To hell with this cruel economy - I now budget hope
The Weekender's Roast
If I’m honest – to hell with this economy. Damn it. To hell with its graphs, its press statements and its smug little words like “headwinds” and “adjustment”.
This economy can go choke on its own projections. It takes, it squeezes, it explains, and then it asks for patience, like patience pays school fees.
I am tired of being resilient in a system that keeps kicking me in the ribs and calling it reform. If the economy were a person, I would tell it plainly: you are cruel, you are lazy and you have no respect for working people.
I woke up this morning already tired of the economy.
Not the normal tired – that deep, bone-level exhaustion of a man who has done everything society asked of him and still ended up negotiating with a loaf of bread like it’s a luxury vehicle.
The kind of tired where you open your wallet, not to check what you have, but to confirm what you already know: nothing has changed.
They say the economy is “recovering”. I hear this often, usually from people who have never had to choose between airtime and cooking oil. Apparently, the economy is doing push-ups in a private gym somewhere, while I am at home counting teaspoons of sugar as if they were strategic reserves.
Every month, prices rise with the confidence of a politician during campaign season. Salaries, on the other hand, remain loyal to tradition.
Mine has not moved since people still said: “We’re hopeful about next year” without laughing – inflation gallops. Wages crawl. I, meanwhile, sit still – which is exactly where life has left me.
They tell us to be entrepreneurial. I tried. I sold something once. The profit was emotional growth. They say diversify income streams. I am diversifying stress. I now worry in instalments.
Even hope has become expensive. You cannot just hope freely anymore. You must budget it. A little hope for rent, a little for fuel, none left for the future.
And yet, I am told the economy is “resilient”. Perhaps. But like me, it is resilient in theory – standing, breathing, but quietly defeated, waiting for Monday to come and finish the job.
And now Christmas is coming.
You can feel it in the air – not joy, but expectation. The children have already written their lists with the confidence of economists forecasting growth. My parents are dropping hints about tradition, family, “just something small”.
My wife is not hinting. She is budgeting out loud. She wants Christmas to feel normal, like before things became “challenging times”, a phrase that has overstayed its welcome.
I nod. I agree. I smile at a man who knows December is coming with its lights, its songs, its bills, and its annual reminder that love is free, but celebration is not. Somewhere between the children’s hope, my parents’ quiet faith and my wife’s practical pressure, I stand – a man defeated by life, calculating miracles, waiting to see if the economy, like me, will at least pretend to care this Christmas.
This economy can go choke on its own projections. It takes, it squeezes, it explains, and then it asks for patience, like patience pays school fees.
I am tired of being resilient in a system that keeps kicking me in the ribs and calling it reform. If the economy were a person, I would tell it plainly: you are cruel, you are lazy and you have no respect for working people.
I woke up this morning already tired of the economy.
Not the normal tired – that deep, bone-level exhaustion of a man who has done everything society asked of him and still ended up negotiating with a loaf of bread like it’s a luxury vehicle.
The kind of tired where you open your wallet, not to check what you have, but to confirm what you already know: nothing has changed.
They say the economy is “recovering”. I hear this often, usually from people who have never had to choose between airtime and cooking oil. Apparently, the economy is doing push-ups in a private gym somewhere, while I am at home counting teaspoons of sugar as if they were strategic reserves.
Every month, prices rise with the confidence of a politician during campaign season. Salaries, on the other hand, remain loyal to tradition.
Mine has not moved since people still said: “We’re hopeful about next year” without laughing – inflation gallops. Wages crawl. I, meanwhile, sit still – which is exactly where life has left me.
They tell us to be entrepreneurial. I tried. I sold something once. The profit was emotional growth. They say diversify income streams. I am diversifying stress. I now worry in instalments.
Even hope has become expensive. You cannot just hope freely anymore. You must budget it. A little hope for rent, a little for fuel, none left for the future.
And yet, I am told the economy is “resilient”. Perhaps. But like me, it is resilient in theory – standing, breathing, but quietly defeated, waiting for Monday to come and finish the job.
And now Christmas is coming.
You can feel it in the air – not joy, but expectation. The children have already written their lists with the confidence of economists forecasting growth. My parents are dropping hints about tradition, family, “just something small”.
My wife is not hinting. She is budgeting out loud. She wants Christmas to feel normal, like before things became “challenging times”, a phrase that has overstayed its welcome.
I nod. I agree. I smile at a man who knows December is coming with its lights, its songs, its bills, and its annual reminder that love is free, but celebration is not. Somewhere between the children’s hope, my parents’ quiet faith and my wife’s practical pressure, I stand – a man defeated by life, calculating miracles, waiting to see if the economy, like me, will at least pretend to care this Christmas.
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Namibian Sun
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