Welcome to January. Congratulations for making it this far into the month of pain. This is quite an achievement on many fronts.
Around November 25 of every year, Elon Musk, the Ruperts, Jeff Bezos and other members of the Illuminati billionaire boys' club apparently send out drones that spray fiscal amnesiac powder all over the homes of the retail consumer lab rats otherwise known as you and me. For good measure, Bill Gates presumably tinkers with the wavelength of all towers from 3G to 5G, just for extra mind control.
The existence of the month of January and its peculiar financial needs disappears inside this Bermuda Triangle for the next 30 days.
During this period, we plunge into a spending orgy, forking out R4,000 on designer sneakers, R50,000 on cutting-edge plasma screens, upgrade our iPhones and enter into new 72-month vehicle instalments with balloon payments at the end.
All of it is money we don't have, naturally.
Our credit cards age overnight from the wear-and-tear of our wanton spending. This splurge-fest's finale always takes place on the day of our perennial excuse for all this madness: baby Jesus's birthday.
Our credit cards age overnight from the wear-and-tear of our wanton spending
Around January 5 every year, many of us finally wake up from this retail-induced stupor with a moerse festive hangover. An SMS from the bank letting us know of the R321.34 available funds meant to last us until the next payday is the only reminder of the wastelands that are our bank accounts.
It's around this time that phone calls from credit control departments start. A litany of SMS messages bemoan returned debit orders. This is when most people panic.
I remember one January, more than 20 years ago, that mirrored the grim picture I just painted. I was in a committed, loving domestic arrangement that my mother pooh-poohed on moral grounds owing to the fact that it had not been preceded by standing in front of a Catholic priest.
My partner's fiscal discipline was significantly superior to mine. At that point in my life I did not trust myself with money. I feared going on a bender for the weekend and blowing all of it. This is why, when I got paid on December 15, I transferred about 60% of my salary into the love of my life's account, for safekeeping until January. Just so that I could have a decent January for a change.
A few days before my birthday, in the second week of January, I finally snapped out of the New Year's Eve babalaas and started making plans for a small birthday braai. Each time I mentioned the braai, she would start hyperventilating like she's in a Lamaze class. I didn't pay too much attention; maybe she was breathing heavily because we were in the midst of a humid Durban heatwave.
It was only on the morning of my birthday that I was hit with the "big reveal". There was no money. Zero.
My dear reader, you need to sit down for this one. Apparently, at some point between December 15 and New Year's Eve, one of her ancestors paid her an unscheduled visit in her dreams, beseeching her to appease him and his posse of afterlife bearded family members who reside six feet underground. Three goats summarily met their demise in the ensuing festival of ancestor appeasement.
I did what all mature adults do when the doo-doo hits the fan. I said I want my mommy and went home to mourn the death of the comfortable January I had planned. Well, that, and to beg for a tiny cash injection to carry me through.
After the deserved tongue- lashing, my mother lent me some cash. When she saw me ignore a few phone calls from debt collectors, she sat me down and gave me a valuable financial lesson. Never, ever, avoid phone calls from credit-control departments. All my life I have witnessed her deal with debt.
Her default response is, "I don't have the money, so I can't pay you." When asked when she will be able to pay, her first response is always, "When I have the money." When pressed to commit to a date, she furnishes it, with the disclaimer, "That's the date I'm giving you because you insist on it. Let's both see if I stay true to my word."
For a broke man, I had a surprisingly stress-free January. To quote my mother, "Being broke is unpleasant enough - there's no need to make it worse by stressing about it."
What is the moral of this column you ask me? Never give money to anyone who has conversations with dead people.
