The Unseen Chains Of Success

All I wanted was to be my own boss and I had it at the back of my grandmother’s yard. In a small shack and inside was loud like an airplane because of the fan during hot days and colder than the north pole during winter. I had it all, those were the good days. All the profit was coming to me and I made my own decisions. I was living the life.

Growing up I never had anyone to look up to. My father was unfortunately robbed of his life at the end of a dark tunnel that did not have light at the end of it (Gun). Uncle is incarcerated for helping himself with people’s possessions, so my mother explained to me. This meant that I had to be the head of the house at a younger age and show my younger brother the way of life. Everyone talked about the key to success (Education) so I followed the road.

Then I did my matric. No longer had time to run my cellphone repair business and it ran out of business. I focused on my matric trying to achieve distinctions. My parent’s believed in the words “Education is the key to success”. That meant that I would be the first in my family to pass my National Senior Certificate. So, I locked in and my dream was a few steps closer, so I thought. Finally received my key and it opened university doors. Didn’t hesitate to take the opportunity and graduate. People congratulated me and said I had a bright future ahead of me and I can help my family once I am established as an accountant.

Then I got my key, didn’t realise before it was too late that it was the key to my own jail cell. My certificate was the key to the middle class. Landed employment at one of the big accounting firms in Johannesburg my life sentence started. Got my own corner office which had the best view of the sun. Mt future looked bright. The office was small but could fit a chair, desk and a three-seater couch. Most of the time I would end up sleeping on the same couch due to heavy deadlines. Could see the sunshine but never the heat like when I was in Alex in the morning drinking drink or pop with bread before going to school as I entered the work environment before it shined and knocking off after it has wen’t down. Slowly my facial expression changed. Red eyes, straight mouth that my dimples disappeared.

Then came the first paycheck, R25 000, relocated from the slumps of Alex and into a R 11 000 two room apartment at Sandton. Qualified for a car instalment at the cost of R4000. Black tax for R3 000, living expenses = R3000 and entertainment was R2 000 and clothing account was R2000. “Had to look the part”. Fast forward I’m now 35 years old. Got my first promotion and had a baby on the way. We, me and my small family, had to get a march bigger house and a new car to accommodate our baby. New salary is R45 000. Mortgage bond = R15 00, Car including insurance and fuel = R10 000, Black tax R6 000, my brother was in university, clothing account = R3 000, living expenses = R7 000 and entertainment expenses = R3 500. Savings = R500.

Everything seemed like it was going right in the eyes of my peers but deep down I was broken. Couldn’t even recognize the young boy who had a dream of being his own boss. Dreams are for children not men with families I told myself when thinking of the dreams I had when I was young. Year in year out all I did was go to work and my employer was happy. The system had we in its grasp like a gorilla squeezing the soul out of me. When I look in the mirror all I was a slave. The clothes I was wearing were provided by my employer, the house I lived in was owned by the bank. The watch on my wrist was a chain that made sure I reported to work on the right time. I was no longer my own man. If I were to start my own business I would lose everything I have worked hard for. That’s when I saw that my employer paid me enough to be able to live but not able to start my own business.

The Gilded Shackle: A Memoir of the Middle Class

The King of the Yard

My first taste of freedom was forged in the back of my grandmother’s yard. I was the master of a small shack that breathed with the rhythmic, airplane-like roar of a desk fan during the sweltering Transvaal summers and turned as biting as the North Pole in winter. In that space, I held the world in my hands. I was a teenage entrepreneur, a cellphone repairman whose profit was his own and whose decisions were final.

The stakes were higher than just business, however. My father’s life had been stolen at the end of a dark tunnel with no light at the exit—only the cold flash of a gun. With an uncle incarcerated for seizing what did not belong to him, I became the head of my household by default, tasked with carving a path for my younger brother.

The Key and the Cage

"Education is the key to success," they told me. I believed it. I shuttered my repair business to chase distinctions in matric, becoming the first in my bloodline to earn a National Senior Certificate. I followed the road precisely as it was mapped out, eventually graduating and entering a prestigious accounting firm in Johannesburg.

I was handed a key, but I realized too late that it did not open a door to freedom—it opened the door to my own jail cell. My certificate was my entry into the middle class, and my life sentence began in a corner office with a panoramic view of a sun I was no longer permitted to feel. The office was a sterile box containing a desk and a three-seater couch that eventually became my primary bed as deadlines devoured my nights. My face began to reflect the toll: my dimples vanished, replaced by the bloodshot eyes and the grim, straight mouth of a man in mourning for his own time.

The Architecture of Debt

The first paycheck of R25,000 felt like a fortune, but it was merely the bait. I migrated from the slums of Alexandra to a R11,000 apartment in Sandton. To "look the part," I acquired a car, clothing accounts, and the weight of "Black Tax" to support those back home.

By age 35, a promotion and a growing family necessitated a larger house and a newer vehicle. My salary climbed to R45,000, yet the math remained a trap:

The Bond & Transport: R25,000

Black Tax & Education for my brother: R6,000

Living & Lifestyle Expenses: R13,500

The Remainder: A meager R500 in savings

The Modern Slave

To my peers, I was the embodiment of the South African dream; to myself, I was broken. I could no longer recognize the boy who once commanded his own yard. I told myself that dreams were for children, while men with families were meant for the grind.

The system held me in a grip as relentless as a gorilla’s, squeezing the soul out of my chest. When I looked in the mirror, I did not see a professional; I saw a slave in expensive thread. The clothes were provided by the employer’s salary, the home was owned by the bank, and the watch on my wrist was not jewelry—it was a chrome shackle ensuring I reported to my station on time.

I realized then the cruel precision of the corporate design: my employer paid me exactly enough to live, but never enough to leave. To start my own business now would mean losing the very roof over my family’s head. I was no longer my own man. I was an asset on someone else’s balance sheet, waiting for the day I could finally buy back my soul.