Tag: Social Cohesion

When Men Lose Their Place, Society Pays the Price

I arrived unannounced, as I often do. I took the street that passes the local shops ko Ramadan as we call them, partly out of habit, partly out of instinct. Some part of me suspected I might find him there. My father is one of those people who collect the different purses of those playing mochina. And there he was.

The street was alive with movement. Men and women standing and sitting in clusters, some by their usual spot there by the guy who fixes shoes. Conversations layered on top of each other. Waiting. Hoping. Calculating. Mochina is more than gambling. It is a ritual. Numbers are not random. They are stories. They represent events, dreams, memories, and losses. You read the morning, interpret life, and choose a number. You put money down not just on chance, but on meaning.

There was a time when mochina was played by old people in the community, and now, when I go there, I see that there are a lot of young people, I hasten to say young people, though, because maybe when I was young, the old people I am referring to were my age. Anyway, this spot in my community is busy, with a bottle store at the corner, a foreign-owned shop, which is why it is called Ramadan, and a spot where alcohol purchased from the liquor shop can be consumed. There is also Laphalapha, where they sell sphatlhos/kotas. Next to Laphalapha, there is a barber shop in one of the houses.

I parked. He walked over to my car. I asked for numbers while lodging a complaint that whenever I ask him for them, I never win. He starts telling me that it occurred to him that I might come home that day. As he tells me this, Bra Lucky passes by, and I ask him for a number. I think he mentioned 13. I don’t even know what it means, but I keep searching for loose change in the car, half embarrassed, half hopeful. I played along, knowing full well how this usually ends. “o mmone, Kenny?” my Dad asks if I have seen Kenny. Ntate Kenny is his best friend, and he points to the corner where the guy who fixes shoes is. I think my dad is old now because I haven’t driven past that spot yet. Anyway, I drive off and make sure to shout a greeting when I pass that spot.

He comes home, I ask if I had won, that time I don’t even remember my numbers, and he tells me that most people didn’t win and continues to explain how the mochina has played all of them, and that no one from his bag won. Even if his numbers don’t come up, but someone else does, there is a percentage that he gets, so you can imagine how it feels when even the other people do not win.

Later that day, after the formal greetings in the sitting room, I ask how he is, and he says he is ok. He had not been well, and I was travelling, so when I ask, I normally have a visual inspection of sorts to see if he is ok.

He then told me about an event they are going to that relates to the men’s forum. He has spoken about the forum before, and he normally tells me stories from there. Old men mostly. Pensioners. Men with time, memory, and regret. They sit together and talk about their lives. And often, they cry. This man’s forum is run by the local clinic.

It seems like this is something that they really look forward to as local men, not because they are weak. But because they finally have permission.

The stories are painfully similar. Men who were pushed out of their own homes. Men whose authority was steadily eroded until it disappeared. Men who watched their children grow up listening only to their mothers, not because the mothers were wrong, but because the fathers were sidelined, disempowered, or made irrelevant. Men who now look at their grown children and see struggle, confusion, anger, and failure. And they blame themselves. Mind you, these are men who, for the longest time they had to endure apartheid, being disrespected by young white men and women, calling them boy and all sorts of names.

This is where the conversation around men in our society becomes dishonest.

We talk endlessly about toxic masculinity. We talk very little about displaced masculinity. We speak loudly about men as problems, but quietly about men as casualties. In South Africa, especially, the dominant narrative paints men as irresponsible, violent, absent, or dangerous. Some men fit that description. Many do not. Yet all are judged by the same brush.

What happens when a man is told repeatedly that his role is unnecessary, suspect, or harmful?

He retreats.

He withdraws from decision-making. From discipline. From emotional investment. From responsibility. Sometimes he withdraws into alcohol. Sometimes into gambling. Sometimes into silence. Sometimes into forums where other broken men nod in recognition.

And then society acts surprised when children grow up without structure, without direction, without accountability. We talk about absent fathers without asking who pushed them out, who undermined them, or who taught them that their presence no longer mattered.

The men in these forums are not monsters. They are men who failed in environments that no longer knew what to do with them. Men who were never taught how to adapt their masculinity to changing social realities were only told that it was wrong. Men who were stripped of authority without being given a new role. Men who now carry the guilt of outcomes they had limited power to influence.

