Survival vs Purpose: Why Hustle Culture is Empty

Across the nation, hustle culture in Zimbabwe has become a silent epidemic — driving people to survive, not to live. There’s a restlessness that hums beneath the streets of Harare — a rhythm of urgency, of people always moving, always chasing something that never quite arrives. Vendors shout above the noise of traffic, touts call out for passengers, phones buzz with side-deals and promises. Every corner tells the same story: survive today so you can try again tomorrow.

Hustle culture has become the national pulse. Everyone is a hustler — from the graduate selling tomatoes to the father fixing cars under a jacaranda tree, from the woman baking in her backyard to keep her children in school to the young man trading second-hand clothes online. There is a quiet pride in making something out of nothing, in outsmarting a broken system that seems determined to keep you down. Yet beneath that resilience lies exhaustion — the kind that doesn’t rest even when the body stops moving.

This hustle culture in Zimbabwe was born out of necessity, but somewhere along the way, survival became the destination rather than the bridge. We began to measure our worth by productivity, not purpose. Days blur into weeks, and we forget to ask why we are running — only how to keep up.

The tragedy is not that people hustle; it’s that they hustle without hope. Purpose has been replaced by panic. Dreams have been traded for deadlines. We call it ambition, but often it is fear — fear of hunger, of failure, of being forgotten. In a country where opportunities are scarce and inflation bites daily, the line between perseverance and punishment has grown thin.

But our ancestors once understood something we’ve forgotten: work was never meant to drain the spirit; it was meant to nourish it. To build, not just to earn. To belong, not just to compete. Their philosophy — Ubuntu, hunhu — saw life as a shared journey, not a lonely race.

This article explores what happens when a nation confuses survival with success. It examines why hustle culture is empty, how it kills creativity and spirit, and how African philosophy offers a path back to purpose. Because even in the chaos of our daily grind, a deeper truth still calls to us:

We were not made merely to survive. We were made to live fully, meaningfully, together.

The trap of endless hustle in Zimbabwe

There’s a saying on the streets: “hapana nguva yekurara — no time to sleep.” It’s a badge of honour, a slogan of survival. In today’s Zimbabwe, the measure of a man or woman often lies in how busy they appear, how many side hustles they juggle, how little rest they can endure. To stop moving feels dangerous — almost shameful.

This is the trap of hustle culture in Zimbabwe: the belief that rest equals laziness, and that constant motion equals success. It is a culture that glorifies exhaustion and calls it ambition. It convinces the young vendor that sleep is weakness, the commuter that self-care is indulgence, and the entrepreneur that burnout is just the price of greatness.

Yet, beneath the slogans and motivational quotes shared daily on social media — “keep grinding,” “never stop,” “sleep later” — lies a quiet tragedy. Many are running on fumes, trapped in a race without a finish line. The more they hustle, the more life slips through their fingers.

In the early morning, Harare’s kombis fill with the weary faces of dreamers who haven’t slept properly in days. In Mbare, Glen View, and Chitungwiza, the markets awaken before dawn — full of energy, yes, but also full of anxiety. People sell, barter, repair, trade — all in pursuit of one more day of survival. And yet, when night comes, many count their coins and realise they are no closer to peace.

The mental toll of hustle culture runs deep. Anxiety, depression, and burnout have become invisible epidemics. When every day is a fight to survive, reflection feels like a luxury. People stop asking who they are becoming, only what they must do next. The result is a collective numbness — a nation awake but spiritually asleep.

This wasn’t always our way. In traditional African societies, work was sacred, but it had rhythm. The farmer rested with the land, the craftsman worked with intention, the community shared labour and rest alike. There was space for song, for silence, for story. The economy of life was human-centred, not profit-centred.

Colonial systems changed that rhythm. They replaced the harmony of community with the grind of survival. Productivity became a measure of worth; rest became rebellion. The result is a mindset that lingers long after the empire fell — one that confuses busyness with value.

