A few weeks ago I found myself in the slow lounge at King Shaka International Airport on a Sunday morning. I had gone to bed quite late the night before and had to be up particularly early that morning to make the flight. As a result, I was rather tired and a tad on the grumpy side.
The woman seated next to me was totally engrossed in a copy of the Lifestyle section of the Sunday Times. At some point she looked up, saw me, flipped over the page, stared at the byline picture of this column for a while and, as surreptitiously as she could, looked at me again. When she realised that I was looking back at her, she arched her eyebrows quizzically and pointed at me. I offered a weak smile and nodded. She smiled, gave me a thumbs-up and continued reading in silence.
That was one of the best "conversations" I've had in recent times. It was efficient, elegant and, more importantly, no words were wasted. So, if you're reading this, lady in a maroon Adidas hoodie, with dimples and cornrows, thank you. You are a scholar and a lady.
I like to believe that I'm a pleasant, easy-to-talk-to person who enjoys engaging with folks from every walk of life. But on that Sunday morning, the last thing I needed in my life was being trapped in a lengthy conversation.
This segues very nicely into the next chapter of that Sunday morning. I made my way to the boarding gate, at the last possible moment as usual. I have never been able to understand why folks queue to board like it's April 27 1994, considering that everyone has an assigned seat. So, I was one of the last people on board.
By this time, I had perfected my "I'd really rather not chitchat" look. Headphones in my ears, baseball cap almost covering my brow and a copy of The Testimony of Steve Biko, edited by Millard Arnold, that I'd bought from the Steve Biko Centre in Ginsberg. The flight was not completely full so there was hope I would have a row to myself. I should have been so lucky.
A stout fellow with a turkey neck was already seated in the aisle seat. I attempted to steal a leaf from the Cornrow Lady School of Nonverbal Conversation book. The human turkey was having none of it. He was in a bafflingly jovial mood for that time of morning. By the time he'd finally given way for me to get to my window seat, he'd spoken at least 400 words, which is roughly half the length of this column.
I offered him three inaudible grunts to discourage him. He wasn't fazed one eetsy lil' bit and volunteered his itinerary from Vic Falls to Joburg to George to Plettenberg Bay. My brain started automatic shutdown procedure until I couldn't hear his voice. At some point I realised that he wasn't talking any more. But that's only because he was looking at me expectantly, obviously waiting for some kind of response. I said, "Sorry. I missed that."
Undeterred, he repeated himself, "What are you reading there?" I wanted to ask: "But why would you keep talking to me if you can tell I'm reading?" but I'm incapable of that level of rudeness, so I opened myself up to more torture by showing him. He launched into another soliloquy, about the time he met the 1970s minister of justice, Jimmy Kruger, at DF Malan Airport.
The reason I'm sharing this painful episode in my life is to home in on the fact that we all approach conversation differently. For instance, I have this irrational need for the person I'm talking to to show some interest in what I'm saying. This is why I think it's important to select the perfect victim for your desired conversation.
We used to have a family dog, a ridgeback called Robin (RIP), at home. I noticed that my mom would have many chats with Robin. This was, for me, a source of grave concern for her psychological health. Fast-forward about 20 years and I've become a version of my mom. Some of the best conversations I have these days are with our two dogs, Buster and Bengeta. Especially when I get home late at night.
Dogs are excellent conversation partners, mostly because of their limited vocabulary. That means they have excellent listening skills. Humans could learn a lot about conversation from dogs.
I have also perfected the art of conversation with myself, especially when I'm driving. Sometimes I even switch off the car stereo when it disturbs the flow of my tête-à-tête with myself.
What a lot of folks don't appreciate about themselves is that they suck at storytelling. They're all over the place and insert loads of unnecessary detail that distract from the story. And the punchline never quite comes. This usually leads to them tapering off towards the end with "... ja nee, you should have been there ... it was quite a funny thing ... " and you're left standing there with a stupid grin on your face, not knowing what to do with yourself.
Maybe I need to use a trick I use on telemarketers from time to time: I convince them they're talking to a completely unhinged person.
"May I talk to Mr Ngcobo?"
"I can't talk right now, I'm at a funeral."
"When is it a good time to call you?"
"Probably never. It's my funeral."
"Excuse me?"
"I'm at my own funeral getting buried. The reception six feet underground is not good."
"Hahaha. Good one. But seriously now Mr Ngcobo ..."
"This line is tapped by the CIA. They want to put probes in my head and steal my HIV cure."
After about 15 seconds of this, all I ever hear on my earpiece is CLICK!..