The bill always falls on us

Luis Munguambe Junior"

The bill… ah, the bill always arrives. It doesn't consider your effort, it doesn't wait for your paycheck to arrive. It simply arrives. And, of course, it's never fair. Always on us. Always. And it's funny how, in the midst of all this rush, we continue to believe that someday it could be different. But it isn't. It never was. The salary arrives, in crumbs. The bills arrive, long overdue. The water doesn't wait, the electricity doesn't wait, the school doesn't wait. The transport company charges, the pharmacy charges, even that friend who promised help… also charges. And in the midst of all this, we are still forced to smile, to remain calm, to say that “everything will be alright”. Will it? No, it won't. But we smile. Because smiling has become mandatory. A social requirement. A mask demanded of those who want to continue to exist in this country. The corner vendor who sells bread every day knows exactly what I'm talking about. Every bill that enters his hand disappears before his fingers even warm up: rent, electricity, water, food, fuel… and the rest? It's barely enough to breathe. The young entrepreneur trying to build a small business feels the weight of the tight economy, paying fees, taxes, energy, water, suppliers… and some people still say he's lucky to have a job. And the worst part: every day is a race against time, against inflation, against bureaucracy. Because in a country where the bill falls on us, survival is both a marathon and an obstacle. Meanwhile, those who should be doing something remain untouchable. Large corporations embezzle millions, money laundering and corruption schemes thrive, and political and economic privileges remain intact. The bill falls on us; we pay. Always. Never on them. It's as if injustice has its own ruler, an inverted scale, where those who work the most and pay the most are the ones who feel the heaviest burden. And that's how we learn early on that life isn't fair. That "individual responsibility" means carrying the weight of the system. That complaining is a luxury few can afford. That, in the end, the lesson is clear: the bill will always fall on us. Always. But there's something incredible about all of this. Despite the injustice, we continue. We wake up every day, face crowded transport, endless queues at banks and public services, cross the city with our eyes wide open to avoid being run over by the chaotic traffic, and yet, we keep going. We work, we study, we take care of our families, and we continue to smile. And that smile, even tired, is resistance. Silent, but resistance. The bill always falls on us, but the fact that we remain standing is proof that we have not been defeated. That we are alive, aware, attentive. That even tired, we don't let ourselves be crushed. Because surviving here isn't just about keeping to schedules or paying bills: it's a daily act of courage. Think about what it means to live in a country where public transport leaves you waiting for hours; where, if your salary is even a single day late, you feel the impact on your entire routine; where the electricity and water can disappear without warning, and no one gives you an explanation. The bill always falls on us. And we learn to laugh about it, even when we want to cry. Because irony is often the only defense left against frustration. Exhaustion isn't just physical. It's mental. It's emotional. It's feeling that every effort made is absorbed by a system that doesn't reward merit, that doesn't recognize effort, that doesn't acknowledge dignity. The young person who studied for years, invested hours, energy, and money, discovers that opportunities are limited, that the economy is stifling, that the market favors those who already have, that bureaucracy hinders those who want to advance. The salesperson, the mother, the student, the young entrepreneur—all feel the same silent pressure: the bill always falls on us. And this pressure shapes life. It teaches us to anticipate problems, to always have a plan B, to distrust government promises, to learn that "those who can't handle it are weak," when, in reality, we are simply living with the system demanding more than we can give. We learn that smiling is strategic, that swallowing frogs is mandatory, that staying on our feet is the only possible victory. The worst part is when we pass this weariness on to others. We raise our children to accept queues, not to question the delays, not to complain about silent injustice. We teach them the manual for the functional citizen: endure, adapt, smile, survive. Because learning to challenge the system is dangerous. Learning to survive is safe. And yet, there is a silent beauty in all of this. To continue, despite injustice, is an act of rebellion. To continue working, studying, creating, smiling—even when everything conspires against us—is conscious resistance. It is the gesture that proves that, no matter how much they push us, we still have the strength to maintain our dignity, we still have the strength to exist. The bill always falls on us, but it doesn't destroy us. It teaches us to be resilient. It teaches us that surviving is more than just getting through the day; it's about maintaining the awareness that we are resisting, that even when tired, we don't give up. That even exhausted, we still have the capacity to dream, to fight, to imagine a better future. In the end, the question isn't "who pays?" — everyone pays. The question is: who can still continue, consciously, even knowing that life will always demand more than we can bear? The answer is: us. Always us. And in this country where the bill is infallible, where injustice is almost the rule, survival is a form of daily revolution. Small, silent, but human. And the smile that keeps us standing, despite everything, is the most powerful gesture we still have left. Because in the end, surviving isn't just existing. Surviving is resisting. It's looking at the bill that arrives and saying, without words, that we're still standing. That we still have strength. That we're still human. That we're still us.

2025/12/3