A friend recently put up a fascinating post. It was a longish rant about who she called "men of our last days". Her gripe was about married men who simply show up at their houses unannounced when they've been away.
In the early years of the migrant labour system, about 120 years ago, men would sign up with Teba, the human cattle distributor, to go work on the mines in Johannesburg. They could only really afford to return home once or, at best, twice a year. Apparently, upon arrival the man would get off the bus and find a young boy he'd give his suitcase to, to take to his house. The man would then stop at Sisi Sophie's shebeen to have a container or two of umqombothi with his friends.
This, my friend says, was to forewarn his wife that his arrival was imminent. It was tacit acknowledgement that during his lengthy absence, his wife might have buckled under the sheer pressure of sexual urges and found a stop-gap lover to scratch her itch.
This story is consistent with tales I've heard about how no traditional African man ever entered his homestead without singing at the top of his voice and kicking the chickens and dogs in the yard to create as much noise as he possibly could.
If my friend is correct, this was the height of pragmatism. In almost 15 years of being married I, too, have never returned home without texting or calling to say I'm on my way back, although my reasons have little to do with the possibility of arriving home to find a strange Polo Playa in the yard. (Don't ask me why, but I'm told that finding a Polo Playa on your driveway exponentially increases the likelihood of walking in and finding the missus swinging from the chandeliers while yelling "Giddy up, cowboy!")
My reasons for not just barging into my own house are much simpler. I just think it's plain rude to surprise people with your arrival. There's nothing pleasant about minding your own business, applying wax to the hair on your back or catching up on some cuckolding action on Pornhub, only to hear a key turn in the keyhole. Everyone deserves to be physically and mentally prepared to receive company.
I'm actually quite pedantic about this and it extends beyond people rocking up unannounced. Ask any of my friends and family and they will tell you that I hardly ever attend to random phone calls that come without warning.
I consider an unannounced phone call a deliberate ambush. Tell me if this has never happened to you: you're minding your own business when the phone rings and you answer. The first thing the person on the other end asks is not whether you're well or all is good with the family. All you hear is, "Say, what are you busy with this Sunday, around 10.30am?" In a distant, more innocent past I used to respond, "I think I'll just be relaxing at home." This would be followed by, "Oh perfect! Marcia and I are having a few people over for brunch. Please bring Tebogo. Dress code is smart casual."
When did relaxing at home become code for "I was just waiting for you to drag me to your brunch"?
Nowadays, I don't play that game. The rules are simple. Send me a text and let me know upfront what you need from me. I think it's only polite to give people the space to feed you meticulously constructed lies.
I remember a braai at my house with a friend. A mutual friend tries to call me but I just let it ring. My friend's phone starts ringing immediately. Same friend. He picks up and after a few uh-huh's, casually responds, "Sorry, I can't. I'm currently three hours away, in Nelspruit, visiting an aunt who's in hospital, with piles." As cool as a cucumber.
But some of us cannot lie on the spot. This is why I have stopped answering 087 numbers completely - to avoid the loaded question when you dare answer: "Is this Mister Endoomeesaw Nocawbo?" I can smell a trap a mile away and I used to respond, "Well, that depends on who's calling and what I can help you with." Five seconds into the call and you wish you'd responded, "Sorry, you've got the wrong number."
These are all lessons another friend learnt the hard way. He is obsessed with organising surprises for his loved ones and recently flew to Durban to pay his daughter, a straight-A third-year student at the University of KwaZulu-Natal's Howard College campus, a surprise visit at her Manor Gardens commune.
It was a sunny Durban afternoon but when he stepped into the house he walked into a thick fog. It smelt as if he was in a jam session of Bob Marley and the Wailers. The daughter stared up at him from a bean bag on the floor, all glassy-eyed, and started giggling uncontrollably before announcing to her housemates, "Guys, meet my dad. Forgive him for barging in, but we don't have chickens and dogs in the yard for him to kick."..