There is something profoundly absurd about the fact that, three decades after independence, Namibia continues to lose the battle against Ngungula, the smuggling of cheap Angolan fuel into the country. Every few months, the police announce a “breakthrough”, a new arrest, or a haul of jerry cans and plastic drums seized from some unsuspecting backyard in Oshikango, Ongwediva or Oshakati. And then, predictably, it is back to business as usual. The trade continues. The prices remain irresistible. And the authorities remain helpless.
The question that must now be asked, bluntly, without euphemism or diplomatic restraint, is this: has the Namibian government simply run out of ideas?
The anatomy of a failure
Ngungula is not a new phenomenon. It has been part of life along the northern border since before independence. Yet, despite decades of “operations”, “crackdowns”, and “joint patrols”, the problem has only become more entrenched. It is now a parallel economy, run with sophistication, logistics, and community complicity.
Officials often reach for the same tired explanation: unemployment. “People are smuggling because they have no jobs,” we are told. But this line of reasoning has worn thin. Unemployment explains desperation, not defiance of national law on an industrial scale. What we see today is not survival; it is profit-making. A black-market fuel cartel that has figured out that the state has no coherent border strategy, no intelligence coordination, and no political will to end the leakage.
Let’s be clear: smuggling is not an act of poverty; it is an act of opportunity. Containers of fuel cross the border daily, hidden in trucks, carried in bakkies, and stored in homes. The smugglers are not ghosts; they are neighbours, traders, and even transport operators. They are enabled by weak enforcement, porous borders, and a culture of shrugging compliance.
The government’s failure to contain this trade is not merely a law enforcement problem. It is an economic one. Every litre of smuggled petrol represents lost revenue, money that should have gone to fuel levies, road maintenance funds, and national taxes. It undercuts legitimate service stations that employ Namibians, pay VAT, and contribute to the economy.
Moreover, Ngungula distorts the fuel market. It makes a mockery of price regulation, undermines consumer protection, and introduces dangerous, low-quality fuel into engines and generators. Every time a smuggled litre is poured into a taxi, a bus, or a generator, it puts lives and livelihoods at risk. We are not only talking about lost revenue but also about potential fires, explosions, and environmental hazards from unregulated storage in homes and informal settlements.
When the government allows such chaos to persist, it signals something far worse than incompetence; it signals surrender.
The empty excuse of poverty
It is both condescending and false to suggest that the poor must be excused for criminality because of their poverty. Poverty is not a licence to endanger lives. We do not justify theft because “the thief was hungry.” Likewise, we cannot justify fuel smuggling because “people cannot afford fuel.”
If fuel is too expensive, then the government must address that through economic policy, through tax reform, fuel subsidy reviews, or competition enhancement, not by turning a blind eye to lawlessness. To pretend that smuggling is an act of economic resistance is to abandon the very notion of a state governed by law.
Besides, let us not forget that most Namibians, rural farmers, domestic workers, and informal traders, manage to obey the law despite their hardship. To frame fuel smugglers as victims is to insult those millions who choose dignity over delinquency.
Angola’s complicity
Equally troubling is the silence on the other side of the border. Angola cannot pretend innocence in this matter. The smuggled fuel originates there, and Angolan authorities have done little, if anything, to control the outflow. Cheap, subsidised fuel is meant for Angolan citizens, not for cross-border syndicates who exploit exchange rates and porous crossings for profit.
It is time for Namibia to demand accountability from its neighbour. A joint enforcement mechanism must be established, not in theory but in practice. There should be coordinated patrols, shared intelligence, and punitive measures for repeat offenders on both sides. Diplomatic niceties must no longer mask economic sabotage.
The longer this continues, the deeper the rot will spread. Border smuggling breeds corruption among customs officials, police officers, and even politicians. It normalises illegality and erodes the moral authority of the state. Once people realise that laws can be broken with impunity, other forms of criminal enterprise follow: counterfeit goods, drug trafficking, and wildlife poaching.
The Ngungula economy is a gateway crime. It starts with a jerry can of petrol but ends with an entire culture of defiance.
What must be done
Namibia needs more than raids and press releases. It needs a full-spectrum response, policy, policing, and partnership.
- Policy: Review border fuel pricing and consider controlled trade zones where legitimate cross-border exchange can occur without feeding the black market.
- Policing: Strengthen the Anti-Smuggling Task Force with modern surveillance, drones, and data-sharing between customs, police, and the Namibian Defence Force.
- Partnership: Engage Angola directly to align border protocols, identify high-risk traders, and establish a shared fuel monitoring system.
And above all, Namibia must reclaim the moral and economic authority of its borders. Because a nation that cannot control its frontiers cannot control its future.
The persistence of Ngungula is not about fuel; it is about failure. Failure to govern borders, failure to innovate in economic policy, and failure to confront corruption. For a government that prides itself on sovereignty, this is a humiliation.
It is time to end the pretence. This is not “business as usual”. This is a national embarrassment. And if the government cannot end Ngungula, the people have every right to ask: what, then, can it do?
