Introduction: The Village and Its Silence
Growing up in Mohlaletse village, the landscape is beautiful, but the pressures are steep. The hills hold our history, and the air is filled with a strong sense of community. But for young people like me, it is also filled with unspoken rules.
In our rustic, yet vibrant environment, one’s struggle is everyone’s business, but one’s pain is one’s own. Peer pressure is not just a matter of fitting in; it’s about survival. There is a constant expectation to be tough, to conform, and above all, to never show weakness.
Mental health is not something we openly talk about. A word for it that isn’t wrapped in shame is not in our native vocabulary. If someone is struggling, if a young person is withdrawn, angry, or just seems lost, the explanation always comes down to one thing: money. “
The problem is money, you see,” elders say. “There are no jobs, of course, they are stressed.”
While that is a very real part of our reality, it often becomes a blanket explanation that hides everything else. It dismisses the heavy heart, the anxious mind, and the quiet weight of being young and feeling hopeless.
Part One: The Weight We Carry
My story in Mohlaletse is about trying to find solid ground.
The peer pressure starts early: you must be popular; you must wear the right clothes and act a certain way to be belong. But beyond that, is a deeper, unspoken rule—you must be strong. You must not let things get to you.
When I was struggling, feeling overwhelmed by expectations at school and at home, there was no space to say, “I’m not okay.” The response would have been confusion, or worse, dismissal:
“What do you have to be sad about? You have food, don’t you? Focus on your books so you can get a job and support your family.”
Overtime. it began to feel like a trap. The realities of our environment shape how family and friends understand struggle. Emotional pain is often reduced to financial stress, as if the only struggles that matter are the ones you can measure in money.
My anxiety felt invisible because it couldn’t be seen or solved in practical terms.
Part Two: The Voices from Limpopo – “We Are Not Just Our Problems”
To show that this experience is not mine alone, I spoke to two other young people from Limpopo; friends from neighbouring villages whose stories reflect my own. What they shared confirmed what I have long felt but struggled to name.
Lerato, 22, from a village outside Tzaneen
When I asked Lerato about mental health, she gave a sad laugh.
“Mental what?” she said. “Here, if you cry too much, they say you are bewitched. If you are always angry, they say you are possessed.”
When she struggled with sleeplessness, her family took her to a prophet. They believed it was an ancestral calling.
“It was only when I got to a clinic in town that a nurse quietly asked me if I felt anxious. No one here had ever used that word with me before.”
Even then, the response at home did not change.
They said that medicine can’t fix what has been done to the spirit. Months later, my mother kept asking me when I would find a job to help with the school fees and bills. Yes, the stress is about money, but it’s also the pressure of being the one expected to fix things. I feel drained. It’s even affected my relationship with my mother”
Thabo, 24, from a village near Makhado
Thabo’s story highlights the pressure placed on young men.
“In our community, your value of a man is in their ability to provide. If you can’t provide, you are nothing in the community.”
After finishing matric, Thabo struggled to find work.
Every day, my uncle would ask, ‘When are you getting a job?’
My friends started distancing themselves because I couldn’t afford to go out.”
The loneliness felt physical; like something sitting beside me all the time. I remember sitting under a tree one afternoon, just feeling like I was disappearing.”
But I couldn’t tell anyone that.
The only time people showed concern was as a warning to others, ‘You see, this is why education is important, so you don’t end up like him,’ pointing to me as I sit in the stoep They made me feel like an economic problem. Not a person with feelings who was hurting.”
Part Three: Connecting the Threads
Hearing the words of Lerato and Thabo, I felt a deep, and painful recognition. Their experiences were not separate from mine but a reflection of it.
They are the product of a community where there isn’t a shared language for emotional pain. In a culture where humanity is inculcated through language and upbringing, we are taught to translate every internal struggle into the language of poverty, unemployment, and laziness.
The societal, and systemic pressure to contribute—to be the strong one—and to contribute to the family’s quality of life, but not add to their burdens, creates a kind of silence. It’s an abuse that happens not with fists, but with words left unsaid and feelings left unacknowledged. We are told our feelings are a luxury we cannot afford.
Conclusion: Finding Our Voice
This is my story. This is our story.
It’s a story of survival in a place where your inner voice is often the loudest thing you carry, yet the most ignored.
It’s a call to Mohlaletse, and to villages like it, to look more closely at the quiet young person who isn’t just ‘thinking about money. They might be battling a storm inside that deserves to be heard and understood
A new conversation is needed. One that doesn’t pit economic survival against mental well-being but understands they are deeply connected.
We need to give our struggles a name, to make the invisible, visible.
This is my way of breaking the silence. It’s me saying: our pain is real, and our voices deserve to be heard; not just as economic data-points, but as human beings.
Author: Tumelo Kgoloko
