There is a government office in this country that does not get nearly enough credit. No ribbon-cutting ceremonies. No politicians taking pictures next to shiny new buildings. No speeches about national development.
However, make no mistake, it is one of the busiest public services in the kingdom. It is the Social Welfare Office. This is the place where romance finally meets Mathematics. According to figures from the Deputy Prime Minister’s Office, 4 772 child maintenance cases were reported between April and December 2025. Of these, 710 of them had to be escalated to the magistrates court when negotiations failed.
Seven hundred and ten. This figure is a national queue of men discovering that fatherhood is not a motivational speech; it is a monthly debit order.
You see, some of our brothers in this country perform miracles at night, absolute miracles. Confidence levels higher than petrol prices. In the evening, they behave like Premier League strikers, fast, fearless and scoring goals everywhere. Wait for it! Nine months later, they show up at Social Welfare, behaving like defenders who have never seen the ball before. Let us first establish paternity, they claim.
My brother the entire neighbourhood established paternity months ago.
That child did not even inherit your features… when your face contorted into different expressions, you forwarded them like a WhatsApp message. Now, here is the greatest mystery of all. Government clinics have been distributing protection for years. Free! Mahhala hha! Not discounted. Not buy-one-get-one. Free!
If you walk into a clinic today, they will give you enough protection to survive three relationships, a midlife crisis and the next Africa Cup of Nations.
Yet some men walk past those boxes like they are government policy documents, available, but never used. Instead, they prefer a strategy called unprotected confidence. This strategy works like this. At the moment of enjoyment, the man is fearless. “Don’t worry, everything will be fine.” Nine months later, he is sitting in the Social Welfare Office, sweating like the coach of the Soweto team with a black and gold outfit, after losing a derby. “Where did this maintenance amount come from?” Mnumzane, the amount came from your decisions.
As the child is born, at first, the father is very excited. Pictures on WhatsApp. Status updates.
The baby wearing tiny football jerseys. Then someone mentions the word maintenance. Guess what, like the deceased magician, Ndlovu, who used to visit schools in the 1990s, they pull a trick on their responsibility. Abracadabra! They disappear faster than a mobile network during a thunderstorm. Phone off! WhatsApp picture removed!
Now the only way to reach him is through the magistrates court or a very determined aunt. Some of these men even develop sudden scientific curiosity. “Let us do a DNA test.” My brother, the child, has your ears, your walk and your refusal to answer phone calls. Even science is tired.
Hold on a minute! Before you sharpen your spears for this column, let us ask a question that many men whisper quietly, at kombi ranks and barbershops. Are both parents always contributing equally to the welfare of the child? Some fathers say they are treated like walking ATMs while the real costs of raising the child are discussed somewhere in a secret WhatsApp group.The man pays maintenance. School fees: E38 570/year. School trip: E4 700/year. Uniform: E2 600/year.Transport: E1 500/month. Accommodation: E1 750/month. Food: E1 500/ month.
School shoes: E400.Wait for it!
The mother still has more demands, and I’ll not question what she contributes other than doing laundry, preparing meals and ensuring that any need is reported to the father. The father, who by the time the numbers finish adding up, is staring at the ceiling, like someone who just read the national budget. Of course, none of these excuses the gentlemen who treat fatherhood like a government tender, something they won briefly and then abandoned halfway through. A child is not a campaign promise that disappears after the election posters come down. Still, the real lesson here is simple. In this country, relationships move at Formula One speed. Love is fast. Romance is fast.
Confidence is very fast. However, responsibility arrives like a bus to Ngudzeni, slow, noisy and full of uncomfortable passengers.
By the time it gets there, everyone is already arguing. Which is why the Social Welfare Office has quietly become the kingdom’s most unusual public service. It is part counselling centre, part financial referee and part emergency repair shop for broken relationships.
Every day, they sit across the table from two adults who once called each other ‘my love’ and now communicate through maintenance orders. Somewhere in the middle of that argument is a child who did not attend the meeting where these decisions were made.The child did not choose the romance.
The child did not plan the finances. The child simply arrived.Which means the adults must now behave like adults. So, here is a revolutionary national policy suggestion: If you cannot afford nappies, school uniforms, kombi fare and maintenance payments, there is a remarkable government programme already available.It has been sitting quietly in clinic waiting rooms for years. It is called using protection. Apparently, it is cheaper than court, much cheaper than discovering that the most expensive thing in the Kingdom of Eswatini is not petrol, electricity or bread. It is nine seconds of confidence without a plan.
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