Zola Khumalo
It was a typical Wednesday morning, starting before dawn, when the sky is still a deep blue. At 46 years old, I’ve learned to manage mornings like these, packing lunch for my four children, who were half-asleep under their blankets. We live in a small, cramped house in a township in southern Johannesburg, South Africa. My eldest, Thando, 17, helps get the younger ones ready before they head off to school. It’s a routine we’ve perfected, though there’s nothing easy about it.
By the time I catch the minibus taxi to work, the streets are alive with the hum of everyday hustle—vendors setting up their stalls, children in mismatched uniforms darting through the chaos, and women like me, navigating our way to jobs that pay just enough. I work in the northern suburbs, in a gated community, where life is as different from mine as night is from day. The family I work for is kind in their own way, but there’s an unspoken distance that keeps our worlds apart.
The drive from my home to their estate takes nearly an hour. I’ve done this journey so many times that I barely notice the miles anymore, but what I can’t ignore is the stark contrast that hits me the moment I pass through the security gates. The air feels different—quieter, as if it’s been filtered through layers of privilege.
Yesterday, as I folded laundry and the children played nearby, the oldest asked, "Where do you live, Auntie?" Before I could answer, the others chimed in with more questions. "Do you have a big garden? Do your kids go to our school?" They stared at me with wide, innocent eyes, waiting for answers I wasn’t sure how to give.
I told them I lived far away, in a place with small houses close together. Their puzzled faces showed they couldn’t imagine a life without abundance. And while I’ve long since accepted the differences between us, it’s moments like these that remind me how wide the gap still is.
As I put them to bed that night, I couldn’t help but think of my own children, miles away, falling asleep in their shared room. The contrast gnawed at me, but I swallowed it down, like I’ve learned to do over the years.
Tomorrow, I’ll wake up and do it all over again. Because that’s just the way things are.