stuttafords.co.za
It starts small. Always does. You’re standing in the queue at the tuck shop or the corner café, thumb hovering over the screen, about to buy R10 airtime because you need to send that one WhatsApp message. The plan was clear. Load, reply, disconnect. But your eyes flick for a moment to the balance. The app’s still on your phone. You haven’t opened it in days, maybe weeks. Or maybe just since this morning. There’s R3 left in the wallet, a pending match, and a game you’ve been watching, even if you pretend not to care anymore.
So you stall. Tell the cashier, “Just the bread for now.” Walk out, sit on the stoep, and stare at your phone. That R10 wasn’t meant for anything else. You need the airtime. You really do. But your finger’s already tapping into the app, face passive, body still, eyes low. There’s a sense of inevitability in the motion. Not dramatic. Not reckless. Just familiar. You’ve done this before. You’ll do it again. One last recharge.
R10 doesn’t feel like money anymore. Not the kind that matters. It’s the softest lie in your wallet. Too small to buy freedom, but just enough to buy possibility. A single bet. A low-odds slip. Maybe a spin or two if you go to the slots. It’s not about the jackpot. It’s about seeing something move. About clicking the button and watching the world respond.
It used to feel heavier. That first time you bet money that wasn’t extra. When you chose risk over utility. When data or electricity had to wait. The guilt used to come faster. Sharper. But now, it’s softer, delayed. You tell yourself you’ll win it back. That R10 is not a loss, it’s a loan to the future version of you who’s going to hit the perfect slip. You tell yourself it’s a test. That you’re more careful now. That this is the last time.
But it never is.
Everyone has a different version of this moment. For Tshepo in Ermelo, it’s electricity. He says he’s topping up R20, but he uses R10 on a live bet just before loading. He says it helps him feel in control. For Melissa in Mthatha, it’s data. She plans to buy a 200MB bundle, then plays one slot round first, just one, hoping it stretches. Sometimes it does. Most times, it doesn’t. But by then, the urge has already passed. She can move on. It’s not about winning. It’s about releasing something. Pressure, maybe. Or just the illusion of momentum.
The apps don’t help. They know. They’re designed for these moments. Microtransactions. Quick reloads. Bonus spins with small deposits. “Feeling lucky?” “Low-stakes, high drama.” They speak your language. They don’t need your rent money. They’ll take your leftover airtime. They’ll whisper that the gap between frustration and resolution is just one more tap away.
You start rationing differently. Not by what you need, but by what you might get. Maybe you don’t send that text today. Maybe the electricity runs low until the evening. Maybe the bread can wait till tomorrow. You trade certainty for a maybe, again and again. And the worst part is you know exactly what you’re doing. You’re not confused. You’re not being manipulated. You’re just tired. You’re just hoping.
On weekends, it gets worse. That’s when the big games come. That’s when the group chats light up. That’s when every petrol station betting terminal has a queue. Everyone’s talking slips. Talking comeback wins and outrageous odds. You want to stay out of it, but you don’t want to be left out either. So you top up R10, tell yourself it’s just to “see what the odds are.” Next thing, it’s gone. Not even with fanfare. Just gone.
Sometimes, it lands. You hit R40. Maybe R60. Enough to buy that airtime again and not feel like you’ve failed. You feel a strange relief. Not joy. Just a lifting of pressure. But it never sticks. Because the win doesn’t change the habit. The win just resets the loop. One last recharge becomes another. And another.
Nobody talks about these tiny losses. Everyone’s focused on big slips and big fails. But this is where most of it lives. In R10 increments. In late-night impulses. In quiet decisions that don’t make headlines, but quietly gnaw at the edges of your routine. This isn’t the story of a spiral. It’s the story of drift. The story of what happens when small choices pile up into something you no longer notice until you’re left short at the till.
It’s easy to tell yourself it’s not serious. It’s just a spin. Just one bet. Just this once. You don’t want the whole thing back. You just want one little win, enough to feel like you made a good decision, like you’re in control, like life isn’t as random as it feels most days. That’s what the R10 is buying. Not riches. Not escape. Just a quiet little lie that you still have options.
Later, you’ll load the airtime properly. You’ll send that text. You’ll light that stove. You’ll move on. No one will know. No one ever really does. It was just R10, after all. But in your head, in your heart, you’ll remember the flicker. The choice. The pause before you tapped confirm. The split second where you traded certainty for possibility, because even if you lose, at least the world moved. At least you weren’t stuck.
One last recharge. One more try. And maybe, just maybe, this time, it’ll work.
