Each morning, I’d scramble past stray dogs, leap over sticky puddles, and sidestep sharp rocks along the 4km footpath from my home toward the R617 main road.
Somewhere along that dirt road, the old Sevontein school bus would thunder past us — rattling the gravel, reeking of diesel — as we were still walking. It had just powered through the 6km stretch between Sevontein Prison and the neighbouring villages — a rough route that skorokoro taxis avoided for fear of shredded suspension and busted axles.
Off it went to Pietermaritzburg, carting the children of prison wardens to Model C schools, leaving the rest of us to beat the hard ground underfoot, every day.
That brown, battered bus didn’t just transport bodies. It carried a message: “Some of us deserve comfort. The rest can walk.”
And walk we did. Some until Grade 10. Some until hope gave out. It wasn’t ambition we lacked. It was access.
The new bus still doesn’t stop for most
Today, the bus has changed shape. It’s no longer rusted and backfiring. It’s the polished, air-conditioned world of internships, networks, private schools and seed funding. But it still only stops for a few. And it still leaves most of our young people standing in the dust, watching the future speed by.
South Africa’s youth population has ballooned — nearly two-thirds of the population is now under the age of 35, according to Stats SA. Every year, more than 500,000 young people leave school and enter a labour market that has simply not grown with them.
In fact, over the past two decades, the economy has grown at a fraction of the rate needed to absorb new entrants.
The result? The bus hasn’t just bypassed them — it’s got smaller. Fewer formal job opportunities. Fewer apprenticeships. Fewer bursaries. Fewer seats on a bus speeding toward the Fourth Industrial Revolution, while millions are left walking in the dust of delayed dreams.
Youth unemployment in South Africa has climbed above 60% for those under 25. That’s not a statistic — it’s a slow-burning national wound. And it’s not because our young people are lazy. It’s because the road was never built for them. The wheels were never meant to stop there.
Why? Because the education system trains too many for a world that no longer exists — producing graduates in theory-heavy fields with few paths to employment. A young person with a degree in philosophy finds no place in an economy desperate for coders, artisans, and engineers. Skills mismatched. Futures stalled.
Because hiring someone today means you may never be able to let them go. Labour laws are so rigid, businesses would rather automate than risk the paperwork of people.
Because we don’t make enough here. We export iron ore and import steel — sending jobs offshore while townships sit idle.
Because power cuts halt production. Minibus taxis run late. Fibre skips the township. How do you find work in a world that won’t wait?
Because apartheid didn’t just draw lines between races — it placed our people far from opportunity. And the commute from Khayelitsha to Cape Town’s CBD still costs more than most can bear.
Because schools are broken. Eight out of 10 Grade 4 learners can’t read for meaning. If you can’t read, you can’t rise.
Because the young woman with a vision for a hair salon can’t access a loan or workspace. The township mechanic has demand, but no equipment. Talent dies in the absence of tools.
Because we’ve told our youth to wait for jobs from the government or corporates — while SMEs, the real job creators, choke under red tape.
Because corruption eats what’s meant for growth. Policy swings like a pendulum. Investors walk away.
Because our population is young and growing — but our economy is not. Jobs have not scaled with the dreams or numbers of our youth.
Because inequality is more dangerous than poverty itself. A 2017 UN Office on Drugs and Crime report showed that inequality — more than mere poverty — fuels violent crime.
And in our history, that danger was tangible: during the political violence of the 1990s, that same Sevontein school bus was escorted by SAPS patrols because it was targeted by those who saw it as a symbol of privilege. Some threatened to petrol bomb it. Not because they hated the children on it, but because they hated what it represented — exclusion.
We build higher walls, install alarms, hire patrols. But none of that protects us from what happens when a generation is left behind. If we don’t take ownership of their development, crime will take ownership of us.
And it already is. The looting during the July 2021 unrest wasn’t just theft. It was pain with a pulse. It was exclusion made visible. It was a desperate cry from those who’d been waiting too long on the roadside.
Crime doesn’t ask for a CV
When formal pathways fail, informal ones offer themselves quickly. Crime doesn’t ask for a CV. It offers income, identity, and belonging. All the things young people are starved of.
And yet, even before the streets tempt them, our schools have already failed to equip them.
We shouldn’t be shocked at what they settle for if we haven’t given them something better to say yes to.
Even our classrooms are stuck in the past. We teach learners to memorise the digestive system, but not how our tax system works. We prepare them for exams, not economies. We reward compliance, not creativity. And so they leave with certificates, not futures.
If the bus won’t stop, build your own wheels
In a real village, when the one bus doesn’t stop for your child, you don’t fold your arms and hope. You make a plan. You ask a neighbour. You walk together. Because a child doesn’t just belong to a household. A child belongs to us all.
We need to return to that.
Yes, the government must pull its weight — TVET colleges resourced, curriculums realigned, public works revived. But we also need to act like a village again: Businesses — even spaza shops — must become places of first chances. Churches and NGOs must mentor, model, and mobilise hope. Parents and professionals must reach behind them, not with pity but with purpose.
Communities must be safe to fail, safe to dream, and safe to start again.
It’s time to mentor, fund, train, and risk again — not just with programmes, but with people. If we want to change tomorrow, we must inconvenience ourselves today.
Let them fail like Americans
In the US, 90% of startups fail — and investors still fund second chances. Because failure there is part of the story. Here, one failed hustle marks you for life. That must change.
We need to build a country where young people can fall and rise again. Where resilience is a virtue, not a verdict. Where we back courage, not just clean track records.
You can’t outsource peace
Those who once benefitted from the old system now live behind new walls. But electric fences can’t protect you from a broken society. Peace isn’t something you buy. It’s something you build.
I never got on that bus. But I remember watching it disappear in a cloud of dust — and I remember the silence it left behind. My path eventually diverged, through grit and grace, but that journey is no longer mine. This story is about those still standing at the roadside, still walking.
But no one should have to beat the odds just to belong. The odds themselves must change.
We can’t keep building a country based on exceptions. We need a system. We need a strategy. We need each other.
Because when there’s only one bus, most will get left behind. And when a nation forgets its walkers, it forgets its future.
The future doesn’t come on a schedule. We build it — together, or not at all. DM