Be careful of your aspirations because even after you achieve them, they come with terms and conditions, as Gasant Abarder will soon find out when he moves house to the Southern Suburbs this week. He writes in his latest #SliceofGasant column that while a childhood dream will be realised, his Cape Flats heart is sad.
Abarder, who recently launched his book, Hack with a Grenade, is among the country’s most influential media voices. Catch his weekly column here.
My good friend Ryan O’Connor is always on the pulse on his breakfast show on Smile FM and one morning last week was no different. He said on the wireless during our school run that these last few days were the most popular around the world, for some or other reason, for moving house. Perhaps it is the promise of Spring that inspires new beginnings.
It was primarily the nightmare of the school run that pushed our hand to sell up our awesome house of 15 years in the limbo that is Kenwyn – not quite Cape Flats, not quite Southern Suburbs – and move to the other side of the M5. On the other side of Hanover Park West (which I call Kenwyn).
It was crazy. Laylaa and I had to alternate and leave work early each day, taking turns with another couple, to pick up kids from schools with staggered dismissal times and alternating extramural schedules that made me go cross-eyed. Our bosses have been amazing. But there is only so much liberty one can take.
Our new house will be just 300m from my daughters’ school and on all the routes to my eldest’s high school.
The upshot is that the boy from the Cape Flats has finally come good. The Abarders are moving to the Southern Suburbs. We’ve just about lunged and made it to the shores of the prime real estate without the waves from the Cape Flats licking our soles as we lie on the beach of our new paradise island. But still, it is the Southern Suburbs. From Heideveld, Mitchells Plain, Woodstock, Athlone West (Rondebosch East), Kenwyn and now Claremont.
The run-up to moving day this Thursday has been a source of great humour. The other day I happened on a conversation between my 10-year-old and 14-year-old daughters in posh accents that sounded like a bad impression of two Australian moms. This was their idea of living in the Southern Surburbs.
The chat went something like this:
Older sister: ‘Oh … EM … Gee! You are not going to believe what I saw the other day.’
Younger sister: ‘Oh, do tell, darling.’
Older sister: ‘Well, I happened to be on the other side last week and guess what I saw?’
Younger sister: ‘Uh huh?’
Older sister: ‘It was Susan coming out of Shoprite. I mean, I could never!’
Younger sister: ‘It can’t be! You’re lying?! Who even goes to Woolies… themselves?’ The girls were of course having a bit of fun, and their fictional chat was followed by raucous laughter.
But their conversation reminded me of several of my favourite Cape Flats things and behaviours I am going to miss and the adjustments I will have to make in the ‘burbs, where by-laws are taken a little bit more seriously.
For example, how am I going to explain to my two huskies that JP Smith is going to fine them for howling for longer than two minutes? I may not be able to listen to Dr Dre or Tupac at high volume in my car either. And building plans … for everything! You can’t just mos slaan up an agterkamer hokkie here without permission.
Will I be able to have a yaardt party and just allow the brasse to stiek uit for a bring-and-braai? And what about klopping remixes from the DJ set I got for my 30th birthday? Does Mr Delivery even deliver gatsbys, salomies, vienna parcels and all those other lekker dite to my new address? Can a gatsby cut in four be consumed on the boot of my car, even? An aunty nearby you can walk to for koesisters on a Sunday morning?
I will have to use my inside voice when chastising the kids, admonishing the dogs, and losing my cool with Manchester United when they’re battling against Luton Town on weekends.
But most of all, I will definitely miss screaming ‘Jou ma se p@3$’ at the top of my lungs each time I hit my thumb with my hammer instead of hitting the nail on the head.
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