Let Me Tell You a Story

Let me tell you a story—one that starts in the dusty, vibrant streets of Soweto, where dreams often drown in the noise of hustlers, hooting taxis, and broken promises. Picture this: a young mom, barely 21, clutching her daughter’s tiny hand while staring at her cracked phone screen, wondering if those glowing icons could somehow be a ladder out of this life. That mom? Yeah, that was me.

My name is Botlhokwa Nondali Ditshepo Ranta—and yes, it’s a mouthful. But so is my life. I’m a former Meta content moderator, a digital marketing student, a two-time baby mama with zero regrets, and a young woman from Soweto who flat-out refused to let her postal code dictate her potential.

Soweto: The University of Survival

Soweto isn’t just a location—it’s a lesson plan. It teaches you how to stretch R100 (USD ~5) until it cries. How to dodge your neighbor’s shady cousin who “knows a guy.” How to smile through family trauma and greet your dreams with a side-eye because hope feels like a luxury.

Funerals outnumbered birthday parties. I saw girls trade dreams for diapers and nights out for survival. Teenage pregnancy wasn’t a scandal—it was an expectation. And the path was clear: baby, baby daddy drama, retail job, repeat.

Funerals outnumbered birthday parties. I saw girls trade dreams for diapers and nights out for survival. Teenage pregnancy wasn’t a scandal—it was an expectation. And the path was clear: baby, baby daddy drama, retail job, repeat.

But me? I refused to romanticize struggle. I wasn’t trying to be a motivational quote on someone’s Facebook wall. I wanted out. Real out. Not “marry-up” out or “get lucky” out. I wanted to build something, even if the bricks came from broken systems.

So, of course, life hit me with irony. I got pregnant at 21. Single. Broke. Scripted for a rerun of every cautionary tale I’d sworn I’d avoid.

Ctrl+Alt+Delete: The Plot Twist

But see, when you know the game is rigged, you start looking for cheat codes.

So while other new moms argued Pampers vs. Huggies, I:

✔️ Applied for every entry-level job I could find between midnight feedings.
✔️ Learned Microsoft Office and digital marketing with stolen Wi-Fi from the public library.
✔️ Manifested a life where my daughter wouldn’t inherit my battles.

Eventually, I landed a retail gig which started off being part-time at a small store, and over time, I ended up being a team leader at one of the biggest stores in Cresta Mall. Bear in mind, all this was when I was barely even 25 years old. But retail in South Africa? It’s cute until it isn’t. Think: R8,500 (USD~451)/month, 12-hour shifts, and the sweet joy of being overworked and underappreciated.

That’s when I pivoted. Again.

Enter: Digital Dreams and Nairobi Hustles

I took the scariest leap of my life: I quit my job and enrolled full-time in a digital marketing course. Because faith without grind is dead.

Then my best friend, who was working in Nairobi for a company called SAMA (contracted by Meta), said, “Girl, this is your door into tech.”

The dream? Me, in tech, thriving.

The reality? Me, in a digital sweatshop.

And listen—when you’ve been hustling since high school, words like Meta make your pulse quicken. I saw visions of free coffee, funky open-plan offices, and finally getting to use words like “pivot” in actual meetings.

The dream? Me, in tech, thriving.

The reality? Me, in a digital sweatshop.

Meta’s Dirty Little Secret: Content Moderation Hell

SAMA sold us a dream but handed us a nightmare. Their Nairobi office was a fluorescent-lit, trauma factory where young Black Africans absorbed the world’s digital sewage for USD 2.20/hour. Our job? Keep Facebook “safe” by watching the absolute worst of humanity—and flagging it.

Let me break it down for you: we were exposed to violent, racist, abusive, and downright evil content every single day. All while being monitored, timed, and treated like numbers in a spreadsheet.

Let me break it down for you: we were exposed to violent, racist, abusive, and downright evil content every single day. All while being monitored, timed, and treated like numbers in a spreadsheet.

I remember my first week on the job: smiling trainers, PowerPoint slides, and all the “you’re making the world safer” fluff. But the real work? No one prepares you for that. You don’t forget the first time you see someone beheaded on screen. You don’t unhear the screams. The mental toll was brutal. Enclosed rooms, low pay, no psychological support that actually worked—and the kicker? My trauma got triggered so badly that I now avoid elevators. Enclosed spaces send me spiraling.

