Our frisky folks: the horror, the horror

I have never witnessed Paige Nick writing a column in her study but I'm pretty certain that I have the same glint in my eye she must have when she writes her hilarious, mischievous columns. (Excuse my intrusion into your lane, Paige.)

My mother was blessed with four sons. I believe that, like the devout Catholic I know her to be, she was only ever involved in the salacious business that precedes pregnancy four times in her life.

The Vatican certainly believes that to be the case where the world's billion Catholics are concerned. Good Catholics don't get involved in that sordid business for pleasure. They only go to those carnal trenches for the exclusive purpose of the sacred mystery of conception. And this is why I believe there have been so many reported cases of immaculate conception in Latin America to explain buns in the oven.

Let's face it: there are few things more traumatic than the thought of one's folks getting frisky with each other.

I remember visiting my parents about 10 years ago, when they were in their 60s, and being woken up at 2am by a high-pitched squeal emanating from their bedroom. I remember thinking, "God, if you're out there, please strike me with a bolt of lightning and render me instantly deaf."

As it turns out, it was a false alarm. My mom was merely cackling at some joke the old man had cracked. As I listened to them jabber on, it occurred to me how lucky I was to have never experienced the trauma some of my friends have. Yes, I'm talking about inadvertently walking in on one's parents locked in a passionate nocturnal scrum.

One friend described it as "like walking in on Mother Teresa twerking in front of a mirror in a bikini". Another friend who suffered the same fate told me, with a defeated, faraway look in his eyes, "Since that moment, my life has been divided into two distinct parts: pre-disaster and post-disaster."

This column was precipitated by an episode of My Wife and Kids starring Damon Wayans and Tisha Campbell as husband and wife. In this episode, their five-year-old daughter dials 911 and calls the cops to investigate what she believes is a murder in progress when she hears her mommy yelling out bloodcurdling screams, "Oh God, oh God, Michael! You're killing me!"

It reminded me of a friend who had woken up and decided to take a roll in the hay with the wife one Saturday morning. When he rolled over to lie on his back in the aftermath, he was startled by two wide eyes peering just above the edge of the bed. His two-year-old son.

As he searched for words to explain the scene, his wife fumbling frantically to cover herself, the lil' fellow said, "Usukhathele Baba?" (Are you exhausted now, dad?) His response was a bit like the president's answer to those EFF pitbulls hounding him to "pay back the money" - unintelligible.

Another friend says her daughter walked in on her and her boyfriend and asked the perfectly logical question; "Nenzani?" (What are you doing?)

These real-life stories reminded me of a story that I assume to be fictional. Apparently a young girl, tired of being spanked each time she wet her bed, asked her mother, "Why am I getting beaten up for peeing in bed when I always overhear Dad being begged to pee at night?" The punchline here is that the Zulu word for making wee-wee is the same as . the other sort of wee-weeing.

I'm not a psychologist and thus will not pretend I know what happens in these situations. However, I suspect that the kids who walk in on their folks when they're younger than five have it much easier than adults who witness the abomination of their parents in the throes of "a little bump and grind", to quote R&B crooner R Kelly.

If you gave me the choice between watching three hours of open-heart surgery or three seconds of seeing my folks "bapsing", I'd go, "So, where do I get my back-to-front apron?"

This is especially true after I accidentally walked in on a friend of mine and his squeeze having a go about 15 years ago.

And it had nothing to do with the fact that they weighed a combined 200kg. That scene wasn't too different to two hippos mud wrestling. It's one of those things none of us needs to witness until we shuffle off this mortal coil.

Because there is always this absurd societal pressure that every time one writes a column, one must be making some profound point, I guess I must find such a message somewhere in this column.

I suppose that the point I'm making is that I'm glad I'm a human being. These things only occur accidentally. Bovines have no such sensibilities. When a bull and a cow feel like some action, they "just do it", like Nike.

Imagine you're a calf hanging out with your posse on the Mandela Square equivalent of the meadow on Van Rooyen's Farm somewhere in the Free State, and one of your friends goes, "Ah snap! Your dad's diddlin' your mom again!" LS

• ngcobon@sundaytimes.co.za @NdumisoNgcobo