Happiness is a goalpost that keeps shifting

I believe the human brain is simply not designed to bring about happiness. My assertion is backed up by volumes of peer-reviewed science and pseudo-science.

Happiness is, after all, just a function of neurochemistry. It's all about the secretion of endorphins in the brain, whose effects can be imitated by the consumption of heroin or good ol' alcohol.

The same goes for serotonin, which reality-TV housewives from Atlanta to New York can imitate with the use of Prozac. Cocaine can substitute for dopamine and whatnot.

The reason people guzzle booze, inject themselves with smack and snort blow is the pursuit of happiness.

And the human brain is stingy when it comes to the production of "happiness hormones". To quote Agent Smith from The Matrix, "The first Matrix was designed to be a perfect world ... where no one suffered, where everybody would be happy. It was a disaster. No one would accept the programme."

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Looking back, I must agree with Mr Smith. When I was six years old I knew what happiness was with incredibility specificity. Happiness was standing on a chair, reaching for one of my grandmother's cans of condensed milk, and enjoying a teaspoonful. And then another. And another.

I remember thinking that the first time I ever attained great wealth and had R10 in my pocket I would go out and buy five cans of the stuff. I remember fantasising about sitting on the veranda with a large tablespoon, digging into the thick, gooey milk of the gods until it dribbled down my chin, arms and onto my chest.

In my early teens my monthly allowance was R50 a quarter; a princely sum in 1985. I could afford five cans of condensed milk. But what I really desired now was enough money to buy a five-litre tub of rum-and-raisin Country Fresh ice cream.

Fast forward to the university years and my dreams had shifted. This is a wild stab in the dark, but I think it's because I could now afford a tub of rum-and-raisin ice cream. So my greatest fantasy became to buy a car. Any car.

A car promised the freedom to take my sweetheart to the 10pm show at Ster-Kinekor Musgrave Centre without having to worry about missing the last Mynah bus back to campus. I remember standing in a car dealership, drooling over a 1978 VW Golf in the firm belief that this contraption would end all my social challenges.

Years later, I did own a VW Golf. I remember attending a leadership course during my Unilever days. The big moment was when we all revealed what our true purpose in life was. My colleagues shared profound gems about their passion for philanthropy, conquering Kilimanjaro or Everest, and solving the world's energy crisis.

So imagine the anticlimax when I announced that my purpose in life was to live in a decent crib, drive a German sedan and have enough money left over to buy beer, Doritos and pizza.

Well, I've been downing Castles, munching snacks and making Roman's richer for a while now. Happiness? Not so much. Unless the state-of-the-nation reality show is on TV and the White Shirts are squeezing the Red Berets' gonads and I can watch my taxes working for me, entertainment-wise.

I was born with a brain defect - I am all but incapable of gambling. I don't mean the gambles I take with my liver, kidneys and pancreas each time I go to the pub. Or the many times I've driven within spontaneous-combustion distance of a Ford Kuga. What I'm referring to is gambling with money.

For me, shoving coins into a slot machine seems an awful lot like depositing money into an ATM belonging to Silverstar or Montecasino. Except that unlike a bank ATM, the casino ATMs have no withdrawal facilities. Permanently.

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This brings me to an epiphany I experienced about a decade ago. Someone had just won $185-million (about R1.2-billion at the time) in some lottery in the US. The idea of R1.2-billion in my account tickled my brain. One of my many inner voices said to Mrs N, "Poor people who say money can't buy you happiness are delusional. Only the filthy rich know whether or not money can bring you happiness."

Another voice in my brain protested loudly, "Money only brings about misery."

From a distance, based on peer-reviewed science and pseudo-science, I would have to say that most wealthy people seem like pathetic, miserable folks. And I think it's because as soon as you have R100-million in your bank account, the thought that someone else has R500-million in their bank account drives you nuts.

I think Tokyo wonders why he doesn't have Cyril's kind of money. Cyril wonders the same about Patrice. Patrice is annoyed that he doesn't have Rupert money. Johann Rupert spends every waking hour trying to find ways to get in the Warren Buffett/Bill Gates league.

If you think I'm trying to say people should just be happy with what they've got, you are missing the point. All I'm saying is that if I ever read that Gates and Buffett had been spotted on a veranda slurping condensed milk, I would understand.

• Follow the author of this article, Ndumiso Ngcobo, on Twitter: @NdumisoNgcobo