What it’s like being number 2

What’s in a name? Depends on the name and to whom it belongs. Take mine. At one time, I thought it was rare, almost exclusive to an elitist group. Wrong. It all started when my garden got out of hand, with weeds smothering the flowers. And not having green fingers and being all thumbs when it comes to soiling my hands, I set out to find a gardener. As luck would have it, I spot one working in a neighbouring garden. Yes, he can help me on Friday. “What’s your name?” I ask. “Cliff,” he says. “No, no, can’t be,” I shout back. “Why?” he asks with a frown. “I’m Cliff,” I respond. With a smile showing sparkling white teeth like chalk on a blackboard, he cheekily retorts, “So am I”. Huffily, I tell him to pitch on Friday.

On the said morning, I get a phone call from the guard at the main gate to our complex. “Mr Cliff, there’s a man here says he’s your gardener. Says his name is Cliff. I think he’s lying.”

“No. Send him in, his name is Cliff,” I choke the words.

There’s a pregnant pause on the phone, then an incredulous, “Aikona! Ayinakwenzeka! Uqhuba!”

Cliff arrives pushing his bike. “Flat tyre,” he explains.

After showing him where to find the tools, he sets to work. It’s obvious he knows his oats and the weeds fill 15 black bags.

For pride’s sake and to show I know something about gardening, I point out a bush that I suggest is a weed.

“No, no, Cliff,” he says. “That’s a tomato plant.”

I walk off in a huff, because my Heidi wins a bet. And he calls me by my Christian name. Cheeky sod.

After work, with bicycle in the boot, I give him a lift to a garage to sort out the tyre.

In the car, he takes out his cellphone and asks for my number. “What are you going to use as a contact name?” I enquire. “Obviously,” he replies, “Cliff2.” “No, no. I’m Cliff1.” “Aikhona. It isn’t. On my phone, you’re Cliff2.”

I was sorely tempted to throw him out of the car with his two-wheeler.

Glad I didn’t. He’s back, and the garden is blooming.

The two Cliffs have become a work in progress.