Today’s hustle culture in Zimbabwe continues that inheritance. It breeds comparison instead of collaboration, isolation instead of unity. It tells each man to fend for himself, each woman to rise alone. It erodes hunhu — the Ubuntu principle that one’s humanity is bound to others. In its place grows loneliness disguised as strength.

A Shona proverb warns, “Kushanda zvakanaka hakurevi kushanda zvese” — to work well does not mean to do everything. But this wisdom has been drowned out by the noise of endless striving. Many have forgotten that meaning is found not in motion, but in balance.

The tragedy of hustle culture is not that people work hard — it is that they work without rest, purpose, or peace. The grind never ends because its hunger is never fed. The more we chase, the more we lose touch with what truly sustains us: connection, reflection, and joy.

Until we learn to pause, to breathe, to remember why we run — the trap remains unbroken.

When survival kills the spirit: The cost of the culture

In Zimbabwe today, many people wake up not to live — but simply to survive. The day begins not with gratitude, but calculation: how much airtime to sell, how many tomatoes to hawk, how many kilometres to walk. This survival mentality, born from years of economic crisis, has become our default setting. But survival, when it becomes the only rhythm of life, slowly strangles the spirit.

There’s a difference between living and merely staying alive. To live is to build, to create, to love, to rest. To survive is to endure — to exist from one day to the next, measuring worth through scarcity. Zimbabwe’s streets hum with endurance. Every hustler, every vendor, every civil servant on a minibus clutching yesterday’s coins is a portrait of resilience. Yet, beneath the grit lies fatigue that no amount of hustle can heal.

The hustle culture in Zimbabwe glorifies this exhaustion. It romanticises struggle as identity — as if suffering were proof of virtue. Young men boast about “sleeping in the grind,” women juggle multiple hustles while carrying families, and students chase side jobs before finishing school. But when every ounce of energy is spent surviving, there’s little left for dreaming.

The human spirit is not meant to live without vision. Purpose is oxygen; without it, the soul suffocates. When a person’s entire focus is on getting by, the imagination withers. Music becomes noise, faith becomes obligation, and joy becomes something reserved for the rich or lucky.

Psychologists call it survival fatigue — the exhaustion that comes from constant vigilance and uncertainty. In Zimbabwe, it manifests as irritability, insomnia, apathy, and emotional numbness. Conversations grow shallow because everyone is too tired to care. Communities lose trust as people retreat into their individual hustles. It’s not that Zimbabweans lack resilience — it’s that they are trapped in a loop where resilience is never rewarded.

The tragedy is generational. Children grow up seeing their parents grind endlessly, measuring success not by happiness but by endurance. They inherit the same anxiety — that if they pause, they will fall behind. The cycle continues: hustle replaces healing, motion replaces meaning.

This survival mentality was not born in a vacuum. It is the lingering shadow of colonial and postcolonial systems that robbed people of security, forcing them into perpetual struggle. When the economy collapses, people turn survival into identity because there is no alternative. But identity built only on struggle cannot sustain a nation.

There is an old Shona saying: “Kurarama hakuna kuguta” — to live is not the same as to be fulfilled. It reminds us that existence alone is not enough. A people who forget how to find joy, rest, and purpose slowly lose their humanity.

To heal, Zimbabwe must rediscover meaning beyond survival. Rest is not laziness; reflection is not weakness. Communities must learn again to create spaces for joy — music, art, storytelling, worship, laughter. These are not distractions from the hustle; they are what make the hustle bearable.

If the hustle culture in Zimbabwe is a fire that keeps people moving, then purpose is the hearth that keeps them warm. One burns, the other sustains. Without purpose, survival becomes endless — and a life spent merely enduring is no life at all.

How Ubuntu challenges hustle culture in Zimbabwe

Long before the language of “hustle” or “grind” entered our lives, African societies already had a deep, grounded understanding of work and purpose. In traditional Zimbabwean culture, work was never an isolated act — it was always tied to hunhu, to being human through others. Purpose was measured not by accumulation, but by contribution.