Grief, Loss, and Logging Off

Then came the worst day of my life. I lost my sister. Technically, my cousin, but in our culture, blood is blood.

Ironically, I was reviewing a graphic video and asked to take a short break. That break gave me time to check my phone and learn she had passed away. I crumbled. But in that cold, cubicle jungle, there was no space to grieve.

I was at work when it happened. Ironically, I was reviewing a graphic video and asked to take a short break. That break gave me time to check my phone and learn she had passed away. I crumbled. But in that cold, cubicle jungle, there was no space to grieve. The grief spiraled into alcohol, depression, and isolation. I couldn’t even fly home for the funeral. The job that was supposed to be my breakthrough was breaking me into tiny, unrecognizable pieces.

The Meta Contract Ends and So Do the Illusions

March 2023. Meta pulls the plug on the SAMA contract. Just like that.

I had just given birth to my second baby and finally brought my daughter to live with me in Kenya. I was finally creating the life I had dreamed of.

Then boom: gone. No warning. Just a cold goodbye to hundreds of workers.

The depression hit differently this time. I had kids to feed. Dreams deferred. Rent due. Rage bubbling. I joined the class action lawsuit against SAMA and Meta, fueled by righteous anger and a desperate hope for justice.

The depression hit differently this time. I had kids to feed. Dreams deferred. Rent due. Rage bubbling. I joined the class action lawsuit against SAMA and Meta, fueled by righteous anger and a desperate hope for justice.

But court cases are slow. Bills are fast. And as the months dragged on, the courtroom hope began to flicker.

So what do you do?

You either wait to be rescued—or you rescue your damn self.

From Burnout to Bounce-Back

I chose the latter. Again.

I started freelancing. Tapping into the digital skills I learned at SAMA (even if they came at a horrible cost). I built a personal brand, leaned into digital marketing, and started finding gigs that aligned with my values.

Turns out, trauma can be repurposed. Experience can be currency. Pain can be fertilizer.

I took all of it—the chaos, the confusion, the corporate cruelty—and turned it into momentum. I began rebuilding not just for me, but for my babies. My story wasn’t ending. It was evolving.

Let’s Be Real: Tech Still Has a Colonial Problem

Let’s not sugarcoat it: what happened to us at SAMA wasn’t a glitch in the system. It is the system.

Big Tech outsources its dirtiest work to the Global South and slaps a PR filter on it. Content moderation has become the new-age digital mining—cheap labor, maximum output, zero accountability.

Big Tech outsources its dirtiest work to the Global South and slaps a PR filter on it. Content moderation has become the new-age digital mining—cheap labor, maximum output, zero accountability.

We were expendable, disposable, and replaceable.

But here’s what they didn’t count on: our voices.

We’re telling our stories loudly, honestly, and most of all, with receipts.

And if Meta thought we’d stay silent because we signed NDAs and were too broke to fight back, they’ve clearly never met a pissed-off woman from Soweto.

This Ain’t a Victim Story, It’s a Reintroduction

I’m still that girl from the hood.

But I’m also the woman who stared down exploitation, buried loved ones, survived postpartum depression, and STILL managed to build a new life.

I’ve turned what was meant to destroy me into a toolbox. I’ve learned to make grief work for me. To turn rage into strategy. To parent with purpose. To be visible in a world that thrives on erasing people like me.

SAMA and Meta? They’re not my villains. They’re just a plot twist. They gave me clarity, not closure.

Conclusion: I’m Just Getting Started

This is not a sob story. It’s a survival manual.

From Soweto to Nairobi, from R5,000(USD 265)/month to reclaiming my digital power, from being another silent Black woman in the system to becoming my own damn headline—I’m proof that the algorithm doesn’t get the final say.

I am raising children in a world that tried to silence me. And guess what? I’m louder than ever.

Meta and SAMA thought they were the period at the end of my sentence.

This is not the end.

It’s just my intermission.

Botlhokwa Ranta’s zine published as part of the Data Workers Inquiry can be found here.