“Residual self-image” is a concept I wasn’t aware of until I watched the inaugural movie in The Matrix franchise. In it, humans are nothing more than blobs of flesh plugged into machines, acting as batteries to run the machines running the planet. Their brains are plugged into a virtual world where they're duped into believing they exist. How these humans see themselves in the mirror is some residual image of themselves.
We don’t need to look further than ourselves to understand the concept of residual self-image. Just watch intoxicated fortysomethings trying to breakdance to Michael Jackson’s Billie Jean at parties ... and then missing work on Monday, with sprained shoulders. Or listen to ANC stalwarts talk about the party in the glowing terms of “the glorious movement of Tambo and Luthuli”. That’s residual self-image at play right there.
If you woke me up at 3am and asked me to draw a sketch of myself before I was fully awake I’d probably draw the 25-year-old version of myself with a six-pack and a full set of hair. The reality is off by about 30kg, and the encroaching Kalahari desert where my hair used to be sports about 20% fewer follicles.
I turned 50 in January. This milestone came about a year and a half after the old man’s departure in 2020. The Covid pandemic had, up until my 50th, been a welcome distraction from this reality. According to my family’s customary norms, when he left us, I became the de facto patriarch of my father’s house, kwaPhezukwabantu kaHlabeyakhe. What is the big problem for a 50-year-old man who has been married with children for almost two decades, I hear you ask. Oh, ye of scant knowledge about this columnist’s infantile inclinations. For starters, when I got married, I didn’t quite understand what was expected of me.
I honestly thought that marriage was like all those other Catholic sacraments I’d gone through, like my Holy Communion and Confirmation. I stood in front of the parish priest and Bishop Biyase respectively, recited some scripted words and when it was over, took off the suits and went back to my life. Even with Holy Matrimony I thought my role was to wear a suit, recite some scripted words, eat a lot of food and cake, guzzle beer, dance to The O’Jays and then go outside to play with my friends.
And that’s exactly what I then proceeded to do after my nuptials. This is when my wife realised that giving me adult privileges was like handing me keys to the Koeberg Nuclear Power Station, a box of matches and a bottle of Smirnoff 1818. She assumed control of the household, subjected me to undefined curfews and let it be known that I am second in command.
The first time I purchased a property, when I was asked to sign the sales agreement, I hesitated for a second, wanting to ask if they didn’t want my guardian’s signature
I know I’m not the only alleged adult who wants no part in this adult reality. The first time I purchased a property, when I was asked to sign the sales agreement, I hesitated for a second, wanting to ask if they didn’t want my guardian’s signature. I have a friend who used to look about 17 years old when she was in her late thirties. After she bought her first house, a five-bedroomed, double-storey house, people would ring the doorbell and promptly ask her if they could speak to “the adults of the house”. I didn’t blame them.
But back to my new role. I've decided to take this bull by the horns and do what all superheroes do in this situation; rule this great house democratically, via a troika consisting of the family’s matriarch, my mother, and my younger brother. But, there's no escaping some key duties I'm now responsible for.
From now on, I'll be responsible for calling family meetings and co-ordinating the routine murder of unsuspecting bovines and goats. Confronting neighbours about border disputes and their livestock raiding our fields is also smack bang in the middle of the plate of this 50-year-old going on 22. I'm feeling a lot of pressure to buy breeches, gum boots, a whip and a hunting rifle now.
But high up on my list of priorities going forward is going to be burning incense before the bovine slaughter and having animated conversations with some dead people, our subterranean family guardians. I hate adult responsibilities with every ounce of my being. So, if I invite you to a feast at the Valley of a Thousand Hills and you catch this man-child skulking behind the house and fleeing his responsibilities, please try to keep my effing name out of your mouth.