The pain cuts deeper when they speak about their children. Sons who drift. Daughters who struggle. Lives that never quite stabilise. The men internalise it as personal failure. The forum, meant to heal, often becomes a mirror reflecting everything they lost.

This is the uncomfortable truth. You cannot dismantle men’s role in society without consequences. You cannot weaken fathers and expect strong families. You cannot confuse masculinity and then blame men for being lost.

Being a man is not about domination. It is about responsibility. It is about presence. It is about guidance, protection, and sacrifice. When society attacks those foundations without offering alternatives, men do not become better. They become invisible.

And invisible men do not raise strong children.

If we are serious about fixing our social decay, crime, unemployment, and moral drift, we must stop having shallow conversations about men. We must stop reducing complex historical, economic, and cultural realities into slogans. We must create spaces where men are rebuilt, not shamed. Where fatherhood is reinforced, not questioned. Where masculinity is redefined with clarity, not contempt.

Those old men sitting in forums crying are not the end of the story. They are a warning.

Ignore them, and the next generation will sit in the same circles, with even less hope, even less structure, and even more resentment.

This is not about men versus women. It is about balance. About roles. About accountability. About restoring order in a society that has confused liberation with destruction.

When men lose their place, society does not become freer. It becomes weaker.

And we are already paying the price.

Hoba Monna (being a man) and the Quiet Weight Men Carry

Hoba Monna by Sannere featuring Selimo Thabang, Omali Themba, Flash Cortez, Wave Rhyder, Marcx Brass) 

I hesitated before writing and publishing this piece during the 16 Days of Activism for No Violence Against Women and Children, a period rightly dedicated to confronting gender based violence and the harm it causes. I am conscious that speaking about men’s struggles at this time can easily be misread as deflection, minimisation, or even quiet support for violence, as if acknowledging the weight men carry somehow denies the suffering of women. That fear of misinterpretation is real, and it says something important about the moment we are in. Yet silence is not neutrality. Avoiding honest reflection because it may be misunderstood only narrows the conversation further. This article is not an attempt to excuse harm or shift blame. It is an attempt to understand the human conditions under which many men are living, because without that understanding, the very violence we seek to end will continue to reproduce itself in quieter, less visible ways.

Sometimes a song does what public debates, campaigns, and opinion pieces struggle to do. It names a feeling without dressing it up. Hoba Monna does exactly that. It speaks plainly about what it feels like to be a man carrying responsibility in silence, and in doing so, it exposes a reality many men live but rarely articulate.

The title itself is revealing. Hoba monna means “to be a man”. Not to perform masculinity. Not to dominate. Simply to exist as a man. Yet from the opening hook, the song makes it clear that this existence has become exhausting.

“Ke fihletse boemong ba ho tsofala hoba monna, ke fihletse boemong ba ho utloa hore ho thata hoba monna.”

This is not exaggeration. It is accumulation. The repetition signals long term emotional fatigue, the slow wearing down that comes from expectation layered on top of expectation. Being a man, in this telling, is not dramatic. It is heavy.

Strength Without Space to Falter

In the first verse, the artist captures a contradiction many men experience early in life.

“People keep judging me, when I go weak, they forget I’m human and I also breathe.”

Men are permitted strength, but not struggle. The moment vulnerability appears, humanity is withdrawn. Weakness is treated as failure rather than as a normal part of being human.

Yet responsibility remains non negotiable.

“I gotta confide, I gotta provide in the process so my family can eat.”

There is no rejection of duty here. The pain comes from being expected to provide and endure without acknowledgement of cost. Men are required to function regardless of their internal state. When they do not, judgment follows swiftly. Pressure becomes personal rather than contextual. The man is blamed, while the conditions surrounding him remain invisible.

Becoming a Man Without Guidance

One of the quietest lines in the song is also one of the most revealing.

“And I wish my father could’ve shown me a hint.”

This is not accusation. It is absence speaking. It reflects the experience of many men who are expected to know how to be responsible, disciplined, and emotionally regulated without ever having seen those qualities modelled consistently.

Manhood is treated as instinctive rather than learned. When men struggle, the struggle is moralised instead of understood. Many men are navigating adulthood without maps, mentors, or reference points, while still being held to rigid standards.

