**Akasia, Tshwane —** The lights flicker again. Load shedding Stage 6, they say. My neighborhood hums with the grumble of generators and the clatter of paraffin stoves. Outside, the winter air bites like a prophet’s rebuke. I sit in the half-darkness, journal open, scribbling names: *Ouma Maria, Uncle Sipho, cousin Lindiwe*. Each name a story. Each story a chain.
Last month, my nephew Musa overdosed on *nyaope* in Soshanguve. The paramedics came too late. At his funeral, the pastor thundered about “generational curses,” and I flinched. But later, as we ate *pap en vleis* under a frayed tent, Tannie Lettie whispered, “This family’s always been snake-bit. Money runs dry, men disappear, women carry coffins. When does it end?”
### **The Theology of Broken Grids**
South Africa knows about broken systems. Eskom’s towers collapse under corruption; politicians trade blame like poker chips. We’re experts in inherited dysfunction. But what if the darkness isn’t just *out there*? What if it’s woven into our DNA—a spiritual load shedding?
Paul’s letter to the Galatians is a manifesto for the cursed: *“Christ redeemed us from the curse of the law by becoming a curse for us”* (3:13). The Greek word for “redeemed” (*exagorazō*) means to buy back, like reclaiming stolen land. Here’s the scandal: Jesus didn’t just *lift* curses; He rewired the grid. The cross is a subversive act of divine vandalism, severing old wires of addiction, lack, and despair.
### **Auntie Politics and the Blood of Covenant**
Last week, protesters barricaded the R80 highway, burning tires over water shortages. “We’re tired of promises!” they chanted. I get it. Our nation’s trauma is generational—apartheid’s ghost, unemployment’s chokehold. Yet, as I pray for Musa, I’m reminded: Christ’s blood isn’t a Band-Aid; it’s a *covenant*. In Exodus, blood on doorposts saved firstborns. Today, it marks our lineage.
My friend Thabo, a recovering addict in Mamelodi, told me, “I used to blame my father’s fists for my hunger. But Jesus told me, *‘Your story doesn’t end with his sins.’*” Thabo fasted for seven days, journaling his family tree. “I wrote my dad’s name, then crossed it out with red ink—like Christ’s pen.”
### **The Algorithm of Grace**
Modern theology often mirrors our apps—quick fixes, self-help hacks. But grace isn’t an algorithm. It’s a plow. Breaking cycles demands more than hashtags; it requires kneeling in the soil of our histories.
Take Ezekiel 18: *“The one who sins is the one who will die.”* Radical, this idea—that God resets the ledger. No more blaming Oupa’s apartheid-era compromises or Mama’s silence. In Christ, we’re hackers of fate, rewriting code line by line.
### **Practical Exorcisms**
How? Start small. Light a candle during load shedding and declare, *“The voltage of heaven overrides this darkness.”* Fast one meal a week, interceding for a relative. Write their name in your journal—not as a prisoner of the past, but a pupil of hope.
And laugh. Seriously. Humor disarms the devil. Last Sunday, Pastor Vusi joked, “Even Eskom can’t disconnect the Holy Ghost’s Wi-Fi!” We chuckled, but the truth lingers: Faith thrives in the dark.
### **Rewrite the Code**
South Africa’s pain is a classroom. Our national crises—corruption, gender violence, xenophobia—are symptoms of deeper strongholds. But what if the church stopped marching with placards and started kneeling with journals? What if we traded outrage for intercession?
Tonight, as the grid fails again, I flip to Galatians 3:13 in my Bible. The page is stained with rooibos tea and tears. I trace Musa’s name, whispering, *“Redeemed.”* The candle flickers, stubborn. Somewhere in Soshanguve, a teenager chooses rehab over relapse. Somewhere in Parliament, an honest MP resists a bribe.
The light is small, but it’s ours.
**Break the cycle. Pass the flame.**
**P.S.** While you wait for Eskom, read Psalm 18:28—*“You, Lord, keep my lamp burning; my God turns my darkness into light.”* Even the ANC can’t vote that out.
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