I always thought having kids meant growing the family, building a legacy, and ensuring my genes survive. What I didn’t realise is that I had signed up for my very own homemade investigative unit—my personal Hawks, my in-house SIU. They don’t take bribes, they don’t rest, and worst of all, they don’t forget.
Take my kid, for example. He has the skills of a seasoned detective and the audacity of a politician before elections. The other day, I slipped into the bathroom, hoping for two minutes of peace. Just as I settled in, the interrogation started from the other side of the door.
“Dad, what are you doing?”
Now, we both know what I’m doing. Everyone in this household knows. But I play along.
“I’m just busy, my baby.”
“With what?”
I sigh. “With toilet things, my boy.”
He considers this. I hear his little fingers tapping against the door like he’s taking notes.
“But why do you take so long?” he continues. “Mommy is quick. Are you doing a number one or a number two?”
I refuse to answer, and he switches tactics. “Dad, what do you think is better? A million rand or superpowers?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Superpowers.”
“Okay, if you had super speed, you’d be done by now.”
I can’t even argue.
Then there’s my daughter. She’s seven going on seventy. The other day we had visitors, and she decided it was the perfect time to air out all our secrets. I was in the kitchen making tea when I heard her telling my guests, “Mommy says she’s on a diet, but I saw her eating amagwinya in the car.”
I nearly dropped the sugar bowl. The visitors laughed. My wife gave me the look. I pointed at our daughter. “You see this one? She’s working for the enemy.”
And the worst part? These spies have no sense of time or place. Last week, we were at Woolies, and out of nowhere, my son shouted, “Mommy, did your tummy get big because you ate too much or because of me?”
The lady at the till stifled a laugh. A man in the queue snorted. I wanted to disappear.
It doesn’t help that my son has also discovered the concept of money. Now he wants payment for information.
“Dad, if you buy me ice cream, I won’t tell mommy that you were dancing in the kitchen listening to amapiano when you were supposed to be taking out the bin.”
I gasp. “You’re blackmailing me?”
He grins. “I prefer the term ‘businessman.’”
At this rate, I might need to move into witness protection. Or at least install better locks on the bathroom door. But one thing is for sure—these little spies are here to stay, and I just have to survive their investigations one embarrassing moment at a time.
[End]
Welcome to South Africa – Jou Ma Se Boek
Welcome to South Africa – Jou Ma se Boek includes an A4 book, with an enamel cup, packaged in a premium box. It’s a coffee table book that details the extraordinary life of an ordinary South African. Personal deliveries (JHB, PTA, Midrand) will include the shopping bag.
326 in stock (can be backordered)
