One of the things no-one tells young men is that when their fathers join the ancestors, they have to step up and become their mothers’ de facto boyfriends. To this end, I have a Spotify playlist that includes 1950s and 1960s music that I play when driving with my mom to and from shopping trips, breakfasts and lunches. One of her favourites is Nat King Cole. Recently we were both singing along to Unforgettable: “That’s why, darling, it’s incredible/ That someone so unforgettable/ Thinks that I am unforgettable too.”
The tragedy is that way too often, people we remember vividly don’t necessarily remember us. The other day I ran into a woman at Rosebank Mall, who broke into the widest grin and yelled: “Mapholoba!” This is a popular clan name for some Ngcobos, even though I’m not strictly a Mapholoba myself. As she closed in for a warm, lingering hug, all I could think was: “Who the hell is this woman? Think, Mapholoba, think!”
My wife has been telling me for 25 years that I have zero facial expression control. She’s always telling me at social gatherings: “Fix your face.” Sure enough, the woman pulled back after the warm embrace and went: “You don’t remember me, do you?”
Smiling as warmly as I could, I went: “No. Not at all. Please remind me.” The room temperature plummeted to freezing. “Oh come on now, Ndumiso, really? You don’t remember me?”
I stood there grinning, hoping she’d take me out of my misery. No such luck
I stood there grinning, hoping she’d take me out of my misery. No such luck. After 30 seconds of guessing games all I could think was: “I really hope this is not someone who’s been in any state of co-disrobement with me in my tumultuous past.” Don’t pass judgment — bourbon has been known to wipe out entire villages of brain cells in a person’s head.
I might add that I have a problem with people who make not being remembered awkward for the other person. I read that 600 is the average number of names most of us can attach to faces. Thinking oneself to be so memorable that one will always be one of those 600 for everyone else is a tad presumptuous and egotistical. I confess I have myself been bitterly disappointed when certain people had no clue who I was. But I didn’t try to force them to scour the vastness of their amygdala and hippocampus searching for the ostensibly important file marked “Ndumiso Ngcobo”. I just swallowed my bruised ego and said: “I guess the deep philosophical six-minute discussion we had in the Dis-Chem queue in La Lucia on September 22 2015 didn’t mean anything to you.”
About 15 years ago a few people from my matric class had a mini-reunion of sorts. The discussion turned to this really bright chap from our class who is notorious for not remembering anyone. I can attest to this because he seemed genuinely confused by the excited greetings from a bunch of us, his classmates, from two years before, when we ran into him on campus.
Considering that we’d all shared a classroom with an average annual enrolment of about 30 and stayed in the same dormitory for a full five years, the palpable irritation from the fellows was justified. In his defence, I’ve met him in subsequent social spaces and he remembered me. I chose not to read anything into the fact that he consistently addressed me as ndoda (my good man), never by name. Ndumiso is a very common, forgettable name.
Back to my recent Rosebank encounter — I finally insisted rather firmly that my interlocutor just told me who she was. Turns out she was a bridesmaid at a wedding where I was a groomsman — and this all took place around the time Madiba was wearing one of his colourful shirts in the Union Buildings presidential suite. I so badly wanted to shake her by the shoulders and yell: “Are you kidding me right now?”
I guess my point is that maybe we should all extend each other a little more grace. Darling, it’s totally conceivable that someone so unforgettable doesn’t think that you are unforgettable too.
Would you like to comment on this article?
Sign up (it's quick and free) or sign in now.
Please read our Comment Policy before commenting.