In the fluorescent corridors of South African high schools, where the scent of hair gel, floor polish, and cheap perfume mixes with the distant thud of a soccer ball, there’s a different kind of economy at play. One not printed on invoices or tracked in Excel, but stitched into socks rolled below the knee, hidden in knock-off brand names, and shimmering from chains that sit a little too heavily around teenage necks. This is the world of school bling, an unofficial marketplace where self-worth is measured in drip, not distinction, and where reputations can be bought, borrowed, or broken.
Call it fool’s gold, but it glitters just enough. A pair of Nike Air Forces, real or not, can flip social hierarchies quicker than a math test. A Casio with a gold face, inherited or hawked, is enough to earn nods in the tuck shop queue. A chain tucked under a school jersey, revealed just enough during break, turns a shy Grade 9 into someone watched. These aren’t just accessories. They’re currency, armor, and sometimes, admission into the elusive VIP section of teenage status.
But here’s where it twists. The real cost of all this sparkle doesn’t lie in the price tag. It’s in the weight these things carry, expectations, silent pressures, and, often, the quiet hustle behind them. It’s the older brother who “sorted you out” with a belt that looks like it came from Canal Walk but probably didn’t. It’s the auntie who said, “Just this once,” and paid for those Jordans instead of her electricity. It’s the grade 11 with a side gig selling sweets, chips, and borrowed TikTok fame, just to buy a hoodie that looks like it costs more than his school shoes.
For some learners, the gap between having and faking becomes a daily performance. Labels are mispronounced on purpose. Price is exaggerated, or downplayed, depending on the audience. If you can’t afford the chain, you borrow it for a day and return it like it’s a library book. If your blazer’s hand-me-down, you wear it with swagger so loud nobody questions the fit. There’s a kind of genius in this. An ability to remix identity with whatever’s available. To create style from strain. But it’s a fragile genius, one that can collapse the moment someone calls your bluff.
Teachers see it, of course. Some sigh and keep marking papers. Others try to intervene, confiscating snapbacks and fake grills in a tug-of-war that neither side really wants to win. Because they know, beneath the bling is something deeper. The boy with the gold-tipped shoes isn’t just trying to show off. He’s trying to matter. The girl who insists on acrylics every second week isn’t being vain. She’s building herself, one polish layer at a time, in a world that rarely lets her feel finished.
And then there’s the unspoken irony. These symbols of wealth, so proudly displayed during break, often sit in contrast to the home realities of those wearing them. The boy with the iced-out watch might be splitting a bedroom with three cousins. The girl with the fresh weave might be skipping meals on weeknights. School becomes the stage where this contradiction is played out daily. The bling is both camouflage and confession.
In this hidden economy, fool’s gold isn’t foolish. It’s strategic. It’s a way to navigate a system that doesn’t always reward academic brilliance with dignity, but will nod approvingly at someone who knows how to wear confidence like cologne. And yet, it begs the question, what are we teaching when status is easier to gain through a knock-off brand than through hard-earned marks?
It’s not an indictment. It’s a reflection. On a society where aspiration often arrives before access. Where teenagers inherit not just surnames, but debts, dreams, and sometimes, the desperation to shine, if only for the few hours between assembly and last bell. In that space, bling becomes more than fashion. It becomes a statement. One that says, “See me. I exist. I’m trying.”
So maybe it’s not about removing the gold. Maybe it’s about understanding the layers beneath it. The longing. The hustle. The need to belong in a world that measures so much but values so little of what’s real. Because behind every pair of fake Yeezys or chunky rings lies something genuine, a young person trying to write their own story in a language they weren’t taught, but are determined to learn anyway.
