The conundrum of development
By Reinhold Mangundu
The question of development is no longer about roads, electricity, or expanding town boundaries. It
is about dignity. It is about livelihoods. It is about identity. And most importantly, it is about who
development is really for.
As our towns and cities expand, swallowing the villages that have sustained generations, we must
ask ourselves a difficult question: Who are we urbanising for if our dignity remains in question and
our livelihoods remain under constant threat?
This question was powerfully raised by lawyer Kadhila Amoomo, who asked when we will begin to
rethink the urbanisation of our villages on their Facebook page. His concern follows the recent
outcry by crop field owners in Ondangwa, who protested against the town council over a monthly
fee of N$105. Ten field owners within Ondangwa’s jurisdiction are now being charged monthly
rental fees because their land falls under town authority. While the council may have the legal
mandate, the situation exposes a much deeper, systemic problem, urbanisation without justice,
development without people at the centre.
This moment struck me deeply. Not only because of Kadhila’s question, but because it echoes
something I have been grappling with for a long time, as a born resident of Okapya village, not far
from Ondangwa, and as a trained development planner. Over the years, I have come to recognise
the mirage of development: how urbanisation, in the name of economic growth, services, and
opportunity, often takes more from us than it gives.
What we are left with are structures, shopping malls, shopping centres, concrete landscapes, while
wealth is centralised and trapped in systems that benefit only a few. Our people are left earning low
wages, struggling to pay for basic services, losing the security of growing their own food, and
stripped of a sense of place and identity. We lose the deep connection to land, the ability to feed
ourselves through generational knowledge and practices rooted in subsistence and care for the
earth.
This is not an abstract debate for me. It is deeply personal.
In December 2025, I spent time at home in Okapya. I ate fresh mangoes grown from scratch, spinach
from our fields, fresh meat, everything prepared and kept at home. What we eat, we grow from the
land. Jokingly, it is often said that we live “next to the road,” where one can take a taxi straight from
the shower. While humorous, the metaphor speaks volumes about proximity to infrastructure. Yet it
also made me wonder: how close are we to losing our fields altogether?
We already have electricity, clean water, and access to transport. That is enough. That is what rural
dignification could look like. Turning our fields into town extensions, losing them to the expansion of
Ondangwa, would mean losing far more than land. We have already lost so much to this conundrum
of development.
I was born in Okapya, a village in the communal areas of northern Namibia. Like many villages in the
north, Okapya is made up of homesteads spread between Oshanas and small river tributaries. A
main road runs adjacent to the village, connecting Ondangwa, about 12 kilometres away, and
Ongwediva, about 20 kilometres away.
Villagers are mainly subsistence farmers, growing pearl millet (mahangu) and sorghum. At times, we
grow beans, watermelon, and pumpkin, and we keep small numbers of livestock donkeys, pigs,
goats, and cattle. The Oshanas, which flood after heavy rains, are sources of water and fresh fish. On
good rainy days, frogs even become a delicacy.
As Owambo people, our culture has always been deeply tied to the surrounding ecosystems. For
generations, we lived with nature, not against it. There was care for forests, soil, and water systems
because we understood that survival depended on balance. And in return, nature provided. Rivers
flowed freely, grasslands flourished, Oshanas filled with fish, and indigenous trees like Mopane gave
us food and building materials.
Our forests were sacred. They were protected across generations. I never experienced them at their
densest, I was born too late, at the beginning of massive deforestation but I felt their importance
through my father’s stories.
Homesteads were built from clay, wood, and grass. The huts were cool even in the harsh northern
heat. Everything we needed came from the environment including herbs for treating illness. We
collected water from rivers and dams, gathered cattle dung and dead wood for cooking, and
gathered around the fire while food was prepared. Those fires were not just for warmth; they were
spaces of storytelling, learning, idioms, and African proverbs. They were spaces of family and
reflection.
Our staple food was oshifima, with meat or wild spinach. On special days, we enjoyed the “marathon
chicken” and I loved the chase.
Pearl millet was pounded from what we grew ourselves. Fields were prepared with donkeys and
hoes. I was born during the transition to tractors, though my mother still insisted we weed by hand.
As Chinua Achebe wrote, “Things fall apart.”
The late 1990s marked the beginning of radical change. The village began losing its identity through
social, ecological, and economic shifts. Tractors replaced donkeys. Traditional huts gave way to
cement houses. Dependence on ecosystem services declined. Indigenous trees were no longer
needed for building. Clay lost its value. Instead, materials were bought from town, labour was
monetised, and “modernity” became the measure of progress.
Ironically, those who still live in traditional huts are now seen as poor. Yet these structures are
cooler, more sustainable, and deeply connected to place. Electricity made life easier, and I
appreciate that, but it also came with loss.
Land became commodified. Fencing increased. Families were divided. Grazing land shrank. Livestock
was pushed to distant cattle posts near national parks, where conflicts with wildlife increased.
Predators began killing livestock, another unintended consequence.
Water and electricity brought undeniable benefits: improved health, reduced waterborne diseases,
access to information, and reduced physical labour. But they also ended daily gatherings at rivers,
spaces where children bonded, learned, and built community. Social cohesion quietly disappeared.
At the same time, deforestation accelerated. Land was cleared to sell plots. Logs were used for
fencing. Forests vanished. Water flows were disrupted. Vulnerability to floods increased. In 2011,floods submerged our home. Fields were destroyed. Yet even then, locals called it a blessing,
because of the fish.
This is not a simple story. It is a complex adaptive system, responding and reshaping itself under the
weight of development.
Rethinking development before it is too late
And now, in light of accelerating urbanisation, returning to Kadhila Amoomo’s point: we are at risk of
losing everything that sustains us.
Losing this is not progress.Our villages are life-support systems. They are places where identity,
dignity, and livelihoods are nested, generation to generation. Development should not mean
transforming every village into a town. It should mean responding to people’s real needs.
Universal access to affordable water and electricity is non-negotiable. But equally important is
strong support for food subsistence, for local production, for diverse and organic farming systems,
and for village-based markets where people can buy locally and affordably. That is what development should look like.
We must stop romanticising urbanisation and start protecting villages as living systems. Turning
them into towns in the name of services, opportunities, and economic growth must be relooked,
urgently, honestly, and with humility.
Because if development costs us our land, our food, our dignity, and our sense of belonging, then it
is not development at all.
Reinhold Mangundu was born in Okapya village and remains a devoted son of that land. He is
completing his PhD in Sustainable Development at Stellenbosch University and holds various
qualifications including a Rural Development Honours degree from the Namibia University of Science
and Technology,
