I’m richer than I often think

By South African standards, I am very well off. I have a house, I have a car. I am reasonably healthy and I have managed to put my two children through university.

I have a wonderful wife. Yet, every now and again, the green-eyed monster of envy creeps up upon me. As I walk my two dogs in the bracing chill of a beautiful Johannesburg Sunday morning, I look around. Why can’t I have a house like that, with three electronic garages? Why does that guy have a Porsche sitting in his driveway and I don’t?

I care not that millions of South Africans live in poverty, for envy’s travelling companion is selfishness.

It’s no surprise, really, that I am the way that I am. Those of us of Irish descent have a tendency toward depression – otherwise why would we booze so much? – and we have a history of hundreds of years of poverty and oppression.

Like those in Africa, we have seen our land stolen. We have also suffered famines and mass immigration. So, we always tend to envy others. In my case, it’s not only the envy of possessions of others which helps weigh me down; it’s also the jealously of the good looks and talents of people which can ignite a bout of depression.

At high school, I always looked with admiration at the bulging biceps of my next-door neighbour, Steve. I was quite a good-looking boy-man when I was 19 but, nevertheless, I still envied my mate Buffalo and his tall stature, handsome features and, especially, his relaxed – and winning – ways with girls.

As a runner, I was always comparing myself with the faster ones, those who found getting a sub-three hour marathon, or a silver medal at Comrades, to be easy.

As a journalist, I have had more adventures, near misses and front page stories than many others, but I still look on with awe at a hardcore “foot in the door” reporter or a wily news editor.

When my colleague, Kevin Carter, won a Pulitzer Prize for a photograph, I wondered where I had gone wrong to miss international adulation.

Now and again, to bring myself back to reality, I consider the words of the poem, Desiderata: If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. When I take stock, I realise that life is fleeting.

Steve died at age 34 from cancer; Buffalo’s marriage tanked; Kevin Carter committed suicide.

And, much as there were many, many better runners than me, at my peak there were many, many runners who would trail in my wake.

And, as for journalism, some of those I looked up to were also taken early by cancer, or boozed themselves into premature graves … or “sold out” and went into public relations – although the best PR people are ex-journos – while some of those promoted over me into editors’ chairs while I banged up against the glass ceiling for ageing males, have had less than stellar careers.

In the end, you cannot take your possessions with you, so why be envious of rich, good-looking or talented people?

What counts is living an honest life and what you leave behind in others … the love, the experience and the wisdom which you have shared.

That’s what makes your life rich.

Citizen acting deputy editor Brendan Seery.

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