By Rabbie Serumula
Not all prisons have bars. Some look like spaza shops, offering credit at the price of ambition. In many townships, survival hinges on the mercy of foreign-owned spaza shops, where residents live on borrowed groceries and transport fares, creating a cycle that traps them in survival mode.
At first glance, these shops appear to be saviours, providing credit when larger retailers turn people away—they serve as crucial survival mechanisms. Pensioners and unemployed residents recognise the familiar pattern: buy now, pay later with next month’s grant or paycheck. But living on borrowed groceries means living in borrowed futures. These shops offer lifelines but also tighten invisible chains, making it increasingly difficult for communities to escape dependency. Every transaction, though wrapped in goodwill, pushes self-sufficiency further out of reach.
Foreign-owned spaza shopkeepers have become the breadwinners of our communities. They pay for new transformers when electricity fails, contribute to community funerals, and even lend money for transport. Such generosity binds communities together but also prevents them from envisioning a life beyond these handouts. While the support is genuine, it simultaneously erodes ambition and independence.
Every act of kindness tightens the grip of dependence disguised as generosity—a reminder that goodwill often comes with invisible strings. Some foreign shopkeepers are also tenants, having built their landlords’ perimeter walls in exchange for rent relief. Over time, survival morphs into stagnation, with dreams postponed indefinitely and ambitions dwindling.
Now, the relationship has grown complicated. Communities are grappling with the tragic deaths of children allegedly linked to suspected poisoned foods from spaza shops, igniting fear and distrust that threaten to unravel this fragile dependence.
Communities find themselves divided—some call for the expulsion of foreign shopkeepers, while others fear the repercussions of their absence. With spaza shops embedded in daily life, their removal could expose the deep-rooted reliance on these establishments.
There is an uncomfortable truth: survival through convenience can quietly stifle ambition. When every resource—food, transport, electricity, even funeral costs—is borrowed, it becomes increasingly difficult to plan for anything beyond the immediate. The credit line from spaza shops, while lifesaving in times of crisis, also serves as a ceiling on self-worth. The ability to borrow often substitutes for the need to build.
As long as dependency fills the gaps left by inadequate infrastructure and failing institutions, communities remain trapped in cycles of diminished potential. Each day becomes a negotiation between surviving today and hoping for a better tomorrow that never arrives.
The real question isn’t whether foreign-owned spaza shops should stay or leave—it’s whether the dreams of those they serve will ever grow beyond the limits of credit slips and borrowed favours.
Saturday Star