To live well meant to live with others, not above them. A farmer’s worth was not counted in the size of his field, but in how many families he fed. A blacksmith’s skill was not celebrated for profit, but for the strength his tools gave to the community. A healer’s wisdom was not commodified — it was shared, because one person’s wellness ensured the wellbeing of all.

This was the foundation of African philosophy and purpose — the belief that the self and society are inseparable. It is captured beautifully in the Shona saying, “Munhu munhu nekuda kwevanhu” — a person is a person through other people. Every man and woman existed within a web of care, duty, and shared meaning. For more on the philosophical basis of Ubuntu, see Mogobe Ramose’s writings on Ubuntu and African Humanism.

In that world, purpose had rhythm. It flowed with the seasons and cycles of life. Work had pauses — harvest festivals, communal ceremonies, rest days to honour ancestors. There was dignity in rest, because rest was part of the balance of living. It reminded people that they worked not merely to eat, but to sustain connection, to honour the earth, to raise children, to build legacy.

Contrast that with modern hustle culture in Zimbabwe, where value is often measured by how many hours you work, how many deals you close, how many followers you gain. The communal “we” has been replaced by the solitary “I.” Competition has taken the place of cooperation. In a world shaped by scarcity, we no longer ask “Who am I serving?” but “How much can I make?”

This shift has created a spiritual emptiness. When life becomes only about output, the human soul becomes transactional. The man who once tilled the land for the joy of harvest now works endlessly without seeing its fruits. The woman who sells vegetables to feed her family feels guilt for resting. Even the church, once a refuge, echoes with sermons about prosperity more than peace.

Yet the wisdom of our ancestors still whispers through the noise of the marketplace. It tells us that purpose is not found in busyness, but in belonging. Hunhu/Ubuntu teaches that meaning grows when life serves something larger than oneself — family, community, creation. It insists that success cannot be separated from harmony, and that wealth without peace is poverty of the soul.

In many ways, this indigenous worldview offered a quiet antidote to today’s hustle culture in Zimbabwe. It understood that a fulfilled life requires balance: time for work, for rest, for relationship, for reflection. It knew that burnout was not bravery — it was imbalance.

If we are to reclaim purpose today, we must return to these foundations. That does not mean romanticising the past or rejecting modern ambition, but integrating old wisdom with new realities. It means redefining work not as punishment or endless motion, but as a sacred act — an offering to the greater whole.

Purpose, in the African sense, is deeply human. It recognises that even the smallest act — a shared meal, a word of comfort, a day of honest labour — contributes to the unfolding story of the community. To live with hunhu is to remember that we are threads in a much larger tapestry, each holding the other in place.

When Zimbabwe learns again to measure life not by profit but by participation, not by output but by impact, it will begin to heal the wounds of hustle. For in our oldest philosophies lies our most modern truth: to live with purpose is to remember that survival alone is never enough. For statistical context on the pressures faced by Zimbabwean workers today, see the 2023 UNDP Zimbabwe report on youth livelihoods.

Reclaiming meaning beyond money

To move beyond survival is to remember that life was never meant to be a race. Yet modern Zimbabwe feels like a treadmill — moving fast but going nowhere. The more we chase, the further meaning slips from our grasp. Hustle culture in Zimbabwe has taught many to equate motion with progress, but what we need now is stillbess — a return to purpose that breathes.

Reclaiming meaning beyond money begins with one radical act: redefining what “enough” means. For generations, African wisdom taught contentment — not complacency, but gratitude. There was pride in the modest meal that fed the family, in the neighbour who shared their last handful of grain, in the young man who helped repair a hut without payment. Fulfilment was found in connection, not accumulation.

But the economic storms of recent decades — inflation, unemployment, migration — have eroded that sense of collective sufficiency. In a world where survival dominates every waking thought, the language of purpose feels like a luxury. Yet this is precisely where the healing must begin. For a society cannot thrive if its people are trapped in the endless cycle of “making a plan” just to stay alive.

