Time waits for no-one
When you get to the cause of the constipation, 32 minutes later, you discover it’ sa teensy-weensy fender bender
To the untrained eye, this column is about time-wasting. The more discerning reader, however, will quickly realise, there are two themes here; righteous indignation and the author’s hypocrisy. Allow me to explain: Has this ever happened to you? You’re on the way to Vilakazi Street in Orlando West, Soweto, on a Sunday afternoon, you’re in a great mood and Tupac Shakur is yelling profanities through the speakers about engaging in coitus with Biggie Smalls’ wife.
You get to Beyers Naudé on the N1 South when all of “a Sunday” you’re forced to hit your brakes because you’re confronted with a sea of red lights as far as the eye can see.
Because you’re an idiot who didn’t consult his GPS when leaving, you’re in the dark about the cause of the holdup. After all, your soul is in dire need of the colour and flavour of Vilakazi Street, including that chap who dances with a bottle of Coke on his tush.
When you get to the cause of the constipation, 32 minutes later, you discover it’s a teensy-weensy fender bender involving a Fiat Palio and a Toyota Hilux double cab.
The offending party is the bald, deformed “roid head” in the bakkie with more tattoos than skin on his arms. The bokkie in the purple Fiat is sitting on the road, in the emergency lane, weeping while other roid heads in tow trucks descend on her like flies on a dog turd in the middle of January, pretending to care. A silly question now enters your mind; is there a reason these cars haven’t moved to the right side of the “yellow lane”? We all walk around with cameras that can record the position of the vehicles for insurance purposes. Why are 3,000 other drivers inconvenienced by this seismic event where the bull bar of a bakkie took out the back bumper, as happens every 10 minutes in SA at least six times per trip, including drivers of Rangers and Fortuners?
I promised you some hypocrisy and damnit, I’m about to deliver. My maternal gran, Margaret, coined a term in the early ’80s: “phariseeng” (in isiZulu; ukufarisa). It comes from the Christian Bible — the villains who ultimately had Christ crucified were the Pharisees. My gran converted the word into a verb; to “pharisee” (be hypocritical).
Have you also been in a hurry, queuing impatiently for the traffic light to turn green? And then the green arrow pointing to the right flashes but there’s no accompanying movement because the fellow in front is sleeping, recording a TikTok clip or wrestling his worm in self-service?
Yes, I’ve been one of those notoriously “impatient” South Africans abusing their hooters and yelling unprintables in Kiswahili for the “content creator” to move it. Half the time they’re oblivious to the flashing green light and the orchestra of horns behind them because they’re blasting 94.7 at maximum volume.
And yes, I’ve been one of those drivers who swerve into oncoming traffic to overtake the wannabe influencer in the middle of an intersection because I was late to pick up the 19-year-old at the Rhodesfield Gautrain Station.
The Jacksons have a soulful ballad, Time Waits For No One — a sentiment reiterated by an Allan Gray radio ad to the effect that time is the one “commodity” that can neither be stored, transferred, lent or borrowed.
From age 40, life becomes a race to beat the clock and get as many things done before the inevitable end. I value my time now more than ever.
I drop the phone mid-call if I realise that the person on the other end is wasting my time. I don’t pick up the follow-up call to ascertain whether it’s a network problem or a power blackout courtesy of the Thieves of Illumination on Maxwell Drive. I just drop the call and continue writing my weekly hallucinations for the titillation of the masses.
Lately, I’ve even walked away from conversations in person. I’ ma freelancer/independent contractor, which means I can tell you in rands and cents, accurate to seven decimal spaces, how much money it costs me to waste three minutes listening to someone share a neverending story.
The “phariseeing” part comes in because I’m an elaborate storyteller. A story that would take 20 seconds for a normal human takes me about three minutes to tell because I take so many detours.
So it makes no sense that I’m impatient in the Checkers queue. The first sign the lady in front of me is going to take her time is that she puts her handbag down on the counter. Before scanning her purchases, she has a 90-second conversation about the weather, the prospect of the Zuma Return and the soaring prices of chicken.
Just when you think the excruciating pain is over, she remembers she needs a carton of Dunhills, forcing the till operator to perform the arduous task of walking to the cigarette kiosk and back — and walking at a normal pace clearly wasn’t part of his training. When it’s “my turn”, it’s a race against time because I’m worried about holding people up.
It’s so bad that when I purchase two cartons of mango juice and I’m told that buying three will only cost me R6 more, I politely decline. R6 isn’t worth a woman huffing and puffing behind me and missing her Sorbet appointment, even in these trying times of Ramanomics.