I have carried the responsibility of black tax for four years.

Before my first salary and office ID, there was my mother, a single parent who raised us with determination and resilience. Despite her challenges, she made sure we received a quality education. I attended Boma International Hospitality College, knowing that education was the most valuable legacy she could pass on to us.

Like many African parents, her promise was simple and sacred: “I may not give you wealth, but I will give you education.” To her, that was the investment. We were the returns.

So when I graduated and got a job almost immediately, it felt like a family promotion. I recall attending the interview, feeling nervous yet hopeful. When they asked me to start work, I knew it wasn’t just my victory. It was ours. My mother was relieved. Finally, some of the weight would lift from her shoulders.

And I was willing. She had carried us for years. Why wouldn’t I carry her?

Then life shifted. She lost her job. Around the same time, I received an increment at work. On paper, that sounded like growth. In reality, it meant responsibility grew faster than my salary ever could.

That is how the black tax works. It rarely announces itself as a burden. It begins as love. As a duty. As gratitude.

But somewhere between paying most of the bills, handling emergencies, and covering gaps, I realized something else was happening. My friends at work planned an end-of-year party , but I couldn’t attend. I saw small investment opportunities , but I couldn’t participate. Savings? A retirement plan? Even modest enjoyment? They all became postponed dreams.

Loans started stacking up. Not because I was reckless. But because survival has a cost.

And slowly, a quiet question formed inside me: How do we help each other when we are all sinking?

Black tax is deeply cultural. In countries like Kenya, Nigeria, and South Africa, success is often viewed as communal. “Family sticks together, through thick and thin.” That phrase is not just a saying; it is a code. It is a survival memory. For generations locked out of economic systems ,whether through colonial structures or systems like Apartheid ,collective support was not optional. It was protection.

We are not wrong to support our families. In fact, it is one of our most beautiful strengths.

But here is the uncomfortable truth: when support becomes total dependency on one income, it stops being solidarity and starts becoming suffocation.

Is it disloyal to want to invest?

Is it selfish to want to attend a party once in a while?

Is it betrayal to want a retirement plan?

Or is it responsible?

Sometimes, in my most exhausted moments, I imagine running away. Changing my contacts. Disappearing for a while , not because I hate them, but because I want to breathe. Because I want to reset. Because I want to build something stable enough that helping does not mean collapsing.

But would running away solve it? Or would it just replace financial pressure with emotional guilt?

Perhaps the solution is not escape ,but structure.

What if we stopped treating black tax as an emergency response and started treating it as a strategy?

What if support came with boundaries?

What if families had transparent conversations about income, limitations, and shared responsibility?

Can we say:

“I will cover school fees, but I cannot cover everything.”?

“I will help, but I must save 20% first.”

“I love you, but I cannot drown.”

Breaking the cycle does not mean breaking the family. It means redefining what support looks like.

If we never invest, never save, never plan for retirement, what happens when we are the parents? Will our children inherit the same loop ,education as the only asset, and obligation as the only plan?

Black tax becomes dangerous when it delays wealth creation for an entire generation. When the first graduate remains, the family’s permanent safety net. When one income feeds ten adults without a long-term strategy.

Compassion must go both ways.

Our parents did the best they could with what they had. Many sacrificed everything. But we, too, must do the best we can with what we have, and that includes building assets, not just paying bills.

Maybe the real question is this:

How do we transform the black tax from a burden into a bridge?

A bridge toward shared budgeting.

Toward financial literacy conversations at home.

Toward multiple income earners in the family.

Toward investing as a collective goal, not an individual luxury.

Running away might offer silence.

But boundaries might offer sustainability.

I am still learning that love does not require self-erasure. That gratitude does not demand financial self-destruction. That helping today should not cancel tomorrow.

We are not criticizing our families. We are trying to evolve with them.

And maybe breaking the cycle does not start with escape.

Maybe it starts with one brave conversation.

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