Lazarus Kwedhi
The recent State House intrusion wasn’t just a security lapse. It did not only expose a deeper problem in the State House security cluster, but it further probed the question of who holds the President to account when the presidency fails?
On 30 April, an intruder was reported to have scaled the wall at State House, passed empty police booths and a CCTV blind spot, and reached the floor near the president’s bedroom before being caught by a family member.
Days earlier, the same suspect had reportedly jumped the wall and intruded into the house of former GIPF CEO David Nuyoma in Pioneerspark, where he was overpowered by residents, and also into the house of Commissioner Abraham, head of the VVIP Protection Unit at State House.
The incidents were linked, but they were not at the same location. The breach at State House stood alone, but the most fundamental issue remains unanswered: it is not only whether the intruder (Seiseb) is a scapegoat being used to cause embarrassment amid an internal power struggle but also a direct threat to the presidency itself.
The presidency has refused to comment while the case is sub judice, and Seiseb’s claim that he “was sent” and would “be back” has only deepened suspicion. Whether true or not, the vacuum of information ensures that the narrative of political manipulation will persist.
The political response was predictable; President Netumbo Nandi-Ndaitwah suspended Police Inspector General Joseph Shikongo. But accountability cannot end at the top of the police chain of command. Former police chief Sebastian Ndeitunga called it negligence; a restricted zone “could not have happened if police officers did not relax their vigilance.”
On paper, State House is well funded. The Office of the President received over N$1.4 billion for 2025/26, with N$180.5 million earmarked for intelligence and safety. The broader safety and security sector received N$17 billion — nearly a fifth of the national budget. But the auditor general had already flagged N$131 million in unauthorised expenditure at the Office of the President.
The April security breach at State House showed that the problem wasn’t money. It was discipline, and discipline is what the public watches when it judges whether the executive can be trusted. It is also evidently clear that the State House breach is not only more than a security failure but also a test of whether the “nobody is above the protocol” principle applies at State House itself.
Therefore, until the investigation names failures beyond the IG’s office and addresses the question of political motive, the breach will remain both a security crisis and a political one.
The core of the contention
State House is meant to be the most secure building in Namibia — the final line of defence. If an intruder can scale the most protected wall of State House, bypass empty police booths, walk through the guest house, and reach the floor outside the president’s bedroom without being stopped, then the promise of that “restricted zone” has not only failed, but it’s a clear sign that no one is safe in this country.
If the head of state feels unsafe in her own official residence, which directly falls under her own security cluster, why should the public trust the presidency with the national security and let alone the idea behind centralising control over strategic assets like oil and gas? The argument is not about the presidency as the highest office. It’s about who controls the decision to grant oil and gas exploration licences and who the beneficiaries are.
The security at State House failed under the president’s leadership. She is the head of state and Commander-in-Chief. Yet Shikongo was suspended for that same failure. The logic the public is applying is direct: if the inspector general loses his job because State House is not safe, why should Parliament, Swapo, voters, and the public feel safe trusting the president with ultimate responsibility for national security?
The President cannot credibly be a commander-in-chief if the place she sleeps is not secure in her own watch and simultaneously expect the public to feel safe when she herself is unsafe in the most protected building in the country.
That’s why the question isn’t merely about Shikongo. It’s also about whether the person at the top of the chain, the president who is a commander-in-chief, meets the same standard of accountability for the State House breach. Feeling unsafe at State House doesn’t stay in State House; it ripples out to whether the parliament, her own political party, electorate and general public trust the president, State House security and the entire command structure of the State Security Cluster.
Beyond firing and hiring
The State House breach should have been a moment of self-introspection, not just firing and hiring alone. Otherwise, the suspension of both the political head of the Ministry of Health and the administrative head responsible for mental health state facilities. The problem goes beyond security, beyond trust, beyond budget. It’s about the security cluster’s duty and commitment to protect state sovereignty, which includes State House and the president, beyond personal differences.
When the most restricted zone in the country is compromised, the response cannot be limited to removing one official. The entire security apparatus has to look inward as to why multiple layers failed, why police booths were empty, why CCTV did not trigger, and why the security cluster’s vigilance collapsed at the very centre of state power. That is a test of institutional discipline, not just individual culpability.
Where accountability must run
Shikongo reports to the president and can be suspended by the President if a State House security breach is the substantive reason for his removal. On the other hand, the President reports to Cabinet, to Parliament, to her party, as well as to voters and the public at large. Because there is no higher authority than the above authority to fire the president, the check to fire the president for security breach is political rather than administrative.
By suspending Shikongo for a breach of State House security, the President exercised her executive power. Therefore, by the same standard, Cabinet, Parliament, Swapo, as well as voters and the public at large, face the first test of whether to exercise their power and hold the president accountable for the mere fact that the President bears ultimate responsibility for the security of the presidency and the unfortunate part is that the State House security breach happened on her watch, in the institution she directly commands, not on Shikongo alone.
The core tension here is the fact that the president isn’t just “Netumbo the person”. She is the head of state, and State House is not just a house. It is designated by the Constitution and the State House Act as the official seat of the presidency and residence of the president, with protocols, archives, command facilities, and secure communications tied to national security required for crisis response.
Hence, the decision to stay at her private home in Pioneerspark after the State House security failure, while understandable for personal safety reasons, creates a constitutional and symbolic problem, sidestepping the very foundation of State House security protocol.
Staying out wasn’t a way to restore public confidence. It was an avoidance of the deeper problem at hand. The expectation was to secure the President official residence on the spot, return everything to normalcy, and prove that everything is under control. Abandoning it instead signals that the president can opt out of protocol when it fails, while everyone under her cannot, but face consequences if they do.
Why this matters beyond security
Namibia has seen what happens when control over strategic assets gets pulled into a closed circle around the executive. Fishrot showed how centralising power to grant fishing rights and quotas enabled abuse. With oil and gas revenue on the horizon, the same concern applies. The question is whether the presidency can credibly manage centralised control without repeating the same pattern at a time when the executive appeared to lack executive control in the Fishrot scandal and when it is evidently clear in the State House security breach scandal. Trust comes from proving institutions work and have oversight mechanisms, not from concentrating more power in a single unit after they fail.
Nobody is above the law, and nobody is above protocol; that is the golden rule. Suspending Shikongo did not transfer constitutional responsibility; it held everyone responsible and accountable. Staying at a private residence does not create immunity; it erodes public trust in the Presidency over national security affairs. If a security breach is serious enough to cost the inspector general his job, it is serious enough to test whether the president meets the same standard. Thus, the test now sits with Cabinet, Parliament, Swapo, voters, and the general public to see whether they really have the power to hold the president accountable for the same reason Shikongo was suspended: a breach of State House security and an abandonment of the official residence. Accountability in Namibia is not a one-way street.
