Making it out isn’t free. It costs money, yes—but it also costs your peace, your sleep, and sometimes your last born’s inheritance.
You finally land that job, get that degree, or move into that apartment you swore you’d never afford… and then the phone starts ringing.
“Your cousin needs school fees.”
“Your uncle’s hospital bill.”
“Can you help us build back home?”
(Translation: congratulations, you’re now the family’s unofficial central bank.)
This is Black Tax: the silent contract that says if one of us makes it, all of us do. And if you say no? Prepare for a family meeting you didn’t attend but were still the agenda.
Then comes the emotional labor. You’re not just paying bills—you’re also the family’s therapist, crisis manager, and motivational speaker. You send 2 a.m. “Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out” voice notes while Googling “how to figure it out” for yourself.
Sometimes it feels noble. Other times it feels like drowning with a smile. Because making it out doesn’t always mean freedom—it just means you traded poverty for new responsibilities (plus a stronger Wi-Fi signal).
And here’s the kicker: if you do make it out, for the love of all that is holy, don’t end up with a broke partner who thinks your success is a joint account. One Black Tax is enough—nobody needs a romantic surcharge.
But maybe the conversation isn’t about quitting the tax. Maybe it’s about rewriting the rules: helping without going broke, loving your people without losing your mind, and reminding everyone (especially Auntie “Just One More Loan”) that survival shouldn’t cost your sanity.
Until then? We keep wiring the money. We keep showing up. And we keep whispering the same prayer under our breath:
“Please, God… let me make it far enough that I can hire an accountant for my emotional expenses too.”