Nobody puts Ndumiso in small spaces
Last week I was minding my own business while simultaneously eavesdropping on a private conversation between two men in their 20s. Don’t be a daft pedant now. It is possible to eavesdrop while minding one’s own business. Besides, according to section 3.1.2 of the Promotion of Entertaining Columns Act 3 of 1997, columnists are exempt from normal social standards. It is the same act that permits us to frequent Teazers in the name of “research”.
In any case, these two young men were having a conversation about the awesomeness of polo-neck jerseys.
This yanked my memory kicking and screaming back to when I was around eight years old. My mother was a great fan of polo-neck jerseys for us, given the neo-Antarctic climate of my Hammarsdale neighbourhood.
Which is how it came about that on a random Tuesday afternoon I found myself in the 4m by 3m bedroom I shared with my brothers, trying to take off the new polo-neck that my mom had forced over my head that morning.
I pause here to reflect upon the fact that a polo-neck jersey is designed to fit snugly around one’s neck while being sufficiently flexible to accommodate the average head. But my head-to-neck ratio when I was eight could best be represented by that of the alien from E.T.
About five seconds into the disrobing attempt, I realised that the damn thing was stuck over my head and face. So I did what all kids do in this situation. I panicked. I tried freeing my arms from the sleeves. All I achieved was get both my arms entangled. Panic gave way to wild panic. I tumbled face-first onto a bed, trying to scream for help. The next 10 seconds were the longest of my life to that point.
Just as my consciousness was ebbing away, my Aunt Toby rescued me. This is how I discovered that I suffer from hectic claustrophobia.
I’d like to apologise to folks who suffer from this psychological disorder for that detailed description. The bad news is that I have more.
On December 30 last year, one Ndabezitha Mbatha, a member of the uncouth riffraff I consort with, rocked up at my house. The plan was simple. Gauteng is refreshingly uncluttered at that time of the year. The impressive highways are empty. We would drive around and enjoy it. But we needed snacks and beverages first, so we stopped at a shopping centre. As we rolled into the parking lot I was on the phone, probably completing my visa application to leave the house.
He parked the car, got out and, from force of habit, locked the car. And walked towards the supermarket.
The car was quite cool, seeing as we’d been blasting the aircon in the 34°C- in-the-shade weather. I calmly ended my call and opened the door . . . unsuccessfully. No problem. Unlock the car, right? Nope. As it turns out, that particular BMW 5-series cannot be unlocked from the inside once locked with a key. Mild panic.
The temperature inside the car is rising exponentially. Oh, wait. How silly of me! In this digital age, there is always a solution, right? So I call Ndabezitha. His phone rings inside the cabin of the car. Oh dear. But wait, he has a private and work phone. So I call the work number. No response. The temperature is rising like the ZAR/$ exchange rate after Des van Rooyen’s appointment.
It occurs to me that I have a limited quantity of oxygen inside the cabin. Now I’m taking only tiny sips of air.
My friend insists he was gone for 10 minutes at most. But by the time he returned to the car some 38 minutes later (in my mind), I was drenched in sweat, my tongue was dry and swollen and I was clawing at the upholstery like a cat in a sack.
That’s my long-winded way of getting to the point. Folks who do not suffer from a fear of confined spaces do not appreciate how serious this affliction is.
I remember being stuck in an elevator with two colleagues as we were leaving an office block after a meeting. In the 14 years since, we have never talked about what I yelled during what was probably a 15-second power outage. I just hope it wasn’t “I want my mommy!”
What I do remember distinctly is the awkward silence in the company car as we drove back to the office with my window rolled all the way down while I rocked back and forth like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man.
It occurs to me that I have a limited quantity of oxygen inside the cabin. Now I’m taking only tiny sips of air