Namibians deserve consistency from those who seek to lead them. They deserve principle anchored in action, not rhetoric that evaporates at the first touch of reality. The unfolding controversy around the Independent Patriots for Change (IPC) and its newly installed leader of the official opposition, Immanuel “Imms” Nashinge, is not merely about a vehicle. It is about credibility. It is about whether populist indignation survives contact with responsibility.
For years, IPC leader Dr Panduleni Itula has built political capital on righteous outrage. He has lambasted presidential salaries as excessive. He has condemned parliamentary salary increases as unjustifiable in a country grappling with unemployment, inequality and grinding poverty. He has portrayed high office as a public trust, not a personal benefit scheme. He has gone so far as to declare that he would not take up a parliamentary seat, arguing that he would not burden taxpayers with unnecessary costs. According to him, leadership is about sacrifice.
It was a powerful message. It resonated.
In a country where many citizens survive on social grants and informal incomes, the sight of well-fed politicians cruising in luxury SUVs is an easy target. IPC positioned itself as the antidote to excess, the moral corrective to what it calls elite indulgence. It presented itself as a movement above material temptation.
Yet here we are.
The current dispute centres on the official opposition leader’s government-issued vehicle. Works and Transport Minister Veikko Nekundi informed Parliament that Nashinge had refused two second-hand vehicles, a Toyota Prado and a Toyota Fortuner, offered due to a moratorium on new vehicle purchases. Nashinge disputes the characterisation of a refusal, arguing that one of the vehicles was unroadworthy and raised safety concerns.
On the surface, this could be dismissed as administrative wrangling. No one disputes that public officials are entitled to safe transport. If a vehicle is genuinely unsafe, it should not be issued to anyone, politician or public servant.
But the broader optics are devastating.
This is the same political formation that has railed against the culture of entitlement. The same party whose leader rejected Parliament in part because of its “wastefulness”. The same party that insists leadership should not be about perks.
Now it is caught in a public spat over whether a second-hand Prado or Fortuner is good enough.
One cannot spend years decrying “luxury politics” and then appear aggrieved when luxury is not immediately delivered. That is the problem with populism: it thrives in opposition but stumbles in governance. It is easy to condemn the system when you do not have to operate within it. It is harder when the system begins to apply to you.
There is also the irony of IPC’s own internal contradictions. Dr Itula has reportedly questioned the constitutionality of the “Leader of the Official Opposition” title and its associated benefits. If the office itself is suspect, if its perks are questionable, why is the party not declining them altogether? Why not make a principled statement by rejecting the vehicle, the allowances, and the trappings and proving that IPC is serious about redefining public service?
Instead, the country is treated to a spectacle: claims of refusal, denials of refusal, and promises of a new fleet of zero-kilometre vehicles on the way.
The matter was raised in Parliament by former opposition leader McHenry Venaani, who questioned why Nashinge had gone so long without transport. The irony here is almost theatrical. Namibia’s opposition parties, often divided by ideology and personality, now find themselves debating the condition of official SUVs while unemployment and service delivery remain pressing national concerns.
Let us be clear. Safety is non-negotiable. If a vehicle is unroadworthy, it must not be used. But IPC’s broader messaging makes this controversy politically combustible. When you define yourself as the anti-perk party, you invite scrutiny the moment you engage with perks.
The average Namibian listening to this debate is not parsing procurement regulations. They are hearing this: politicians arguing over cars.
And that perception erodes trust.
Populism operates on moral absolutism, the claim that others are corrupt, self-serving or detached. But when those who wield such language encounter the same structures, they must either uphold their rhetoric through sacrifice or risk being exposed as opportunists.
IPC cannot have it both ways.
It cannot argue that parliamentary salaries are excessive and then treat official entitlements as indispensable. It cannot frame Parliament as a waste of public resources and simultaneously demand the full suite of benefits attached to parliamentary office. It cannot present itself as morally superior while engaging in the same contests over state resources that it condemns in others.
If IPC believes political salaries and benefits are excessive, it has options. It can legislate reductions. It can voluntarily redirect funds to scholarships and social causes, as it has previously suggested. It can set a new standard.
But complaining about a second-hand vehicle while waiting for a brand-new one to arrive undermines the moral high ground.
This episode reveals a fundamental truth about governance: ideals are tested in practice. It is easy to preach austerity from the outside. It is harder to live it when comfort is within reach.
Namibians are not naïve. They understand that public office comes with certain functional necessities. But they also understand hypocrisy. And what IPC must now confront is not a vehicle shortage — it is a credibility shortage.
The question is not whether Nashinge should drive a Prado or a Fortuner. The question is whether IPC’s commitment to modest, service-orientated leadership survives once the keys are handed over.
Populist politics promises purity. Governing demands consistency.
IPC now stands at the intersection of its own rhetoric and reality. The road ahead will reveal which one it truly values.
