NDUMISO NGCOBO | Ilobolo, uncles and other romantic disasters

Recently a young man “slid into my DMs” to seek advice about a romantic pickle he found himself in. I can only surmise that he trusted me to counsel him on the assumption that I’d have sage advice because I’m a newspaper columnist. This makes about as much sense as Zizi Kodwa walking into a Bafana Bafana dressing room and giving the players detailed tactical instructions because his official title once had “sports” in it.

To summarise a long, convoluted story: he had just parted with enough money to purchase a 2008 Kia Picanto — in cash — in ilobolo fees. But a birdie had whispered in his ear that the young lass in question had, until recently, been exchanging bodily fluids with his only paternal uncle. Don’t be daft: of course said uncle was leading the groom’s delegation during the ilobolo negotiations. Don’t judge: King Shaka did arrange for Prince Mbuyazi’s mother, Ngqumbazi, to marry his younger brother, Mpande, after their “it’s not you, it’s me” conversation.

To avoid incriminating myself in a national newspaper, let’s ignore the “wise counsel” I gave him and take a brief detour. During the recent Bafta awards ceremony, John Davidson — a guest who suffers from Tourette syndrome — yelled out the favourite racial epithet for black people that rhymes with “ninja” while Sinners co-stars Michael B Jordan and Delroy Lindo were accepting an award. Before pedants descend upon me like flies on tripe: yes, I’m aware the precise term for the uncontrollable urge to yell out invective is coprolalia.

After she spoke openly about our affliction, we vowed never to sit together at a funeral again

Anyway, the reason I invoke Tourette’s is that I believe I might be suffering from its first cousin, pseudobulbar affect (PBA). It is characterised by the urge to laugh at inappropriate moments, without necessarily finding the situation humorous at all. I was well into my forties before I realised I wasn’t alone and that PBA was even an actual phenomenon. I used to suffer in shameful silence until I found myself standing next to a fellow sufferer at a funeral and realised that she, like me, had veins in her forehead popping as she tried to stifle a loud giggle while the coffin was being lowered into the grave.

There is, of course, nothing remotely funny about the fact that humans remain committed to the practice of putting the departed into the ground. After she spoke openly about our affliction, we vowed never to sit together at a funeral again.

I am not proud to confess that when my young friend presented his agonising conundrum about his uncle having been in various stages of disrobement with his bride-to-be, I laughed and laughed and laughed. Thank God for the genius who introduced text-based communication. Had this interaction been face to face, the young padawan would have been convinced that I was a rectal orifice of galactic proportions. Being the mature, responsible adult that I am — under normal circumstances — I am ashamed to admit that the source of my mirth was imagining what the young lady must have been thinking as she sat on that mat while Uncle Bae was potentially discussing the state of her virginity. Yes, in many ilobolo negotiations, there is haggling over inkomo kaMama (mother’s cow), a loose euphemism for virginity.

It didn’t take too long for my damaged brain to wander towards that excellent piece of television excess, The Bold and the Beautiful. I recall many weddings in that soapie where Eric Forrester watched both his sons, Ridge and Thorne, walk down the aisle with Brooke Logan. Later, both sons would stand there in tuxedos and bow ties watching Eric walk down the aisle with her as well.

Before I go completely off the deep end, let me bring this back by pointing out that the human species is teeming with individuals who harbour weird and wonderful disorders. For instance, while I do not suffer from acrophobia (the fear of heights), I avoid standing at the tops of buildings at all costs.

All of which is to say: in these stressful times of uncertainty — oil wars, Epstein files and Cat Matlala allegedly buying SAPS personnel buttock prosthetics — let’s all be a little kinder to one another. And keep me in your prayers that, while talking to my mother, I don’t suddenly start thinking that between my father, my three brothers, my three sons and myself, in some alternative universe we would be Brooke Logan’s fantasy.