The Cracks Beneath the Surface: Black South African Lives

"My blood will nourish the tree that will bear the fruits of freedom. Tell my people that I love them and that they must continue the fight." — Solomon Mahlangu

South Africa is a land of contradictions. The skyline of cities like Johannesburg and Cape Town glitters with the promise of wealth and prosperity, but at ground level, the fractures are everywhere. The scars of apartheid run deep—not just in the physical spaces we occupy but within us, in the ways we see ourselves and each other. The apartheid regime may be over, but its ghost lingers in the psyche of black South Africans, shaping how we understand success, failure, and, most tragically, how we measure our own worth.

We’ve been conditioned to hate the reflection of poverty in our faces. We may laugh about it—joking about the “drinking uncle” or the cousin who never quite got it together—but these jokes are often coping mechanisms for much deeper wounds. This “drinking uncle,” whose struggles with alcoholism are painted as laziness, is more than just a stereotype; he’s the embodiment of systemic failure. He grew up under apartheid, had his life chances diminished before they even began, and now carries the burden of that failure on his back.

But we don’t talk about that. We joke about him. We reduce him to the family’s source of embarrassment because it’s easier to mock what we don’t want to face: that his story is not an isolated failure but a collective one. He is not just a cautionary tale—he is the reflection of what could befall any of us if we step off the tightrope we’re all walking. And that fear? It’s real. It seeps into every interaction, shaping how we see each other and ourselves.

For black South Africans who have clawed their way out of poverty, success often comes with a hidden price tag. The phrase "black tax" is thrown around casually, but it’s not just a financial obligation—it’s a psychological weight that bears down on the soul. Success in this context isn’t personal achievement; it’s the expectation that you’ll lift everyone who came before you.

Imagine being the first in your family to "make it." You’re proud—you’ve made it through university, landed a good job, and suddenly, you’re earning what your parents couldn’t dream of. But then comes the call—the one from home. It’s your younger sibling asking for help with school fees. Then your mom needs assistance with medical bills. Soon, the weight of these expectations becomes crushing. You aren’t just succeeding for yourself; you’re expected to carry everyone else with you. This expectation to lift others while barely holding on oneself creates a pressure that often leads to a quiet disdain for those who didn’t make it—a classism born from survival.

In a way, black tax is a form of love. It acknowledges that we are interconnected, that the success of one is the success of many. But in a society that rewards individualism, it becomes a burden. How do you say no to those you love when you’re barely holding onto your own sanity? How do you juggle the guilt, the resentment, and the pride—all at once?

That pride—the pride of making it out—often turns into something darker. A quiet hate for those who didn’t make it. For the cousins who still lives in the township, for the brother who’s been in and out of jail, for the aunt who’s never had a stable job. It’s the whispered classism that lives in the hearts of many black South Africans who have “escaped” poverty. The closer we get to the top, the more we try to distance ourselves from where we came from.

We were taught to aspire to whiteness, to equate material success with worth, and to reject the poverty of our past as if it were a stain. And this is where self-hate is sown. We come to see our families, our communities, even ourselves, as tainted by the poverty that still grips so much of this country. We chase after success not just to thrive but to escape—and in doing so, we begin to despise what we’re running from.

Western Capitalism and the Systemic Trap

In South Africa, the equation of success with whiteness isn’t an accident—it’s by design. From colonialism to apartheid, and now neoliberal capitalism, every chapter of this country’s history has been meticulously crafted to maintain power structures that favor a select few. For black South Africans, “making it” has often meant aspiring to the standards of whiteness—whether consciously or subconsciously. The trap is that this aspiration isn’t just about gaining wealth or stability but conforming to a system that was never designed for us to succeed in the first place.

Take the corporate world: the higher you climb, the fewer black faces you see. And when you do make it to the top, you’re expected to downplay your blackness, fitting neatly into a pre-existing mold defined by white, Western norms. Success in South Africa often means shedding parts of your identity to blend into a world that wasn’t designed with you in mind.

Today, the modern Western economy isn’t just the result of free markets or competition—it’s the outcome of decades, even centuries, of planning designed to keep certain groups at the top. Whether in America, Europe, or South Africa, the rules of the game are rigged from the start. The global economic system rewards those who conform to its ideals, rooted in whiteness, while wealth is hoarded by a small elite, leaving the rest of us to fight over the scraps.

