We’ve become too comfortable with chaos. It’s woven into the fabric of our daily lives like it belongs there, like it’s an old friend who overstays their welcome but never gets kicked out. Crisis isn’t an unexpected guest in Africa; it’s the landlord. It owns the house, and we’ve somehow convinced ourselves that paying rent to this relentless master is just the cost of existing.
But here’s the hard truth: living like this isn’t strength. It’s not resilience. It’s not “just the way life is.” It’s failure. It’s ignorance disguised as endurance. It’s the refusal to learn, adapt, and evolve. We’ve romanticized survival to the point where it feels like an achievement, but surviving isn’t thriving—it’s just not dying. And not dying shouldn’t be the bar.
Think about it. We praise people for “handling” crises like it’s a badge of honor. “Look how well they managed the drought, the flood, the epidemic, the economic collapse.” But why the hell was there no system in place to prevent it in the first place? Why do we clap for firefighters when the fire could’ve been avoided with better wiring?
Because somewhere along the line, we stopped believing prevention was possible. Or worse, we stopped caring.
Crisis has become the rhythm of life. Political turmoil? Just another Tuesday. Food shortages? That’s the season. Power outages? Well, what did you expect? Governments announce emergency measures like clockwork, not because emergencies are rare, but because they’re routine. We live one heartbeat away from the next disaster, and instead of questioning it, we normalize it.
But let’s be clear—this isn’t life. It’s dysfunction. And dysfunction repeated long enough starts to feel normal. That’s the dangerous part. We don’t even flinch anymore. A building collapses because it wasn’t up to code? Tragic, yes, but surprising? Not really. A flood devastates a community because drainage systems are nonexistent? Sad, sure, but shocking? Not at all.
We’ve built entire cultures around managing crises instead of preventing them. Leadership isn’t judged by how well risks are mitigated but by how swiftly damage control is deployed. Success stories aren’t about foresight but about bouncing back after inevitable failure. It’s like congratulating someone for surviving a car crash when they were the ones texting while driving.
And the worst part? We pass this mindset down. We teach it to our kids without even realizing it. “Life is hard,” we say, as if hardship is a permanent state rather than a condition that can be changed. We don’t teach problem-solving; we teach problem-enduring. We don’t raise planners; we raise reactors.
Look at how governments operate. Budgets aren’t built around sustainability—they’re patched together with short-term fixes. Healthcare systems crumble under preventable diseases. Infrastructure falls apart because maintenance isn’t as sexy as rebuilding after it collapses. Prevention isn’t prioritized because prevention isn’t dramatic. It doesn’t make headlines. A bridge that doesn’t fall isn’t news. A disease outbreak that doesn’t happen isn’t a story.
But here’s the thing: the absence of disaster should be the goal. Quiet, uneventful stability should be the headline.
Instead, we live in a perpetual loop: crisis hits, outrage flares, temporary solutions are slapped together, the fire dies down, and then…nothing. No systemic change. No lessons learned. Just waiting for the next inevitable collapse. It’s exhausting. But we don’t even feel the exhaustion anymore because we’ve normalized it.
Why do we accept this? Why do we think it’s okay?
Maybe because crisis gives us an illusion of control. When things fall apart, we get to be heroes, swooping in with aid, with solutions, with temporary fixes. There’s a rush in managing disaster, a sense of purpose. Prevention, on the other hand, is invisible. It’s boring. It requires long-term thinking, patience, discipline—all the things that don’t give you an adrenaline hit.
Or maybe we’re just scared. Scared of the responsibility that comes with prevention. Because if we admit that crises can be prevented, we have to admit that their occurrence is often our fault. That’s a hard pill to swallow. It’s easier to blame fate, bad luck, or external forces than to face the reality that our negligence, our complacency, and our failure to plan are the real culprits.
But denial doesn’t change facts.
Crisis isn’t inevitable. Poverty isn’t inevitable. Corruption isn’t inevitable. None of this is written in the stars. These are human-made problems with human-made solutions. But you can’t solve a problem you refuse to acknowledge.
Imagine if we applied the same energy we use to manage disasters toward preventing them. Imagine if governments invested in infrastructure before it crumbled, if healthcare systems focused on preventive care instead of emergency response, if education taught critical thinking instead of rote memorization.
Imagine if we stopped reacting and started planning.
It’s not that hard. Other places do it. Not because they’re better, but because they made a choice. A choice to prioritize foresight over firefighting. A choice to believe that people deserve more than survival—they deserve stability, security, and growth.
Africa deserves that too. But it won’t happen until we stop glorifying crisis management as some kind of strength. It’s not strength. It’s desperation dressed up as resilience. True strength is the ability to prevent the fire, not just put it out.
So, here’s the challenge: stop accepting this as normal. Stop celebrating leaders who only show up when things fall apart. Demand more. Demand systems that work before they break. Demand education that teaches how to build, not just how to endure.
Because life isn’t supposed to be a series of emergencies. And if we keep living like it is, we’ll never know what it feels like to actually live.
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