Culture and the Discipline of Silence

The second verse, delivered in Sesotho, speaks directly to cultural training.

“Society e re rutile ho nka ka sefuba, ene re nke ka senna.”

Society taught us to take everything on the chest and take it as a man

This is not mockery of culture. It is description. Emotional restraint has long been framed as strength. Endurance as virtue. But the song does not romanticise this conditioning. It shows where it leads.

“Ho fihlela moo e ka reng kea khathala.”

Until the point where one becomes exhausted.

When pain has no outlet, it does not disappear. It accumulates. Silence does not build resilience indefinitely. It eventually produces numbness, withdrawal, or collapse.

Responsibility Without Support

One of the most important moments in Hoba Monna comes through a question that reveals imbalance.

“Ba re o hlokomele bana ba heno, empa nna ke hlokomelewa ke mang?”

They tell me to take care of my siblings, but who takes care of me?

This reflects a familiar reality in many African households. Men are expected to support siblings and extended family, to be stable, to be reliable, to carry others.

The follow up question sharpens the point.

“Ba re o ba loanele bana ba heno, empa nna ke loanela ke mang?”

They tell me to fight for my siblings, but who fights for me?

This is not self pity. It is recognition of imbalance. Responsibility flows outward. Care rarely flows back.

Smiling While Breaking

The final verse captures a reality many men live daily.

“Ke tlameha ke tsoe ke phande ke smile le batho kantle, ke robegile ka hare.”

I have to go outside hustle and smile with people, while I am broken inside.

This is not performance for praise. It is survival. In a society that responds harshly to male vulnerability, composure becomes armour. Smiling becomes a way to remain functional even while internally unraveling.

Why Hoba Monna Matters

Hoba Monna matters because it humanises men without excusing harm. It does not deny violence, irresponsibility, or failure. It asks a deeper question. What conditions produce men who are emotionally exhausted, silent, and disengaged?

Men carry pressures that are rarely named, let alone addressed. Economic strain. Cultural silence. Extended responsibility. Emotional isolation. None of these excuse destructive behaviour. Ignoring them guarantees its repetition.

Strength should not require emotional erasure. Responsibility should not require loneliness. Being a man should not mean carrying unbearable weight alone.

Hoba Monna is not asking for sympathy. It is asking for recognition. Recognition that men are human, that endurance has limits, and that silence is not the same as strength.

Sometimes music tells the truth long before society is ready to hear it.

What Does It Mean to Be a Modern Man in South Africa?

There is a quiet crisis unfolding in South African society, and it is not being spoken about honestly. It sits beneath the headlines, beneath the slogans, beneath the well funded campaigns and carefully worded statements. It is the crisis of what it means to be a man, and whether society still knows how to speak to men without turning them into symbols of everything that is wrong.

To be clear from the outset, this is not an attempt to deny the reality of violence, abuse, or harm committed by men. Those realities are undeniable and must be confronted directly. But confronting harm is not the same thing as condemning an entire group into silence, shame, and disengagement. Somewhere along the way, South Africa has begun to confuse accountability with collective guilt. That confusion is costing us more than we are willing to admit.

A generation of men is growing up hearing what they must not be. Do not be dominant. Do not be assertive. Do not be too strong. Do not lead in the wrong way. Do not speak incorrectly. Do not exist incorrectly. Yet there is far less clarity about what men should be. And when a society only knows how to criticise, but not how to guide, it should not be surprised when the result is confusion rather than change.

Historically, manhood in South Africa was not a vague or abstract idea. Across cultures and communities, despite their differences, there were shared expectations. A man was expected to take responsibility. He was expected to protect, to provide where possible, to discipline himself before disciplining others, and to anchor a family and a community. These roles were not always fulfilled perfectly, and they were often distorted by patriarchy, violence, and power. But they provided a moral structure. They gave men something to grow into.

That structure has largely collapsed, not because it was consciously dismantled with care, but because it was attacked without being replaced. Economic exclusion has made the provider role unreachable for millions. Unemployment has stripped men of dignity long before any social campaign ever did. Fatherlessness has removed mentorship at scale. Historical trauma has gone unprocessed. Into this vacuum, society has inserted a single dominant message, men are the problem.