The education system, the housing market, the job market—none of these are neutral. They’ve been designed to ensure that the ladder of success is steeper for some and easier for others.

The burden on Black South Africa

This intricate planning of the Western economic world doesn’t just oppress black people financially; it shapes our internal sense of worth. We grow up believing that to escape poverty is to enter a world of whiteness, where success is measured by material gain and separation from our roots. We are conditioned to think that the only way to thrive is to reject where we came from—to despise the poverty of our families, to see the “drinking uncle” not as a victim of systemic failure but as someone who didn’t work hard enough.

This isn’t an accident. It’s deliberate social engineering. Just as America rebuilt its society to ensure that white people remained in control of wealth and resources, South Africa’s economic and social systems were built to uphold racial and class hierarchies. Apartheid may be over, but its legacy lives on. Even black South Africans who have “made it” are still caught in the web of this system, bound by rules ensuring we stay within its boundaries.

The inequality we see today isn’t the result of random chance or individual failure—it’s the outcome of deliberate decisions made by people in power. Just as America’s rebuilding after the Great Depression was an exercise in maintaining control, so too has modern capitalism been an exercise in ensuring the rich get richer while the poor stay poor. In South Africa, this system maintains the racial and class divides that apartheid left behind.

But it doesn’t have to be this way. To break free from this cycle, we must first understand that it exists, that our economic and social lives are carefully engineered to keep us in place. Then, we must redefine success outside the narrow confines of whiteness and wealth. Thriving in South Africa means rejecting a system designed to oppress us and building something new—based on ubuntu, where success is measured by the well-being of the community.

Nowhere is this tension more evident than in the lives of black South Africans who attend private or Model C schools. For these children, the struggle is twofold. On one hand, they are being groomed for success, learning the tools of upward mobility in environments where whiteness and wealth are normalized. But on the other hand, they carry the weight of their families’ histories and expectations on their shoulders.

For many, attending a private school is seen as “making it”—but the reality is far more complex. In these spaces, black students often feel the need to assimilate, to adopt the speech, mannerisms, and values of their white peers. But no matter how well they assimilate, they are constantly reminded of their otherness—whether through the subtle exclusion of social circles or through the direct questioning of their presence in these privileged spaces.

This creates a deep psychological split. In school, they perform for acceptance, walking the fine line of being “black enough” to connect with their peers back home, but not so black that they draw attention to their difference at school. The result is an identity crisis, where neither space feels fully comfortable. Home is a reminder of the poverty they’re trying to leave behind, while school is a constant reminder that they’ll never quite belong in the world of the wealthy.

Ubuntu

At the center of this intricate web of expectations, classism, and self-hate lies the philosophy of ubuntu—"I am because we are." This deeply African concept teaches us that our identity is bound up in the well-being of others. It’s a beautiful idea, one that promises community and solidarity. But in a society as fractured as South Africa’s, ubuntu becomes a double-edged sword.

On one side, it reminds us of our responsibility to one another, of the need to lift as we rise. But on the other side, it binds us to the very systems we are trying to escape. The pressure to give back, to support extended family, to never turn your back on where you came from—it can suffocate the individual spirit. And here’s the tragedy: the more we strive to succeed, the more we are expected to give back, and the more we feel trapped by the very community that raised us.

So, how do we thrive in this complex, contradictory society? The answer is not simple. Thriving in South Africa means learning to navigate the tension between self-preservation and communal obligation. It means confronting the uncomfortable truths about classism and self-hate, acknowledging the internalized narratives that keep us divided and ashamed. It means reimagining ubuntu not as a shackle, but as a source of strength—a way to uplift without being pulled down.

The beauty and tragedy of South African society are bound together. We are a people shaped by history, trauma, and resilience. Our family dynamics, our struggles and our navigation of elite spaces are all reflections of a deeper truth: that to thrive in this country, we must first confront the fractures within ourselves. Only by acknowledging the contradictions, embracing our imperfections, and redefining what success means in a collective context can we begin to heal—not just as individuals, but as a society.

"I am because we are, and since we are, therefore I am."
— Philosophy of Ubuntu