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The Inheritance That Wasn’t Money

Happy New Year. And happy International Day of Education.

As the year begins, I find myself reflecting — not just on where I’m going, but on where I’ve come from, and why my journey unfolded the way it did.

No one ever really understands why I left investment banking.
Least of all Investec — one of the hardest banks to get into, sitting pretty in Africa’s richest square mile, prestige baked into the walls. Truth is, for a long time, I didn’t understand it either.

All I knew was that when my father passed away, something in me needed to stop. To pause. To breathe. I took a sabbatical. I grew out my natural hair until it began to lock itself into place. I got a piercing under my lip — it looked cute af. I wandered into the public health space and project-managed an edutainment initiative, worlds away from derivatives, bonds and boardrooms.

And when I returned, I realised I no longer knew who I was trying to be.

I told myself that investment banking was something I did to make my dad proud. And honestly? That story checked out. My father never gloated — not once — except this one time. An uncle we hadn’t seen in years asked how he was doing. My father said he was well and casually listed a few things. One of them:
“Mofota works at Investec.”

I felt it. That quiet pride. Like the ROI on the education he’d invested in had finally paid off.

He once said to me, “I could use my hard-earned salary to buy a Mercedes Benz, but I’d rather invest in your education — something no one can take from you.”

My Ntate and I twinning Matebeng, Ha Lelingoana

That was his philosophy. Education as legacy.

So when talent acquisition was marketed to me as “coffee and conversations,” I laughed. Coffee? Conversation? Sold. I had the gift of the gab and I loved people. I did well — partly because I understood investment banking clients, but mostly because HR, in many ways, found me.

And what a journey it’s been.

Over the past 20 years, I’ve worked across industries and roles, with some of the best companies — including a Fortune 200 — and leaders who lifted me, stretched me, and trusted me. My career history is an honour. And yet, I kept asking myself:
Why here? Why HR? And why early careers and graduate development?

For a long time, I thought it was my passion for Africa’s demographic dividend — that subconsciously I’d landed here. But there were moments I felt “too old” for this space. Conversations with a few wise people helped me see the strategic power of young talent development, and that gave me enough juice to keep going.

Still, last year, I decided it might be time to hang up my hat and move on.

Then early this year, while on leave, breathing fresh mountain air — the kind that clears both lungs and thoughts — something shifted.

I remembered that education was how my father made it in life. He rose to the very top of his game using nothing but his big, brilliant brain. He was an economics lecturer known for changing syllabi because he believed he could make them better. He later played a vital role in government under the portfolio of economic and manpower development — helping send thousands of scholars into higher education.

How had I forgotten that?

Then I looked at my own work. Goosebumps.
I am doing exactly the same thing — just in a different decade.

And then the questions deepened.

What if this is my purpose?
What if it’s true that we choose parents aligned to our purpose?
What if it’s not a coincidence that he was my father and I his only daughter?

What if this is why I loved helping him mark multiple-choice tests with a red pen?
Why I enjoyed cleaning his study and arranging his books?
Why I landed on library duty in boarding school and adored the librarian?

What if I’ve been living my purpose all along — just without naming it?

This year, my love for what I do has deepened in ways I can’t ignore. I am more inspired than ever to make a positive impact in young people’s lives, using education as a tool for poverty alleviation — the very philosophy my father lived by.

I recently had the privilege of attending the Class of 2025 ceremony. One message from the ministers stayed with me: learners from fragile, rural communities are excelling. They are embracing excellence despite their circumstances. They get it. Education is the single tool that will change their lives and their communities.

It felt deeply spiritual. A calling.

So today — on International Day of Education, at the start of a new year — I send a gratitude thought to the man who raised me. The man whose purpose I am aligned to. I am clearer than ever about mine.

Everything is rooted in purpose.

The Purpose Driven Life teaches that purpose is rooted in God — and I agree. Rooted in whatever you perceive God to be. For me, my father embodied that: provider, disciplinarian, unconditional love, and purpose-giver.

This has been a long journey. But now I know:
I didn’t leave investment banking to lose something.
I left it to remember who I am.

And as this new year begins, I step forward grounded, grateful, and certain —
I am exactly where I’m meant to be.

Merry Chainsmas: Emancipation Begins in the Mind

Christianity, consumption, and inherited illusions!

Someone once said, Black people hate everything about colonialism and slavery except Christianity.
The longer I sit with that statement, the more uncomfortable — and true — it feels.

Africans will rightly speak about the brutality of colonialism: how land was stolen, cultures erased, identities fragmented. Yet many of these stories are still told beneath a picture of a white Jesus hanging on the wall. That contradiction is rarely interrogated.

