In Africa, the phrase "you've made it" is not a compliment—it is a sentence. A silent, lifelong verdict placed on anyone who appears to have risen above poverty. It doesn't matter how fragile their success is, or how temporary their stability may be. The moment one moves to the city, lands a job, opens a shop, or even appears on social media in clean clothes, the label is fixed: they have made it.
But what does it truly mean to "make it"?
To the family, it means you must now provide—always. To society, it means your struggle has ended. To peers, it means you're now a source, not a person. The burden of the title is heavier than the success itself. Once you're believed to have "made it," you are no longer allowed to suffer. Even when you're drowning, the world sees a swimmer. Even when you cry, they hear laughter. Even when you're broken, they see strength.
The myth of "making it" distorts reality. It assumes that success is final, that one lucky break erases all struggle. It ignores how volatile life is. Jobs can be lost. Businesses can fail. Economies can crash. But none of that matters to those who've placed you on a pedestal. Once you are there, any sign of weakness is seen as betrayal.
This myth is especially cruel because it isolates the breadwinner from genuine support. They can no longer confide in others, because every expression of hardship is met with suspicion. "How can you be broke?" they're asked. "After all you earn?" And so they stop talking. They stop explaining. They live a lie—dressing up their wounds and performing strength because the world no longer permits their weakness.
Ironically, most breadwinners haven't truly "made it." What they have is borrowed time, fragile opportunities, and temporary wins. Behind the nice clothes is credit. Behind the smiling pictures is anxiety. Behind the social media updates is a desperate prayer that things don't fall apart. But the myth is louder than the truth.
This pressure to "keep up" forces many breadwinners into dangerous choices. They take on debts to meet family expectations. They invest in unsustainable ventures out of desperation. Some even turn to crime, fraud, or dangerous migration routes just to maintain the illusion of success. Because to admit failure is worse than death—it is to lose the love and respect they've spent years building.
The myth also keeps others in dependency. When one person is assumed to have made it, the rest of the family stops striving. Dreams are paused. Talents are buried. Initiative dies. "We already have someone who made it," they say. "We just need to wait." And so, one person becomes the generator that powers an entire village—while the village forgets how to build their own lamps.
Young people watch and learn this pattern. They begin to define success not as independence, but as reaching a level where they can be exploited. Success becomes a trap, not a triumph. It is no longer about purpose, but about performance. Appear wealthy. Appear settled. Appear unshaken. Even when your life is falling apart.
This is the myth that eats the breadwinner from the inside.
Real success should bring rest, not torment. It should bring options, not obligation. It should inspire others to rise, not remain idle. But in this culture, to "make it" is to become a prisoner of other people's expectations, never free, never truly seen.
The myth must be broken.
Breadwinners must be allowed to be human again. They must be allowed to say, "I'm not okay." They must be allowed to try new things, to fail, to start over, to choose themselves. The label of success must be replaced with the truth of struggle. Because no one ever really arrives—not in a world where stability is fragile and support is rare.
True success is not having it all. It is having the freedom to be honest about where you are.
Until that freedom exists, the myth of "making it" will continue to suffocate those who are trying—really trying—to hold it all together.