Thirty-five years after independence, perhaps Namibia needs to have the conversation we have avoided
What is in a name?
Shakespeare’s famous question was asked in an entirely different context, but it has extraordinary relevance to Namibia.
Because names are rarely just names.
They tell us who was here. They tell us who exercised power. They tell us whose language was considered important enough to appear on a map. They tell us whose history was remembered and whose history was pushed into the background.
And sometimes, changing a name is an act of remembering.
Thirty-five years after independence, perhaps Namibia should finally have an honest national conversation about the names of its towns and cities.
Not necessarily because every name with a European association must be erased. Nor because changing a name automatically repairs the injustices of colonialism.
But because an independent country should at least be able to ask whether the names on its maps adequately reflect its own history, languages and identity.
And nowhere is that conversation more appropriate than in the capital.
Should Windhoek remain Windhoek?
Or should Namibia consider restoring one of the indigenous names by which the place was known before the German colonial state established its capital here?
The two names immediately confronting us are /A//Gams and Otjomuise.
The City of Windhoek itself records that the area was known as “/Ai-//Gams” by Nama communities and “Otjomuise” by Herero communities.
Both names referred to the hot springs that were an important geographical feature of the area. Otjomuise is generally rendered as “place of steam”, while /Ai-//Gams is associated with “fire water”.
But there is an important complication.
Windhoek is not necessarily a name imposed by German colonialism.
Research published in the Journal of Namibian Studies notes that Windhoek was also a Nama-Oorlam name that predates 1884, when Germany established its colonial claim over what became German South West Africa.
The exact origin of the name remains disputed. Some accounts associate it with Winterhoek in South Africa, while others have suggested meanings such as “windy corner”.
So perhaps the argument should not be about simply removing a “colonial” name.
It should be about something much deeper.
Whose Namibia are we naming?
A capital with several histories
Windhoek has never belonged to only one historical narrative.
Before the German colonial period, the area was occupied and contested by African communities. Jan Jonker Afrikaner established a settlement here around 1849, close to the springs.
The City of Windhoek records that the area became a point of contact between Nama communities to the south and Herero communities to the north.
The settlement was subsequently destroyed and abandoned during conflict.
Then came the Germans.
In 1890, Curt von François established the German colonial military presence and laid the foundation of the Alte Feste. Windhoek became the capital of German South West Africa.
That moment fundamentally changed the trajectory of the place.
A settlement with African histories became the administrative centre of a colonial state.
The city that emerged subsequently carried the architecture, street names, monuments and institutional imprint of German colonial rule.
Independence changed the political system.
But it did not completely rewrite the map.
And perhaps that is understandable.
New governments have more urgent priorities than changing street signs.
There are schools to build, hospitals to equip, economies to grow and social inequalities to address.
Yet 35 years is a long time.
At some point, the question of identity becomes a legitimate part of nation-building.
Namibia has already had this debate
This is not a new conversation.
In 2005, then DTA president Katuutire Kaura proposed that Windhoek and several other Namibian towns be restored to indigenous names.
His proposals included Windhoek becoming Otjomuise, Tsumeb becoming Okavisume, Gobabis becoming Epako, Swakopmund becoming Otjozondjii, Walvis Bay becoming Ezorongondo and Grootfontein becoming Otjivanda.
The proposal generated controversy.
And perhaps the controversy exposed the central problem.
Who gets to decide what the indigenous name should be?
Namibia is not a country with one indigenous language or one precolonial political history.
A Herero name cannot automatically be assumed to be the “Namibian” name.
A Nama name cannot automatically be assumed to be the “Namibian” name.
Nor can an Oshiwambo, Damara, San, Kavango or Caprivian name automatically become a national name simply because it is indigenous.
The history is complicated.
And therefore the process must be more sophisticated than replacing one sign with another.
One letter published in The Namibian during the 2005 debate made precisely this point, arguing that a renaming strategy needed national guidelines and proper historical research because many places have names in several indigenous languages.
That may be the most sensible place to begin.
Not with a list of replacements.
With a national policy on place names.
The world has done this before
Namibia would not be embarking on some extraordinary experiment.
Countries all over the world have changed geographical names after political transformation.
Zimbabwe provides perhaps the most obvious African example.
At independence in 1980, Zimbabwe inherited a map filled with names reflecting British colonial rule and the Rhodesian state.
Salisbury became Harare in 1982.
The name Harare was associated with the Shona chief Neharawa, and the change formed part of the broader process of removing symbols associated with British colonialism and white minority rule.
Mozambique did something similar following independence.
Lourenço Marques became Maputo in 1976.
Other colonial-era names were replaced with African names as the newly independent state reconstructed its public landscape.
South Africa has undertaken an extensive, and sometimes highly contentious, geographical-name transformation process.
Port Elizabeth became Gqeberha.
Uitenhage became Kariega.
King William’s Town became Qonce.
The South African government explicitly described the exercise as part of transforming the country’s heritage landscape and said geographical names reflect the identity and cultural heritage of the people.
Importantly, South Africa has a statutory framework involving the South African Geographical Names Council and public consultation before changes are submitted for approval.
India provides another instructive example.
Bombay became Mumbai in 1995.
The Mumbai municipal authorities describe the change as a decision by the Maharashtra government, with Mumbai connected to Mumbadevi, the patron deity associated with the Koli community, regarded as the city’s original inhabitants.
The lesson is not that Namibia should copy any of these countries.
The lesson is that renaming can be part of the normal process through which nations renegotiate their relationship with history.
But renaming is not without consequences
There are legitimate arguments against indiscriminate renaming.
Names have economic value.