This reminder hit me unexpectedly at a petrol station. The attendant wished me a Merry Christmas. I told him, politely, that I don’t believe in it and therefore don’t celebrate. To my surprise, he looked relieved. He added that he too finds it strange that white people brought Christmas to Africa, yet it is Black people who spend the most during this season.

We stood there, briefly aligned, agreeing that what we are witnessing is a modern form of slavery. Prices double, lights distract, obligation replaces joy, and banks are eager to extend credit so people can participate in rituals that keep them trapped in debt — chains disguised as celebration.

This isn’t judgment. I used to believe too. I was once a Christian, and I genuinely learned a lot during that chapter of my spiritual journey.

As I get older, I realise more and more that my father was a proper G — not in the trendy sense, but in the deepest sense of the word: an intelligent, grounded human being.

Growing up, no one forced us to go to church. Not on Sundays. Not on Christmas Day. My mother was Roman Catholic and deeply involved in her church community. My father, on the other hand, was an atheist. When I asked him what he believed in, he said simply, “I believe in myself.”

And he lived that belief. From growing up in a village to earning a PhD, his life required discipline, self-trust, and relentless effort. When my mother insisted that the children should go to church, my father would say faith should be a choice. Unsurprisingly, none of us went.

Then came the Pentecostal churches — and they got me.

What I encountered over time was not just faith, but an industry. Scripture, particularly Malachi 3:10, was repeatedly used to compel people to give financially, with prosperity positioned as proof of spiritual correctness. When miracles failed to materialise, responsibility was shifted back onto the believer. This pattern of spiritual manipulation is well documented in postcolonial critiques of religion in Africa (Biko, 1978).

As churches mushroomed across South Africa, the situation became increasingly disturbing. People were sprayed with insect repellents, told to drink petrol, eat grass, or submit to humiliating and dangerous acts — all in the name of finding God. What was being exploited was not faith, but desperation.

Across Africa, when people were lost, hurting, or searching for meaning, others took advantage of that vulnerability. They manipulated uncertainty, robbed people of dignity, finances, and agency. This aligns with Steve Biko’s assertion that “the most powerful weapon in the hands of the oppressor is the mind of the oppressed” (Biko, 1978).

One of the few African leaders to publicly challenge this abuse of religion was President Paul Kagame of Rwanda. Kagame argued that religious freedom must be accompanied by accountability, insisting that church leaders present formal theological qualifications and comply with regulatory standards (Kagame, 2018). His position recognised that unregulated faith spaces can become sites of exploitation rather than liberation.

One pastor once said something that stayed with me: people don’t have a revelation of who they are.

That statement opened a door. I began asking questions I had never been encouraged to ask. Who were my ancestors before colonialism? What did they believe? How did they understand God, community, morality, and self?

Reading the Bible cover to cover revealed something unexpected. The qualities attributed to God — provider, disciplinarian, protector, source of unconditional love — were embodied fully by my father. His value system aligned naturally with principles of ethical living. He didn’t require Christianity to be moral.

This led me to trace my family history and explore alternative spiritual frameworks. My research led me toward Islam — a system of belief and discipline that, in many ways, aligns more closely with African communal values than Western Christianity. While my father did not practise Islam, its emphasis on accountability, humility, and justice resonated strongly.

At the same time, I recognise that religion itself is a social construct — a framework that can be used to guide, but also to control. This understanding brings me to the words of Marcus Garvey, who warned:

“We are going to emancipate ourselves from mental slavery, because whilst others might free the body, none but ourselves can free the mind” (Garvey, 1937).

That call to mental liberation echoes powerfully alongside the words of Emperor Haile Selassie I of Ethiopia, leader of the only African nation never colonised, who stated in his 1963 address to the United Nations:

“Until the philosophy which holds one race superior and another inferior is finally and permanently discredited and abandoned… the dream of lasting peace will remain but a fleeting illusion” (Selassie, 1963).

Together, these voices — Garvey, Biko, Selassie — point to the same truth: domination survives not only through force, but through belief.

Question the system and you are labelled lost, evil, or the Antichrist. I laugh now.

I am old enough to hope that one day our people will experience a true revelation of who they are — beyond fear, beyond conditioning, beyond inherited belief systems.

That is what emancipation looks like.

And it begins in the mind.

When people wish me a Merry Christmas, I understand where it comes from.
And I wish them well.

But what I truly hope for all of us is freedom —
the kind that starts within,
where no one needs permission to know who they are.

