Remember how the country went crazy when Charlize Theron said there were about 44 Afrikaans speakers? She might have been miles ahead of us. We just hadn’t seen the whole picture yet. Now, we can confirm that there are 49 Afrikaans speakers in America. Give or take a few numbers, Charlize “the wrong” was Charlize “the right” after all.

I won’t judge whether you pronounce “sachet” as sa-shay or sa-chit. Now that we’ve got that out, which household did you grow up in? The one that kept mountains of condiment sachets in the kitchen drawer, only to throw them away once they expired? Or, did you throw them away the day you got them from your takeaway order?

It was a Saturday morning in the suburbs of Gauteng, and Katlego was already in his gown, socks pulled high, a mug of Ricoffy in hand, surveying his kingdom like a true kasi veteran who had made it to the ‘burbs. His wife was in the kitchen trying to play music on the smart speaker.

So, Katlego has always considered himself young at heart. The type of guy that still wore the latest sneakers, a playlist full of Amapiano, Trap, and the occasional Kwaito hit when he was feeling like a taste of Kasi. He even knew all the TikTok dances… well, most of them. Okay, like two. Honestly, maybe he knew what they looked like, but could never do the actual dances himself. But in his head? He was one of the laaities.

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.

Wives make a king-size bed feel like a single bed. Katlego loved his wife. But every night, he found himself fighting for survival in what should have been his peaceful, king-size slumber. It was a warzone. A battlefield. A place where he was reduced to clinging onto the edge of the mattress like a chancer hanging onto a moving Metrorail cart.

Breaking the hierarchy of who gets the best piece of chicken is a crime eKasi. It was Sunday afternoon, and wifey’s famous roast chicken filled the house with an aroma so rich it could make a vegetarian reconsider life choices. The pap was steaming, the chakalaka was fiery, and the gemmer was colder than a Soweto winter morning. It was the perfect Sunday lunch.

Katlego knew the moment he stepped into the house that the war had begun. The scent of Domestos hit his nose like a warning shot. The floors were so shiny he could almost see his future reflected in them—one where he was constantly being yelled at for existing in the newly cleaned home.

It all began the day Katlego became a father. His son, arrived into the world screaming like an audience member on Rea Tsotella. As a first-time parent, Katlego was on high alert. Every sneeze, hiccup, or cry from Junior sent him spiralling into a Google rabbit hole. Was it colic? An allergic reaction? A spiritual calling? Katlego didn’t know, but one thing was certain—everyone else around him did.

Katlego was tuned in to the 7 pm news when he heard the invitation for Afrikaans-speaking people to take refuge in America. He thought to himself, “This is South Africa! Surely as a light-skinned guy, with an Afrikaans-speaking wife, and a brown envelope… I could probably make it too.”