“Trust me,” said Carl, “we are going to make a killing.”

Carl and I were freshly graduated journalists, plying our trade as freelancers, when we realised that the “free” in freelancing referred to the income we were generating.

Carl suggested that we head to Grahamstown (now Makhanda), where the National Arts Festival was once again making its way to town. We would join the thousands of people who were hungry for arts, culture and, according to Carl, Rasta Pasta.

Selling bowls of Rasta Pasta was our side hustle, and it was going to make us rich — or at least keep us in beer and pool money for the rest of the year.

We pooled our resources, and begged, borrowed, and scrounged for polystyrene tubs and plastic forks. Carl sweated over a campfire, making a massive pot of pasta and a creamy sauce sprinkled with oregano herbs.

We set up our stand and blasted Bob Marley’s Buffalo Soldier from the radio-tape player in Carl’s car.

After about six hours, we finally accepted defeat. No one wanted to eat, let alone buy, the pasta, and I couldn’t blame them. The Rasta Pasta had become a congealed gooey glob of glue.

The only killing we made was to our eardrums; our hustle turned out to be a hassle.

Since then, my journalism career has taken off. I eventually found full-time employment and forgot all about my expensive Rasta Pasta misadventure.

That is, until now — 30-something years later — when I realised it’s time for me to launch another venture.

This time, however, a lot more is at stake than pool money. My company has a mandatory retirement age, and I’m about to hit my expiry date.

I won’t exactly be frogmarched out of the building (at least, I don’t think so), but my access card will be deactivated, my email address will be cancelled, and, more importantly, my monthly pay cheques will end.

But I will still need to earn some money. Staring down retirement with not much of a safety net, I remembered Carl’s Rasta Pasta and thought about the valuable lessons it taught me about money, mindset, and moving beyond a guaranteed income.

Our congealed pasta was a flop, but, as we know, every misstep is a lesson.

Carl’s enthusiasm for Rasta Pasta was infectious, but enthusiasm alone isn’t enough. We didn’t consider how the pasta would hold up in a festival and whether people would actually buy it.

I realised that side hustles require systems: planning, adaptability, and a clear grasp of what customers want.

I didn’t only glean Rasta Pasta lessons, but having a full-time job made me realise that I wanted to embark on a venture that would not just provide some income but would make me feel alive, infuse my life with a sense of purpose, and allow me to grow.

And then it hit me. What I really want to do when I eventually hang up my pay cheque is to explore South Africa’s hidden gems.

Now, I’m planning a new venture, combining two of my favourite things: travelling around the country’s nooks and crannies, and ice cream.

I’ll travel through dusty Karoo towns and coastal villages. I’ll serve creamy soft serve — classic vanilla-chocolate swirls for kids and adults, plus exotic flavours inspired by each town’s vibe: chai-spiced scoops in Ladismith, rooibos-infused treats in Clanwilliam, and maybe even boerewors-flavoured ice cream in the Free State (okay, maybe not).

What I’ve realised is that moving from a 9-to-5 job with a regular salary to embark on a venture isn’t just about replacing income. It’s about finding fulfilment and purpose.

A salary provides security, but an adventure helps you find meaning (hopefully, with some income too). My post-pay cheque scheme will allow me to explore South Africa and chase a life that is sprinkled with meaning and scoops of joy.

I’m not just pursuing money. I’m following a dream, which is the sweetest retirement plan I can think of.

When I think back to the Rasta Pasta fiasco, I realise that the most important lesson I learned from it was to test the product before investing time and money in it.

So, please excuse me. My financial freedom is waiting. I mustn’t let it melt.