After collecting my first envelope of cash at HR’s office, I passed through my favorite take-out spot, Luv dat Chicken. I ordered my favourite meal, the two-piecer! A combo snack which consisted of two big pieces of chicken, large portion of fries and salad. As I sat in the corner of the restaurant, digging into my food I realised one thing: I was happy. I was happy for the job I had got as warehouse clerk at a phone accessory firm just two weeks after graduation. Everything was going up. Nothing else mattered other than the thigh and drumstick staring right at me.
I tried to keep on the tradition of going to Luv dat Chicken every time I got paid but it didn’t give the satisfaction it did the first time. The salary was only 300 dollars, which doesn’t stretch far once you start counting food, transport, and all the small emergencies which come unannounced.
I soon grew bored of cleaning the warehouse and ensuring all the goods were in stock and distributed using the first-in-and-first-out technique. My older colleagues, particularly Martin, noted my waning enthusiasm. He had worked for the same firm for more than seven years. “That’s what growing up is, young man!” he told me a few months down the line. “Happiness comes and goes and you have to cherish it when it comes around.”
While I didn’t openly debate his opinion, I didn’t agree. I firmly believed my present financial situation had caused my emptiness. Even a salary bump would make me happier.
I had to face it: I wasn’t that happy anymore and I blamed my job. To fully cater to all my needs, and in an attempt to find fulfillment, I was forced to look for side quests.
This pursuit of happiness took me on a journey of endless applications. It took three interviews before I got some luck. I was hired as quality/sales technician at a solar system service company. My salary more than doubled, and I got airtime and a grocery allowance too. To many, a decent package in Zim, and I was grateful – happy even.
My standard of living had improved. I was managing to save a little more extra and together with my side hustles, I was able to establish an egg business. I had found a poultry farmer in Banket, about 100 km north of Harare, who offered eggs at a very good wholesale price. I bought them in bulk and sold them back in the city.
My clients were mostly colleagues, neighbours and members from our church group. Money was rolling in. I wasn’t filthy rich but made just enough given my age. Then expectations & goals began to shift. Should I get a master’s degree? What about a car? Or should I save money for lobola and marry my long-term girlfriend?
The new salary made me happy at first because it felt like a big step forward. But it stopped feeling special after a while and became just my normal pay. I tried not to complain because I knew I’d been in worse situations, but in all honesty, it still felt like it wasn’t enough. What confused me most was seeing people in harder circumstances who seemed genuinely happy. Was I ungrateful, or was it simply a normal feeling, I always pondered in my heart.
Nothing dramatic had happened. My circumstances had objectively improved. Yet the restlessness had returned, subtle but persistent.
I tried to silence it. I reminded myself where I had started. I compared my situation to those earning less. But comparing did little to quiet the question that kept surfacing: Why doesn’t this feel like enough anymore?
I began noticing something unsettling. The first paycheck had filled me with a kind of pure joy. My second job had done the same – though briefly. Each improvement brought relief, even excitement. But after a while, my mind adjusted. What had once felt like abundance became baseline. In other words, the target kept moving.
I still think about Martin’s words sometimes: “Happiness comes and goes.” I had dismissed his statements as things older people say when they’ve given up chasing more. But I now hear it differently. Not as resignation, but as recognition.
Maybe nothing was wrong with me. Maybe this is simply how we are wired – adapt and recalibrate, then look ahead, in anticipation of the moment comfort finally comes. The same instinct that makes us dissatisfied may also be the one that pushes us to grow, to start businesses, to apply for better jobs, to imagine larger lives.
I still pass Luv dat Chicken sometimes. Occasionally, I’ll order the two-piecer, but I no longer expect it to recreate that first moment. The joy wasn’t in the chicken itself or even in the amount of money, but it was in the newness of it all, the feeling that things were moving in unexpected ways.
Happiness, I’ve come to see, doesn’t stay fixed at any salary figure, or position or perks. Instead, it rises, settles, and then it resets. Maybe the real work is not chasing a permanent high, but learning to recognize each small peak while you’re standing on it, before it shifts again.
