about us without talking to us. Stop planning for us without including us. Stop acting like development ends where the tar road stops. We are not an afterthought. We are citizens. We are the majority you keep ignoring.

We are tired of being patient. Tired of being told to wait. Tired of being grateful for crumbs while others eat full plates. Dignity is not a favor. Basic services are not charity. Housing, water, sanitation, and safety are rights, not gifts.

This zinc you see is not permanent. This dust is not our destiny. From these locations will rise voices that refuse to be silenced. Voices that will vote, speak, organize, build, and demand better. We are done whispering. We are done shrinking ourselves to make others comfortable.

We are not asking for pity. We are demanding justice. We are demanding visibility. We are demanding a future where being born in a shack does not sentence you to a lifetime of being overlooked.

We are Namibian. We are from the location. We are alive.

And whether you acknowledge it or not, our life matters, and we are not going anywhere. ✊🏾🔥