Hollywood lied to us in the final decades of the previous century. According to the movies from that time, cash, by now, should have gone the way of Tyrannosaurus rex. If the scriptwriters’ vision had come true, our president would have been saved many blushes and complicated explanations about the expensive stuffing in his sofas.
As things stand, it irks me no end that in 2026 I still find myself in ATM queues because of the number of small enterprises that still swear by the “cash is king” philosophy. The indignity of standing in line like Oliver Twist with an empty soup bowl really grates. After all, haven’t we had the tech to transfer money from our bank accounts by merely shifting our eyeballs for years now? Heck, shouldn’t we already be arriving at OR Tambo at 9.55am, stepping into a cubicle at 10am, barking “Beam me up, Scotty”, and, abracadabra, be appearing at Heathrow by 10.01am? I swear, it’s like we’re still on all fours in caves, scavenging for rodents.
Anyway, this is not a technology rant. It is a rant about human nature. The other day I needed R50 cash to pay a barber in Edenvale for removing whatever little growth I have left on my head. He was needlessly being a goat’s posterior and refusing my offer of an e-wallet. This is how it came about that I found myself standing in line at an ATM, half-blind from the methylated spirits running into my eyes from my scalp.
When the diminutive lady at the machine finished, the fellow in front of me in the queue trotted to the screen. He stood there, seemingly in a stupor, trying to remember why he was at an ATM. After what seemed like 30 seconds, his brain rebooted and he started rummaging in his satchel for his wallet. Digging through it for the appropriate card took longer than it takes an athlete to run the 1,500m event.
To add insult to injury, the human snail was whistling Tyla’s Water the entire time. By the time he inserted his card into the slot, a soft-boiled egg would have been ready to eat. He then engaged in a full-blown romantic liaison with the ATM, whispering sweet nothings to it for another five minutes. By the time he finally finished, I was in the throes of a full-blown fantasy about becoming CEO of FNB and installing ATMs that deliver a wake-up electric shock to users who take more than two minutes to finish a transaction.
I am constantly in awe of how many people possess the amazing superpower of being unmoved by how much they are wasting other people’s precious time
I am constantly in awe of how many people possess the amazing superpower of being unmoved by how much they are wasting other people’s precious time. You know the type — they get to the paypoint at Dis-Chem and start jabbering away with the cashier about the heatwave and their children who are visiting from Canada and Australia. And then they give the universal “I’m planning to be here for a while” signal — placing their handbags on the counter.
How many times have you spotted someone walk to their car in the Rosebank Mall parking lot at 11.30am on a month-end Saturday, after you’ve been circling for an empty parking bay for 10 minutes? You signal to them with hopes and dreams in your eyes: “Are you leaving?” and they give you a nod. Seven minutes later they are still loitering around their vehicle, opening and closing doors, seemingly totally oblivious to your existence, humming Tyla’s Water.
The other day I found myself in an elevator as two fellows took their leave of each other, jamming the door open as they exchanged pleasantries and set up a golf date. I could have been a pillar of salt like Lot’s wife, as far as they were concerned. After twice clearing my throat loudly to no effect, I said: “Er… excuse me, could we move this along?” They seemed genuinely surprised at my unwarranted aggression.
After some introspection, I see it might be me who has a problem. I, too, want to be able to just switch on the hazard lights and double park in front of the Makro entrance. I want to be the guy who, in peak 200-vehicles-per-minute holiday traffic on the N3, waits until he gets to the toll plaza window before he starts casually hunting around in his car for his wallet, whistling Tyla’s Water all the while.
If I could do that, I would have beaten the high blood pressure bogey.
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