#MerryChainsmas
#MentalEmancipation
#FreeTheMind
#EmancipationBeginsInTheMind
#DecoloniseTheMind
#LiberationBeforeCelebration
#NewSlavery
#InheritedIllusions

References

Biko, S. (1978) I Write What I Like. London: Heinemann.

Garvey, M. (1937) Speech delivered in Nova Scotia. Available through historical archives and reproduced in various Pan-African anthologies.

Kagame, P. (2018) Public statements on regulation of religious institutions in Rwanda. Government of Rwanda press briefings.

Selassie, H. (1963) Address to the United Nations General Assembly, 4 October 1963. New York: United Nations.

Unapologetically Me — An African Woman’s Reflection on Mental Health in Corporate Spaces

On this World Mental Health Day, I found myself reflecting on the weight and wonder of being an African woman in corporate. The truth is, no other woman in my lineage has walked the exact same path.

Both my grandmothers were full-time housewives who raised the incredible parents that shaped me. My mother, too, worked for a while, but eventually became a full-time homemaker — caring for her husband and five children with quiet strength and grace. None of them could offer me advice on how to navigate boardrooms, corporate hierarchies, or the subtle politics in many rooms.

The life lessons they gave me — resilience, humility, empathy, and faith — have been my compass. But stepping into corporate South Africa as a Black woman has been like learning to breathe underwater. It’s a world that wasn’t built for us. Historically, our place was expected to be in the kitchen, not in the strategy room. Yet here we are — thriving, building, and rewriting the script for generations after us.

The Weight of Representation

According to McKinsey & Company’s 2023 Women in the Workplace report, Black women remain the most underrepresented group in senior leadership globally, often experiencing higher rates of microaggressions, bias, and emotional burnout. In South Africa, research by the Commission for Employment Equity (2024) revealed that Black women make up less than 4% of top management roles, despite being the majority demographic.

This imbalance is more than just numbers — it’s a mental and emotional burden. It means constantly proving competence in spaces where you’re often underestimated. It means carrying the unspoken expectation of being “strong” — even when strength feels like silence.

The mental health impact is undeniable. Studies by the South African Depression and Anxiety Group (SADAG) show that Black professional women are significantly less likely to seek mental health support due to stigma, cultural expectations, and fear of being perceived as weak.

The Pressure to Be Perfect

Many of us were raised to be excellent — the daughter who never disappoints, the employee who never falters, the leader who never complains. That invisible labor — emotional, cultural, and professional — takes a toll.

We live at the intersection of race, gender, and expectation. We must lead without being “too assertive,” speak up without being “too emotional,” and exist without taking up “too much space.” The double standards are exhausting. But acknowledging that exhaustion is an act of courage, not weakness.

Redefining Strength

As Dr. Thabelo Khoboko reminds us in her World Mental Health Day reflection:

“True strength is found in our unity. It is in our empathy — the choice to listen without judgment. It is in our compassion — for others and for ourselves.”

Those words resonate deeply. Because in the midst of boardrooms, KPIs, and strategic plans, our humanity remains our greatest strength.

These days, I show up as unapologetically me. I’ve learned that authenticity is not a liability — it’s my power. I am bright, intelligent, grounded, and enough. We are enough.

The Road Ahead: Building for the Next Generation

Africa’s youth population — largely Gen Z and Gen Alpha — represents our continent’s demographic dividend. They are digital natives, creative problem solvers, and unafraid to challenge systems. As they enter the workforce, they’ll bring new energy into industries like renewable energy, fintech, agritech, and digital infrastructure.

Our responsibility, as those paving the way, is to ensure that the workplaces they inherit are psychologically safe — spaces where brilliance doesn’t come at the cost of belonging.

We must build environments where mental health is not a whispered afterthought, but a strategic priority. Because when we heal, we lead better. When we lead authentically, we create space for others to do the same.

In Closing

To every African woman navigating corporate spaces — you are not alone. Your story matters. Your presence shifts paradigms. You are walking paths your grandmothers only dreamed of, and in doing so, you are shaping the blueprint for those who will come after you.

Mental health is not a luxury; it is a right.
And on this World Mental Health Day, I choose to honor my strength — not in perfection, but in presence.

Because mental health is both empowerment and Botho.

References:

McKinsey & Company. (2023). Women in the Workplace Report.
Commission for Employment Equity. (2024). Annual Report. Department of Labour, South Africa.
South African Depression and Anxiety Group (SADAG). (2023). Mental Health in the Workplace Survey.

My Dad Is My Heritage — A Black Girl’s Tribute to Her Village Roots

I am from the village.

A black girl raised by a man who once ran barefoot in the dust of a place where homes were made from mud, where water was fetched with buckets, and every meal came with a story.

