Let me start gently. If foreigners landed in Eswatini today and took a quick survey, they would conclude that our main export is not sugar.It is hope. Specifically, hope attached to a cartoon aeroplane.
You will find grown men whispering to their phones like they are negotiating a peace treaty: ‘‘Please… just reach 100x.’’ Sir. You have not prayed that hard for your own children.
It is funny, until it isn’t, because this is not just gambling. This is a country flirting with collapse in high definition (HD) quality. Unemployment is 35.4 per cent. Jobs are scarce. Salaries are thin. Life is expensive. So, what did we do? We said, ‘let’s gamble’.That’s confidence. That’s courage. That’s the kind of decision-making that makes your ancestors turn in their graves and ask for Wi-Fi passwords. We have convinced ourselves that poverty plus data bundles equals entrepreneurship.No, my brother. That is desperation with good graphics. One in four emaSwati is registered on an online betting platform. That is not a side hobby. That is a national habit. We are not just trying our luck. We are manufacturing disappointment at scale.You know what fascinates me? The aeroplane never attends a funeral. It never contributes to groceries. It never pays school fees. It just flies, takes your money and disappears; and we call that entertainment. A student from Eswatini College of Technology becomes lost in debt linked to this game. A priest loses E15 000 meant to rebuild his life. A teenager cannot survive the shame of losses.
These are not jokes. These are obituaries sponsored by optimism. Yet, tomorrow morning, someone will still say, ‘Let’s try again’. That’s not resilience. That’s addiction wearing confidence.
This transcends to households. Some wives in this country deserve medals for patience. Their husbands are in bed, but spiritually in a relationship with 9.16x. ‘‘Wait babe… just a second…’’Sir, it has been three hours. Conjugal rights have been replaced by ‘Cash Out’. Romance has been replaced by ‘Network Error’.We used to worry about side chicks. Now we must compete with a blinking notification. You know what hurts the most? The aeroplane never even says thank you.
Then here is the absurdity that makes us clap our hands and appreciate how things are engineered to fall apart, either out of greed or simply because of incompetence.We have the Gaming Control Act. We have regulations in progress. We have licence fees calculated. We have benchmarking trips. What we do not have is control.
Children are gambling through SIM cards registered in their parents’ names. The Ministry of Tourism and Environmental Affairs has admitted there are no controls to stop minors from accessing online betting. No controls, but revenue? Collected efficiently. So, let me understand this: We can count the money, but we cannot count the children? That is not governance. That is selective eyesight. What’s new with that anyway, where oversight is seemingly a side gig for officials? Seriously, digital addiction is the gentleman’s destroyer. Unlike alcohol, it is unannounced. Drugs smell. Gambling? It sits quietly in your pocket.
It looks like ambition. It feels like strategy. It sounds like opportunity, but it eats like termites. Slowly. Silently. Until the roof collapses.
Psychologists warn of depression, anxiety and suicidal thoughts. The beginner’s luck phenomenon wires the brain to chase losses like they are destiny. You are not chasing money. You are chasing a feeling. And feelings are expensive. Ask me, umjolo taught me a thing or two in my youth.
So, let’s stop pretending we’re shocked. We opened the door wide. Issued licences. Celebrated revenue projections. And now we are surprised that funerals are increasing. That theft cases are linked to betting. That families are breaking. You cannot monetise vulnerability and act stunned when it behaves vulnerably. This is not morality talk. This is arithmetic.
If 25 per cent of the population is gambling online, you are not regulating an industry. You are supervising a social experiment. Also, right now, the results are ugly. The hard part is the buried cold truth. Some of us are not victims of the system. We are volunteers. We download the app. We deposit the money. We ignore the warning signs. We lie to our spouses. We borrow from friends.
We say, I almost won. No, you almost learnt, but you didn’t.That is where satire ends and responsibility begins. First, halt new gambling licences until real enforcement exists. Second, mandatory National ID verification with real-time age authentication. Not promises. Systems. Third, a transparent Rehabilitation Fund financed by operators. Fourth, a national self-exclusion register allowing families to intervene.Fifth, restrict aggressive advertising targeting young people who already believe success must be instant. Sixth, invest seriously in mental health services dedicated to gambling addiction.At home? Parents must parent. Friends must speak up. Spouses must stop mistaking obsession for ambition. And young men must understand: If your financial plan depends on a cartoon aeroplane, you do not have a financial plan.We laugh because it is absurd. We laugh because it is uncomfortable. We laugh because if we don’t, we might cry, but the joke is only funny until it becomes your house or your brother or your funeral.Right now, the aeroplane is the only thing consistently taking off in this economy.Still, if we are not careful, it will leave the rest of us grounded, broke, ashamed and still whispering,‘Just one more time.’
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