Black market sells everything except what we really need now

They say you can buy anything on the black market. Anything, a lady in the Woolies queue behind me gushed.

Need a fake designer handbag? Sorted. A dodgy DVD box set from 2003? Easy.

A phone that “fell off the back of a truck”? Don’t ask questions; just bring cash, she snorted before ending the conversation with: “What if there was a black market that actually stocked the things we actually, desperately need.”

This conversation made me think. What if we could buy things like patience?

I would pay good money for a small, discreet vial of patience.

Just something I can take before sitting in traffic, or when someone behind a municipal glass-division types with one finger like they’re chiselling a message into stone.

But no. The black market has 15 versions of counterfeit sunglasses, but not a single drop of patience.

What about motivation? Surely someone, somewhere, is selling it in bulk. A little injection of “get up and go” for mornings when even blinking feels like a major achievement.

Imagine the ad: “Guaranteed motivation. Side-effects may include productivity and mild smugness.”

I’d definitely buy two.

Then there’s common sense. Now there’s a product that would sell out instantly. Entire societies could benefit. We could distribute it at traffic circles, in comment sections and at family gatherings.

But no. You can get a pirated movie filmed at a strange angle with someone coughing in the background, but not a single unit of common sense.

And don’t even get me started on time. If the black market were truly innovative, it would sell extra hours. Not a full day, just a top-up, like for a prepaid day account.

Maybe two bonus hours when you’re behind on everything and your to-do list is too long.

“Sorry I’m late, I had to go buy some time.” It sounds reasonable.

Instead, we’re left with things we don’t need, can’t trust, and probably shouldn’t have bought, which makes you wonder…

Maybe the real reason those essential things aren’t available is because they can’t be packaged, traded, or quietly handed over in a parking lot, I wanted to tell the Woolies ladies.

Patience, motivation, wisdom – those aren’t items. They’re habits. Choices. Annoying little disciplines we have to form ourselves. Which is very inconvenient.

Honestly, if I could just buy a better version of myself from a guy named “Kevin” in an alley behind a warehouse, I would’ve done it already.