Before the Chaos

Chapter 9: What Tomorrow Might Look Like

You know what I miss the most? Not a version of the country, but a version of us. The version that still had dreams untainted by fear, plans untouched by doubt. That younger me who genuinely believed things would get better if we just held on. But time has a way of shaping your optimism into something sharper. It becomes cautious, measured.

Today, if you ask me if I’d leave, I’d say yes. But not out of bitterness—out of longing. Longing for structure, for order, for a place where my energy isn’t wasted fighting the basics. I’d leave because I still believe I can contribute something valuable, and I want to do it in an environment where effort and excellence are rewarded.

But if you asked me what I fear the most? It’s that we’ll get used to this. That poverty will become normal, corruption will be funny instead of tragic, and dreams will shrink to fit survival. I’m scared that the next generation won’t even know what to hope for anymore.

Still, in all of this, I haven’t lost everything. Not yet. I still have people—friends who make me laugh even when nothing’s funny, mentors who tell me I’m not crazy for still trying, and this deep inner refusal to be reduced by my reality.

To the young ones coming after us: don’t wait. Start. The system may not open doors, but you can build your own walls to lean on. Whether it's coding, writing, sewing, trading, or organizing—do something. Stay clean. Keep your integrity. This place might not reward you now, but the world is wider than your borders.

To the older ones: we still need you. Not just for sermons, but for solutions. Show us how to navigate the wreckage without losing ourselves.

And to my mates—my tired, brilliant, frustrated generation—we may not have chosen this script, but maybe we can still flip the page. Maybe our stories won’t be about escape, but about rebuilding. Maybe we’ll learn to create islands of sanity in the madness.

The truth is, I don’t know how this story ends. But I do know how it continues—by showing up, by trying again, and by refusing to become what this place tried to make us.

So if you’re reading this, and you're still holding on too, just know—you’re not alone. We’re not finished. We’re still writing.