They are embedded in addresses, businesses, property records, passports, maps, databases, postal systems, navigation systems and international recognition.
Changing the name of a city is not like changing the name of a street.
It can involve significant administrative costs.
There is also the danger of political opportunism.
A government could theoretically use renaming to elevate one ethnic or political narrative above others.
That would be deeply counterproductive in a country that constitutionally belongs to all its citizens.
There is another danger: pretending that changing a name changes history.
It does not.
Changing “Windhoek” to “Otjomuise” would not undo the genocide. It would not return land. It would not repair economic inequality. It would not restore communities displaced by colonial rule.
A name is symbolic.
But symbols matter.
National flags do not feed people.
National anthems do not build hospitals.
Statues do not create jobs.
Yet countries understand that symbols are important because nations are also communities of memory.
The question is therefore not whether a name change solves Namibia’s problems.
It doesn’t.
The question is whether the symbolic landscape of an independent Namibia should more deliberately reflect the history and identity of its people.
That is a perfectly legitimate question.
Perhaps Windhoek should not be renamed immediately
This newspaper is not suggesting that the Cabinet should wake up tomorrow morning and announce that Windhoek is now Otjomuise.
That would be precisely the wrong approach.
Instead, Namibia should establish a National Geographical Names Commission, or strengthen an appropriate existing mechanism, with historians, linguists, traditional authorities, local communities, geographers, archivists and representatives of all relevant regions and language communities.
Interestingly, academic research has already recommended that Namibia establish a national place-names committee to manage the naming and renaming of places in accordance with international principles.
The United Nations system provides international guidance on geographical names and maintains a framework through the UN Group of Experts on Geographical Names.
Such a body could establish criteria.
A town could be considered for renaming where:
- its existing name is demonstrably a colonial imposition;
- a historically documented indigenous name exists;
- the proposed name has clear linguistic and historical evidence;
- the relevant communities have been consulted;
- there is broad public support;
- the change does not unnecessarily erase another community’s history;
- and the economic and administrative consequences have been properly assessed.
This would transform renaming from a political stunt into a nation-building exercise.
And why stop at Windhoek?
Windhoek should perhaps be the beginning of the conversation, not the end.
Look at Namibia’s map.
Swakopmund.
Lüderitz.
Grootfontein.
Karibib.
Usakos.
Tsumeb.
Gobabis.
Walvis Bay.
Mariental.
Keetmanshoop.
And numerous smaller settlements and geographical features.
Some names have indigenous origins. Some have colonial origins. Some are translations or corruptions of indigenous names. Some have complicated histories involving several communities.
The Atlas of Namibia demonstrates just how diverse the origins of Namibian place names are. Some have been used for centuries; others were assigned much more recently.
That diversity is precisely why a blanket “decolonise everything” approach would be inadequate.
We need historical scholarship.
We need linguistic scholarship.
We need community consultation.
And we need patience.
There is also an opportunity here
Imagine a Namibia in which every town’s name tells a story.
Imagine a schoolchild in Swakopmund learning that the place has a much older indigenous history than the name on the road sign suggests.
Imagine a tourist arriving in Windhoek and being told that the capital has been known as ǀAiǁGams and Otjomuise, names connected to the springs around which human settlement developed.
Imagine our maps recording not only the names imposed during colonialism, but the layers of history that existed before them.
That would not erase history.
It would add history.
Perhaps that is the better way to think about decolonisation.
Not destruction.
Addition.
We do not have to destroy German or Afrikaans or English history to acknowledge Nama, Herero, Damara, Ovambo, Kavango, Lozi and San histories.
We can tell all of them.
But official names have a special power because they are what the state puts on the map.
So, should Windhoek become Otjomuise?
There is no need to answer that question today.
In fact, perhaps we shouldn’t.
The better question is:
Should Namibia seriously investigate whether its capital should be known by an indigenous name?
The answer to that question deserves to be yes.
Not because “Windhoek” is necessarily a colonial name.
It isn’t that simple.
Not because Otjomuise is necessarily the single correct alternative.
It isn’t that simple either.
And certainly not because changing the name would somehow complete decolonisation.
It wouldn’t.
But because 35 years after independence, it is reasonable for Namibians to ask whether the names on our national map adequately represent the country we became in 1990.
Perhaps the ultimate solution could even be more imaginative than choosing one name over another.
Could Windhoek officially recognise Windhoek/ /A//Gams/ Otjomuise as a layered historical identity?
Could one name become the formal municipal name while the others are protected as historical names?
Could major public institutions, districts or cultural spaces carry the indigenous names?
Could the city use indigenous names alongside Windhoek in signage during a transition?
There are many possibilities.
The important thing is to start the conversation.
A map is a political document
We often imagine maps as neutral.
They are not.
A map tells us what a state considers important enough to name.
It preserves some memories and forgets others.
Namibia’s post-independence generation inherited a map largely drawn before independence.
We have changed some street names.
We have renamed some institutions.
We have renamed roads.
We have honoured our heroes.
But perhaps we have been reluctant to confront the larger question of the towns themselves.
Thirty-five years is enough time to ask.
Not angrily.
Not ethnically.
Not vindictively.
But intellectually.
What should an independent Namibia look like on the map?
Perhaps Windhoek will remain Windhoek.
Perhaps it will become Otjomuise.
Perhaps ǀAiǁGams will return to prominence.
Perhaps, in the end, the city will formally recognise all three histories.
But whatever the answer, Namibia should not be afraid of the question.
Because this is not really about changing a sign at the entrance to the capital.
It is about something much bigger.
It is about deciding whose stories we want the next generation to see when they look at a map of their country.
And perhaps, 35 years after independence, that is a conversation whose time has finally come.
