If I could snap my fingers, I’d reroute one substation in Soweto to bypass Eskom entirely—solar grids on every rooftop, batteries in every shebeen, power that doesn’t ask permission. Autonomy isn’t a slogan on a mural; it’s the hum of a fridge running through the night in a house where Ma used to pack meat in salt. I’m tired of praying for the grid to hold. I want my cousin in Dobsonville streaming beats without buffering during stage 6. I want designers in Orange Farm opening studios that don’t die when the lights do. Real autonomy? It’s when the light stays on, and nobody in Pretoria gets to say why.