Stanley N. Katzao
Twenty years ago, against the neon-lit canopy of Shanghai, I found myself sitting across from a political dreamer. The year was 2006.
We were perched on the 87th floor of the Jin Mao Tower, inside the quiet sanctuary of the Grand Hyatt Shanghai. Outside the floor-to-ceiling glass, a dense evening mist hung over the city, routinely sliced open by the laser-sharp beams of neon billboards and towering construction cranes. Below us, the bustling tributaries of the Yangtze River wound like ink strokes through a metropolis that was aggressively reshaping its own future.
As we looked through the window, the raw ambition of Shanghai was laid bare. Just outside, the massive skeleton of the Shanghai World Financial Center – what many then referred to as the upcoming World Trade Center – was under heavy construction, its steel frame rising halfway up into the night sky. The twin towers of the Shanghai IFC building had not even broken ground yet; their future site was still a dark patch of earth waiting for tomorrow.
Our official delegation, led by former President Hifikepunye Pohamba, had just wound down an intense schedule at the Forum on China-Africa Cooperation (FOCAC) Beijing Summit. While the state apparatus flew back, the two of us decided to take a well-deserved, few-days detour to Shanghai to decompress before heading back to the quiet vastness of Namibia.
At the time, Hage Geingob was in a profound state of political transition, or should I say strategic recalibration. To the outside observer, he was a “mere backbencher,” having recently returned from the United States following a grueling, self-imposed exile from the immediate centers of power. The towering title of Namibia’s first Prime Minister was behind him; the presidency was an unwritten, distant future. Yet, sitting there, I could sense a profound creative tension brewing within him. He was advancing these lofty, soaring visions for Namibia’s future, all while wrestling with a stark immediate reality: he was currently sitting very far from the traditional levers of power. That night, high above the city, he had to continually reconcile his humble present circumstances with the grand possibility of a future presidency, putting on full display the art of political resilience and human vulnerability. But Hage was no ordinary politician; he knew that his formidable liberation struggle credentials stood him
in good stead. They gave him an unshakeable bedrock of legitimacy, a historic anchor that ensured his voice could never truly be sidelined.
As we stared out at the Pudong district, that inner reconciliation mirrored the city outside. The restless energy of Shanghai – a city building its tomorrow in real-time amidst half-finished skyscrapers – became the perfect backdrop for his thoughts.
He spoke passionately that night, leaning over the table, his eyes reflecting the ambient glow of the Pudong district. Using a simple pen, he began weaving the conceptual framework for what would later become one of Namibia’s signature policy imperatives: The Namibian House.
His core philosophy was as simple as it was profound. He envisioned a nation – much like the sprawling city below me, with all its varying lights, contrasting corners, and disparate moving part – where no one feels left out. Everyone, regardless of color, race, tribe, religion, or socioeconomic background, must have a seat at the table. “A house only stands if every brick bears the weight,” he murmured, his hands sketching loose geometric frameworks on a paper napkin. “Everyone must play their part in its success.”
In his signature booming voice, tempered only by the intimacy of the restaurant, and with his trademark wit, he looked straight at me and warned: “You see, sometimes people confuse peace with boredom. But if you consider the alternative – if you look at the fractions that tear nations apart- you will quickly realize the disastrous consequences of letting even one citizen feel invisible.”
He was fiercely adamant that evening about an equation he had been perfecting in his mind. “Trust,” he told me, pointing his pen at the napkin, “is equal to transparency plus accountability.” It was a phrase that felt like a mathematical exercise that night, but it would later become the foundational cornerstone he cemented into his eventual administration through the Harambee Prosperity Plan (HPP) and his landmark mandate for public asset declaration among state officials.
As the hours drifted by, I had the quiet, immense privilege of serving as the sounding board for those embryonic thoughts. Little did I know that the man sketching these blueprints on cheap hotel linen while looking out at a halfway-built skyline would eventually ascend to the highest office in the land, rolling these exact ideals into national government policy.
Our bond, initiated in those late-night debates, was fundamentally forged through intellectual trust. The privilege of being his sounding board in Shanghai gave me the passage to later write and deliver the academic critique of his doctoral thesis from the University of Leeds. When he defended his PhD, titled “State Formation in Namibia: Promoting Democracy and Good Governance”, we weren’t just debating academic theory. We were validating the real-world execution of the ideas born or sharpened on the 87th floor of the Jin Mao Tower. In those quiet, electric hours high above China, I wasn’t just critiquing a future thesis; I was listening to the live blueprints of a future presidency being drawn in real-time.
Today, exactly two decades later, I find myself back in Shanghai. The view from the 87th floor has changed dramatically. The half-built towers of 2006 are long completed, joined now by the towering twist of the Shanghai Tower next door, symbolizing twenty years of relentless, vertical progression. I am here as part of an official business delegation with our current President, focusing on looking at our bilateral and trade relations with China from a completely new lens.
Yet, before the formal program began, I made a mandatory, solitary detour to the very same 87th-floor viewpoint.
Looking out over the Huangpu River, the empty chair across from me felt remarkably heavy, yet beautifully full of enduring warmth. I smiled at the memory of his infectious chuckle, his grand posture, and the sharp wit he always carried, even in his most serious ideological pursuits. I looked out at the fully realized, glowing city, poured a quiet toast, and paid homage to the statesman who turned his visionary musings into the very legislative structures that shape our nation’s modern trajectory.
The house we call Namibia was not built overnight, but every room of it was drawn from conversations like ours. Here’s to the vision, the legacy, and the Architect who taught us that in our beautiful house, no one should ever be left out.
Hage may have passed from this earth, but his intellectual fingerprints remain indelible – not only on the policies of our republic but, evidently, still lingering in the quiet corridors high up in the Jin Mao Tower