Public discourse increasingly frames men primarily through statistics of violence, abuse, and crime. Media narratives repeat these images until they become identity. Campaigns, often well intentioned, speak about men as risks to be managed rather than people to be developed. Masculinity itself is treated as something that must be softened, neutralised, or apologised for, rather than disciplined and directed.

The idea of toxic masculinity is a good example. At its best, it was meant to describe specific harmful behaviours. At its worst, it has become a blunt instrument, used to suggest that masculinity itself is suspect. The problem is not that men are strong, assertive, or capable of leadership. The problem is what they do with those traits, and whether they are guided by moral responsibility. But this distinction is often lost. When masculinity is framed primarily as a danger, many men stop engaging altogether.

The psychological cost of this matters. When men are constantly told that their instincts are wrong, their presence is threatening, and their history is shameful, many respond not with reform, but with withdrawal. Silence replaces participation. Apathy replaces leadership. Some retreat into resentment. Others simply opt out of society altogether. None of these outcomes serve women, children, or communities.

There is also a deep contradiction at play. Society still expects men to show up in moments of crisis. To protect. To intervene. To take responsibility when things go wrong. Yet at the same time, it strips them of confidence, moral authority, and legitimacy. You cannot ask men to lead while constantly telling them they are unfit to do so. You cannot expect responsibility from people who are treated as permanent suspects.

This contradiction is especially stark in the South African context. Men are expected to navigate extreme inequality, unemployment, and social instability, while being held to moral standards that assume access to resources, opportunity, and support. A young man in a township is told to be responsible, but denied work. Told to be present, but raised without a father. Told to respect women, but shown daily through lived experience that power is exercised without fairness or justice. This does not excuse harmful behaviour, but it does explain why simplistic narratives fail.

What is missing from the conversation is a serious discussion about male development. Not punishment. Not slogans. Development. Men are not born knowing how to be disciplined, restrained, or ethical. These are learned behaviours, shaped through mentorship, expectation, and consequence. When society abandons this work, and replaces it with condemnation, it forfeits the very change it claims to want.

Accountability is essential. But accountability without dignity is ineffective. Men respond to standards when those standards are clear, consistent, and rooted in respect. Historically, rites of passage, work, fatherhood, and community roles provided these standards. Today, many men drift without markers, without recognition, without a sense of earned identity. In that vacuum, some seek belonging in destructive ways.

It is also worth asking who benefits from a society where men are disengaged. A passive man does not build. A confused man does not lead. A resentful man does not cooperate. The weakening of men does not strengthen women. It weakens families. Children do not benefit from absent fathers, whether that absence is physical or emotional. Communities do not thrive when half their population is treated as a problem to be managed rather than a resource to be cultivated.

This is not a call to return to outdated or abusive models of masculinity. Dominance, entitlement, and violence have no place in a healthy society. But neither does moral erasure. A constructive model of modern manhood must be rooted in responsibility, self mastery, service, and courage. Not the courage of aggression, but the courage of restraint. Not dominance over others, but mastery over oneself.

A modern South African man should be held to high standards. He should be expected to protect without controlling, to lead without abusing, to provide where possible and to contribute where he cannot. He should be challenged to confront his own behaviour honestly. But he should also be spoken to as someone capable of growth, not as an inherent threat.

The current narrative often fails this test. It speaks about men, not to them. It diagnoses without mentoring. It condemns without constructing. In doing so, it undermines its own goals. Social change does not happen through humiliation. It happens through clarity, expectation, and inclusion.

If South Africa is serious about addressing violence, inequality, and social breakdown, it must re learn how to speak to men with both firmness and respect. Men must be included as part of the solution, not positioned permanently as the source of the problem. This requires courage, because it means resisting easy narratives and simplistic villains.

A society that wants better men must be willing to invest in making them. That means mentorship. That means work opportunities. That means fathers who are supported, not mocked. That means cultural conversations that distinguish between harmful behaviour and male identity. That means acknowledging historical and economic realities without using them as excuses or weapons.

Being a modern man in South Africa should mean choosing responsibility in a context that often denies recognition. It should mean discipline in a culture that rewards excess. It should mean standing up, not because you are told you are dangerous, but because you are reminded that you matter.

Until we can have that conversation honestly, we will continue to talk past each other. And in that silence, the quiet crisis of men will deepen, with consequences that society will eventually be forced to confront.