The unpaid and invisible work that robs your rest

What if your "day off" is just another shift? What if the rest you desperately need is being stolen by work you do not even call work? When did scrubbing floors become "self-care" instead of unpaid labour?

How many of us declare a work-free weekend, vowing to steer clear of our computers and finally achieve that elusive state of "rest," only to spend the next forty-eight hours in a whirlwind of domestic labour? We scrub floors until they gleam, attack grimy pans with religious fervour, and dust bookshelves with a curator's precision. We might even bake a batch of cookies large enough to feed a small village. We call this a break. We frame it as a choice, a therapeutic shift in activity. But our hands never stop moving. Our minds are still ticking through lists. This is not rest. This is the invisible second shift—the relentless, unpaid labour that systematically fills our so-called leisure time, masquerading as personal choice but functioning as a social mandate.

The global north has perfected the art of commodified leisure. My colleagues from Europe and North America take annual leave to stay in hotels where they do not make beds, cook meals, or clean a single surface. They laze on beaches, read novels, and return truly rested. Compare this to the typical African leave. Many of my friends and family use their precious time off to travel to their villages. Their purpose is not to unwind but to work: to supervise farm projects, oversee the construction of a family home, or personally engage in tilling the land. The vacation is simply a change of scenery for their labour, a relocation of their workload from the formal office to the familial field. The very definition of rest is a cultural and economic privilege that remains out of reach for millions.

Why do we collapse after holidays more exhausted than before we started?

Nowhere is this invisible workload more stark than during festive seasons. At Easter, Christmas, and Eid, a familiar ritual unfolds in homes across the continent. Women, in particular, trade their office desks for cooking pots. The "celebration" involves days of meticulous planning, budgeting, and sourcing ingredients. It escalates into a marathon of cooking, serving, and hosting, and culminates in days of washing up, the endless scrubbing of dishes and pans before they can be stored away. I love hosting, and for decades, this has been my story. Each major holiday demands up to a week of intensive, all-consuming labour. The reward is not relaxation, but a label: "super mum." This title, meant as a compliment, becomes a subtle shackle. It creates a performance pressure that pushes you to exceed your own limits, to juggle more, to fit even more into an already bursting schedule, all for fear of "disappointing" and being stripped of that coveted, exhausting label.

The myth of "free" time and unpaid work

What if our national economy is built on millions of hours of invisible work?

Our national accounting systems, the very frameworks that measure a country's economic health, are complicit in this erasure. Leave applications never have a checkbox for "supervising the village farm" or "cooking for fifty relatives." Our economic models only recognise labour that generates formal income. The immense, life-sustaining work of social reproduction—the cleaning, cooking, caring, and community-building that regenerates the workforce daily—remains officially invisible. It is the dark matter of our economy: essential, omnipresent, but unmeasured and unvalued.

Let us be blunt: hosting a major festival is a complex project management exercise. It involves budgeting, logistics, human resource coordination, and time management on a scale that would be recognised as skilled labour in any other context. We possess and utilise these professional skills in our homes, yet we dismiss the output as mere "celebrating." We collapse after these holidays, feeling more drained than before they began, wondering why we need a vacation from our vacation. The physical exhaustion is tangible—the sore muscles, the tired feet. The mental load is a constant, low hum of anxiety—the guest list, the menu, the timing. The opportunity cost is never calculated—the book we did not read, the nap we did not take, the quiet conversation we did not have with our children. We have been conditioned to frame this domestic exertion as an act of love or a personal hobby, effectively obscuring its true nature as work.

Why are little girls given toy vacuum cleaners while boys get toy computers?

This conditioning starts early. Girls are often given miniature brooms and cooking sets as toys, while boys are given construction sets and cars. The message is clear: your domain, your future "second shift," is the home. This gendered division of leisure—or the lack thereof—perpetuates the cycle. While women are cleaning up after a holiday feast, men are often found watching television or socialising in a separate room. Their work is considered done. The woman's work, however, is never done because it is not recognised as work in the first place. It is just what she does. It is her role. This is not just an individual problem; it is a structural one, reinforced by social norms, advertising, and a global economy that depends on this free labour to function.

Redefining work, rest, and collective responsibility

So, how do we break free from this cycle? The first, most crucial step is to change the language we use. We must stop calling unpaid domestic labour "helping out" or "my share." We must name it for what it is: work. We must challenge the narrow, patriarchal definition of work that only values what happens in an office or a factory. The unpaid labour that maintains our households, raises our children, and sustains our communities is not a private hobby. It is the very foundation upon which the "formal" economy is built, and it deserves recognition in our national accounts and in our personal lives.

What if "super mum" is just another word for "unpaid houseworker"?

Achieving true rest requires a radical redistribution of this invisible work. It means moving beyond vague promises of "I'll do the dishes later" to explicit, equitable agreements within households. It means valuing time as much as we value money. It demands that men and boys actively participate in and take ownership of the mental load of running a home—not as a favour to women, but as their fundamental responsibility. It also means we must stop glorifying exhaustion as a badge of honour. The "super mum" narrative is not empowering; it is a trap. It sets an unsustainable standard and punishes those who cannot meet it. True efficiency is not about juggling more; it is about creating systems where the load is shared, and well-being is prioritised over spotless floors.

When will we stop calling basic survival tasks "women's work"?

The second shift will remain invisible until we collectively decide to shine a light on it. Our personal well-being and the health of our societies depend on us seeing this work not as an individual duty to be borne alone, but as a collective responsibility to be shared fairly. The next time you find yourself spending your weekend cleaning instead of resting, ask yourself: who does this serve? Who benefits from this work being free and unseen? The answer might just compel you to put down the scrubbing brush, reclaim your time, and finally take that rest you truly deserve.

What will you stop doing this weekend to claim your real rest? What work will you finally name and refuse?