Let me start with something most of us did not learn in high school: parts of a county in South Carolina can legally leave.
Yes. If ten percent of registered voters in a specific area petition for it, two-thirds of the voters in that area approve it, and the county they want to join votes yes, then that piece of land can transfer to another county.
I’m not making this up. It’s in Article VIII, Section 5 of the South Carolina Constitution.
Go ahead. Pause. Let that sink in. County lines are not sacred. They’re structured.
And before you think this is some modern loophole, let’s take a quick trip back.
What we now call Blythewood wasn’t always Blythewood. In the 1800s it was known as Doko—believed to come from an African word meaning “where the iron horse drinks,” referring to the railroad refueling stop along the Charlotte and South Carolina line. A depot sprang up at Langford Road. Water tower. Trees. Skyline.
And here’s the part that matters: that community originally sat in Fairfield County.
In 1913, by petition, it was annexed into Richland County. Meaning Fairfield once had Doko. Fairfield County could’ve had Doko Manor. Lord Jesus.
See? This isn’t theory. This is history.
Now let me stop you right there, people in Ridgeway. It’s not that simple to just cross over into Richland County, okay? They are full.
As a matter of fact, Richland County should have signs at the county line that read: “Richland County is closed today. Put your down payment back into your bank account.”
It’s not easy. The Constitution makes sure of that. A transfer requires serious consensus. Two-thirds approval in the territory that wants to leave. A majority vote in the receiving county.
Translation: you don’t get to storm out dramatically. You need structure. You need agreement.
That friction is intentional.
Because here’s the hidden truth.
Government structure is layered and cautious by design.
Article VIII doesn’t just talk about county transfers. It also allows counties to share powers, jointly develop industrial parks, and operate certain utilities with voter approval. But notice the language. Much of it still depends on state law.
Which means your county is not a kingdom. It’s operating inside a larger constitutional framework. The federal government sets broad limits. The state defines the playground. The county plays inside the lines. And most of us are arguing about the game without ever reading the rulebook.
If government feels slow, complicated, or layered, that’s not accidental. The Constitution spreads power out on purpose. It requires votes. It forces consensus. It creates speed bumps so no single level can just wake up and “fix everything” overnight.
Is it frustrating sometimes? Absolutely.
Is it random? Not even close.
And here’s the empowering part.
If parts of a county can legally transfer through a defined constitutional process, that means local power isn’t imaginary. It’s procedural.
And when you understand the procedure, your frustration turns into strategy.
If we’re going to talk about surplus buildings, taxes, schools, or economic development, we better know which level of government actually holds the lever.
Next week we’re diving into industrial parks—what they really are, why tax incentives exist, and whether they’re tools or tricks.
Because it’s hard to win a game when you don’t know the rules, and even harder to win a game when you didn’t realize you were in one.
Kenny Robertson, an educator and comedian, is a native of Ridgeway.
