The Grim Reaper and the Tax Man

There are only two certainties in life – death and taxes. Right now death seems preferable. I’m not rehashing old adages for nothing, they quite often have their roots in uncomfortable truths.

So. why is death preferable to taxes? Death only happens once. Taxes come every year. After death you get to go to heaven. After tax season you get nothing and most likely end up having to pay something. I’d rather face the Grim Reaper any day than the Tax Man.

“The more you earn, the less you keep,
And now I lay me down to sleep.
I pray the Lord my soul to take,
If the tax-collector hasn't got it before I wake.”
~Ogden Nash

Despite promises that doing your tax return is now easier than ever, it is not. Yes, I can now do it online, but I'd stand a better chance of deciphering the Rosetta Stone. 

I approach taxes in the same way an ostrich deals with danger. I prefer to bury my head in the sand and hope it will all go away. It usually works, because eventually my husband realises that I am paralysed and the only way it will get done is if he does it.

This year this tried and tested technique is falling flat. Instead I am taking a half-day off to befuddle my brain. My husband is quite right when he describes my reaction to Excel spreadsheets and taxes like watching the veils of Salome fall down in front of my eyes. It’s a survival mechanism, like a chameleon.

Perhaps if I ignore the spectre of the Tax Man long enough he’ll get bored and go away. Why doesn’t he hassle someone with more money thane me, like Kenny Kunene and Julius Malema? Hassling me is a lot like turning a piggy bank over and shaking it really hard, chances are you might get a few coppers, but hardly enough to make the effort worthwhile.

I know there are countries with higher tax rates than mine, but it seems the general populous in those get more bang for their buck. I don’t get healthcare, education, a pension, roadworks or anything else. My salary (pitiful though it is) is too high to qualify for South Africa’s equivalent of the dole is I happen to lose my job.

I’ve paid thousands this year for damage to my car caused by potholes, I’m becoming inured to the scent of putrid sewage and am nearing bankruptcy due to school fees. The private school fees are a necessary evil as the likelihood of a South African child in the state education system learning how to read before adulthood is zero to nothing. 

Yes, I do resent paying additional taxes. I pay tax on my gas, tax on my salary, tax on my cigarettes, tax on every single thing I buy and now I have to pay extra tax to drive on highways that are already falling apart. Perhaps our lot should go to Sweden and find out how they do it?

All this bitching isn’t going to get them done though. My stomach is surging in sick denial. Of course I don’t have all my slips or my logbook, or anything else for that matter. My refusal to face this nightmare has resulted in my paying R40 000 in taxes I don’t owe. If I just keep quoting that like a mantra, maybe I’ll get through this afternoon.

I’d rather flush my cash down the loo than hand it over to the South African Revenue Service.