That man—my father—may have come from a village, but he was never poor.

He was rich in love, raised by incredible parents who gave him dignity, discipline, and dreams.

They taught him that worth isn’t found in material things, but in character, community, and purpose.

And he passed all of that on to me.

Not just school fees and shoes.

Not just bedtime stories and discipline.

But heritage. Soul. Legacy.

He educated himself to the highest level, not because it was easy, but because he knew he carried more than just his name—he carried a whole lineage forward. And through him, so do I.

⸻

Teen Hormones & Missed Moments

I was a teenager once (whew, what a time). You know that age where your dad becomes the most uncool person on Earth just by existing?

Yeah, I was deep in that phase the day of the Bayete concert.

He wanted to come with me.

He was excited, maybe even more than me.

And me? In true hormonal, eye-rolling, cringy-teen fashion, I said,

“Oh hell no, ain’t nobody gonna be caught dead hanging out with their dad.”

If only I knew.

If only I could go back.

That concert would’ve been magic for us both. It could have been a memory we’d carry together forever.

Instead, it became a quiet regret I tuck in my heart.

⸻

Redemption in Rhythm

But here’s the thing about love—especially African father-love: it holds no grudges.

Later, when the guilt simmered in my chest, I bought him a Bayete DVD.

Because if we couldn’t share that night in the crowd, at least he could feel it from the lounge, sitting in his favorite spot. Listen, no one sat in my dad’s chair.

And oh, how his face lit up.

I didn’t need to say the words. He knew.

That DVD was an apology, a peace offering. A “Dad, I see you now.”

He loved Bayete—but he adored “Malowe” by Jabu Khanyile.

Whenever the part came on—

“Wachu Mosotho, o botle ba likoti maremeng”—he’d light up like a boy with a secret.

To this day, I wonder who he was thinking about when he sang that line with so much flavor.

(Let’s be honest, someone had him blushing in his youth! Lols.)

⸻

Remembering Who I Am

Remembering who he was reminds me who I am.

I am Mofota oa Sefali sa Kotoane.

My mom loved my DNA too.

Whenever I did something shockingly uncultured (the kind of thing she was low-key proud of), she’d smirk and say:

“Ke Mofota Sefali”—almost like she was stamping her name on my spirit.

That was her way of saying, “That’s my kid. Don’t mess with her.”

My parents were electric. They built me, taught me, loved me loudly.

They raised me to be the nkoapo I am—unyielding, proud, rooted.

⸻

An Ode to the Ones Who Gave Me Life

This piece is for them.

For the mud huts and the Bayete songs.

For the smirks of mothers and the secret smiles of fathers.

For the bloodline that pulses through me like a drumbeat older than time.

May this story remind you, too, to stay true to yourself.

Because that’s your heritage.

That’s your power.

#HeritageMonth

Lighting the Way

Celebrating Fathers Who Liberate Their Daughters – Women’s Month Reflections

August in South Africa is more than a month on the calendar. It’s a sacred space in time where we pause to honour the soul of a woman — her resilience, her grace, her contribution to the world. Not just in roles she inherited, but in those she carved out with her own hands, heart, and fire.

The soul of a woman was always meant to be tender, nurturing, fiercely empathetic, and kind. But it is also a force — bold, strategic, intelligent, intuitive, and vital to every part of society. In today’s world, women are redefining what it means to live fully and authentically. We have inevitably adopted new ways of living, not to reject our cultural heritage, but to break free from its limitations and reclaim our own authorship.

Our grandmothers did their thing, their way — and now, with their blessing and quiet pride, we are doing ours. We move beyond the kitchen not because it lacked value, but because our value extends further. Our minds are brilliant — solving, building, healing, designing, creating, and leading. And in doing so, we honour every woman who never had the chance.

But this journey of becoming — of evolving — is never walked alone. There are men who, in love and vision, fan the flame of the girls they raise or walk beside. For me, it was my father — Dr Michael Malefetsane Sefali — whose book An Introduction to Political Economy holds a chapter titled “The Emancipation of Women.” But what he wrote as theory, he lived as conviction. I am that chapter personified.

He believed in education as an investment. And he made that investment in me — not just so I could pass exams, but so I could walk into rooms with my head high, speak with clarity, and live with dignity. He liberated me in more ways than I could count — from outdated expectations, from silence, from fear, from dependency.

So this Women’s Month, I raise a glass not only to the women who stand tall, but to the men who stand with us — to the fathers, brothers, mentors, and friends who fan the flames, make space, listen deeply, and believe in our worth without conditions.

To every woman — may you always know that your light is not borrowed, it is built-in. Happy Women’s Month.