There was a time this columnist considered it his calling in life to fix any wrong that appeared before him. Every injustice had to be addressed, mostly on the spot.
I was a borderline Karen — just with excess melanin, a bulging Adam’s apple and an annoying propensity to leave the toilet seat up. If I were stuck in a queue at a supermarket where only two tills were in operation, I would be the one to hail anyone in a Checkers uniform and ask them to make themselves useful by helping out at the checkout forthwith.
However, there has been a significant improvement where all this is concerned. Consider this: I am writing this column on a short flight from OR Tambo to King Shaka. I’m seated next to a chap who is at least 130kg of hunk. This in itself is not anything that fazes me. I’m used to my 1.7m, 80kg frame being something larger members of society take full advantage of when they fly. I expect a mere 30% of the shared armrest and cede about 25% of my body space.
However, this guy next to me is pushing the limits and pressing all my buttons. I have about 10% armrest space. He clearly must have impressive 30kg gonads between his legs, because he is all sprawled out. I suppose it doesn’t help that his wife, at the risk of venturing into body-shaming territory, is clearly one of the Big Five. He’s leaning on me purely out of necessity. Now, 10 years ago I would have addressed this situation in not the most diplomatic fashion. I would have told him directly, “Look, let’s try to keep this arrangement at an equitable one-third each level, shall we?”
Have you ever been following a 1999 Honda Ballade crawling at 43km/h towards a traffic light when you’re already 10 minutes late for a crucial meeting?
Let’s face it, the average South African is not the most considerate human being. I’d be the first to acknowledge that South Africans are some of the friendliest people you’ll meet anywhere. For people who haven’t travelled outside the country, it seems a natural instinct to while away the two hours that “the system is offline” at home affairs by sharing bad-service war stories with a 143-year-old oom who was in a British POW camp during the first Anglo-Boer War. I wish I was making this stuff up, but I had precisely this conversation in a tedious queue at the Germiston civic centre about 15 years ago.
However, when it comes down to it, we’re an inconsiderate bunch. Have you ever been following a 1999 Honda Ballade driven by a 62-year-old man wearing a denim baseball cap crawling at 43km/h towards a traffic light when you’re already 10 minutes late for a crucial meeting? And then, when the light turns amber, he suddenly, inexplicably, shoots through the intersection, leaving you yelling unprintable expletives at the robot? You have? Good. Then you know my pain. About a decade ago, I would stop abruptly and start hooting furiously at the slowly disappearing kakmobile. Nowadays, I just smile serenely and do what every regular South African does while waiting for traffic lights — watch TikToks until someone hoots at me from behind.
It is my considered opinion that ATMs, petrol station pumps and supermarket pay points should time out after about five minutes — and that is only for the benefit of senior citizens who go to Spar to fill a social void. But we’re not those people. When it’s our turn at the window, we stay there. Some come close to taking off their shoes and bras when they get there. About 10 years ago, I would yell out, “Listen, if you want to romance an ATM, please use the dysfunctional one with no cash over there.” Nowadays, I just stand quietly, being the invisible 50-something I am.
Perhaps we should all learn to sit in our respective cars and wait for the vehicle in front of us to stop admiring the green arrow telling him to turn without hooting loudly. I bet it would add an extra six months to each of our lives.
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