To reclaim meaning, we must restore ubuntu — that deep recognition that wealth is not what you hold, but what you share. True richness is measured in relationships, reputation, and rootedness. A person who uplifts others is richer than one who owns much but stands alone. A nation where everyone eats a little is stronger than one where a few feast while many starve.

We must also learn to slow down without shame. Rest is not laziness; it is wisdom. Our ancestors knew this well — they observed the rhythms of the land, resting when the earth rested, sowing when it was time to sow. Today, we rest only when our bodies collapse. But slowing down gives space for reflection, creativity, and emotional renewal. It allows us to ask: Am I still aligned with what matters?

Reclaiming meaning means bringing purpose back into work. The teacher in Bulawayo who stays after school to mentor young boys against joining gangs; the nurse in Mutare who comforts patients with a kind word when medicine is scarce; the builder in Mbare who trains his apprentice rather than exploiting him — all these are acts of resistance against a culture that values money more than meaning.

When we restore purpose to our labour, work becomes worship again — a service to the living, the ancestors, and the yet unborn. That is the spiritual revolution Zimbabwe needs — one not of slogans or politics, but of consciousness. A remembering of who we are beneath the dust of struggle.

Meaning beyond money also requires new measures of success. Imagine if we celebrated empathy as much as entrepreneurship, if compassion became currency, if generosity became our national pride. Imagine a Zimbabwe where rest days are protected, where men and women are encouraged to heal, to reflect, to reconnect with nature and with one another.

This is not idealism. It is the wisdom of sustainability — of knowing that a people constantly in survival mode cannot build enduring futures. The spirit of hustle must give way to the spirit of harmony.

The journey begins in our homes. When parents teach children that kindness counts more than cash, that sharing is strength, that cooperation is culture, we begin to rebuild the moral economy of the nation. Communities can revive small practices — communal gardens, skill-sharing circles, storytelling nights — that remind us that life’s deepest joy comes not from “getting ahead,” but from moving together.

If we listen closely, the land itself still hums with this truth. It tells us that meaning is not a destination but a way of being — a rhythm that balances work and rest, giving and receiving, striving and stillness.

In reclaiming this, we restore something far greater than personal satisfaction. We restore our collective soul. We remind ourselves that while money can fill the pocket, only purpose fills the heart. And in that rediscovery lies the quiet revolution Africa has been waiting for — a return to the wisdom that whispers through the soil:

“When the rhythm of life is remembered, the people will dance again.”

From hustle to harmony: Escaping hustle culture in Zimbabwe

The hustle has its place — it sharpens, strengthens, and teaches resilience. But when it becomes endless, when it consumes every waking hour and every quiet thought, it turns from a tool into a cage. Too many of us in Zimbabwe have been taught to glorify struggle, to see rest as weakness, and to mistake exhaustion for success. Yet the soul knows better. It whispers that life was never meant to be an unending chase.

Reconnecting with Ubuntu reminds us that work, rest, and life were always meant to flow together — sacred rhythms, not punishments. In our grandparents’ time, the field was a classroom, the fire a circle of wisdom, and even labour carried song. People worked hard, but not as slaves to productivity — they worked in service of life itself.

Today, as we find ourselves running faster but feeling emptier, it is clear that what we have lost is not opportunity, but meaning. The true crisis of our age is spiritual fatigue — a disconnection from purpose, from one another, from the land that sustains us. The cure is not more hustle, but more harmony.

To build the Zimbabwe we dream of, the new generation must dare to live differently. We must choose balance over burnout, meaning over mere money, legacy over luxury. We must remember that ambition is not the enemy — it only becomes so when it is divorced from compassion. The future will not be built by those who hustle hardest, but by those who build with heart.

Reclaiming harmony does not mean retreating from the world. It means returning to what is essential: to create, to love, to rest, to belong. It means allowing our work to be an expression of purpose — not pressure.

“We were never meant to just survive. We were meant to build, belong, and become.”