Getting my first fridge the hard way after door-slamming episodes

Moving out of home for the first time is a big deal, and a big dent in your wallet. And usually any kind of spare cash is a fantasy.

Yet, three months after finally being released from prison, or high school, I was house hunting with friends. A friend and I found a relatively large apartment in Randburg, and it was cheap. The flat was on top of a cycling shop in the city centre. At some point it was converted into an office, and then back, and then into an office again.

This shape-shifting continued until, I guess, the landlords found someone idiotic enough to rent it. At least there was a supermarket across the road.

The tile carpets were filthy and ripped, something a starry-eyed teen wouldn’t notice when the allure of freedom tinted the perspective.

The interior walls were prefab, a film of tint was peeling off the windows and the bathroom was in 70s, Miami drug dealer pink. There were no wardrobes, and the kitchen stove had a single working plate. But it had to become home as we had signed the lease.

Each had a corner in their bedroom which became a clothes-stacking pile of mess. In some cases, the black trash bags used for packing to leave home became de facto closets.

In need of an appliance or two, we convinced an acquaintance to move in with us. She had a fridge, and that was the most important aspect of her personality. The fridge was older than I was, louder than a Metallica concert and spray-painted vomit green. But inside it chilled beer, vodka, food, and things.

But, let’s call her Michelle, thought that by hauling in a wreck of a cooler absolved her from contributing to the rent, lights and water. She took baths the size of the Vaal Dam and read books immersed in bubbles.

Our living arrangements became unintentionally intimate, both with Michelle and the army of cockroaches that marched into the kitchen via the drain.

I can imagine a similar atmosphere between Democratic Alliance leader John Steenhuisen and Economic Freedom Fighters leader Julius Malema had both been forced to share living quarters in a reality show like Love Island.

But in Randburg, at home, there was no love lost between us and her.

After three months, we settled into a door-slamming argument about paying fair shares. It was so loud that even the cockroaches sought temporary shelter at the neighbours.

A few mornings later, she was gone. Just like that. And for 30 years hence, neither of us saw or spoke to her again. She left unpaid bills behind, but thankfully, the fridge, too. It lasted another decade.