Sacrifice is often praised in African societies, woven into the cultural identity as a mark of strength, responsibility, and love. But beneath the surface of noble sacrifice lies a harsh reality: that for many breadwinners, it is not a choice, but a chain.
From an early age, the message is clear—those who succeed must turn back and carry others forward. This teaching, rooted in Ubuntu and communal living, is not inherently flawed. In fact, it is beautiful in its ideal form. But ideals, when corrupted by imbalance and entitlement, become burdensome. They stop being bridges and turn into shackles.
The breadwinner becomes the one who must leave behind their own desires, their own ambitions, and sometimes even their identity, to meet the needs of others. A good job in the city is not just a job—it is a lifeline. A degree is not a personal achievement—it is an investment for the whole family. Success becomes less about fulfillment and more about duty.
So they begin to sacrifice. First, it's leisure—there is no time to relax when others are waiting for support. Then relationships—many breadwinners find it difficult to maintain friendships or romantic partnerships because of the endless obligations and guilt that come with every personal decision. Later, they sacrifice their health—working long hours, sleeping too little, eating too poorly. And finally, they sacrifice dreams—their own goals buried beneath the weight of everyone else's needs.
This cycle is rarely questioned. In fact, those who attempt to set boundaries are accused of forgetting where they came from. "After all we did for you..." is a phrase many breadwinners hear when they say no. But what is rarely asked is: what was done for them? Often, the breadwinner rose on the strength of their own determination, on scholarships, on hustle, on prayer. And yet, the expectation is that their success belongs to everyone.
In homes built on sacrifice, love becomes conditional. A child's worth is measured by what they can give back. Parents who once celebrated their child's small victories grow cold when those victories don't translate into financial gain. Siblings who once admired the breadwinner's strength become bitter when their own struggles remain unresolved. The same family that taught them to be generous often teaches them, too, that they are never enough.
This form of sacrifice is deeply gendered as well. In many homes, young men are told, "You are the man now. Take care of your people." That phrase becomes a curse. It strips them of childhood, pushes them into adulthood far too early, and sets them on a path where being vulnerable is seen as failure. They are not allowed to cry. Not allowed to seek help. Their identity is locked to their ability to provide.
For young women, the chains of sacrifice take a more silent, often more dangerous form. In families where boys have failed to deliver, the girl-child is now encouraged—subtly or openly—to step into the role of savior. Not through education or career alone, but sometimes through exploitation. "You're beautiful, find someone who can help us." "Use what you have." These are not just words. They are loaded suggestions that push young girls into relationships with older men, into sex work, into abusive partnerships—all in the name of helping the family escape poverty.
And it's all under the banner of sacrifice.
These young women become statistics: teenage pregnancies, abandoned by the men who promised help. Or they become mothers too soon, forced to raise children while still trying to raise themselves. Many carry trauma that will never be named, much less healed. Yet no one talks about it. It is wrapped in silence and shame, while the community praises them as "strong girls." But it is not strength—it is survival. A survival they never chose, but were pushed into.
In all of this, the true tragedy is how normalized the pain has become. Everyone sees the breadwinner working themselves to death, and they say, "He's doing well." No one asks if he's happy. Everyone sees the young girl sending money from the city, and they say, "She's a blessing." No one asks what she had to do to earn it.
This normalization of suffering has eroded empathy. It has replaced communal support with transactional relationships. Breadwinners are not celebrated for their hearts, but for their wallets. And when those wallets run dry, so does the love.
But even with all this pain, the breadwinner still gets up each morning. Still picks up the phone. Still sends money they don't have. Still carries the family on broken shoulders. Not because they enjoy it, but because they fear what will happen if they stop.
This is the chain of sacrifice—beautiful in theory, brutal in reality.