From Charlize the Wrong, to Charlize the Right

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.

Maybe Charlize has a gift that she hasn’t discovered yet. I just pictured her coming home to attend a Sangoma initiation school:

It was a humid Thursday morning in Ga-Rankuwa, and Katlego was halfway through his third bowl of mabele porridge when he saw something that made him choke so hard that ugogo had to slap his back.

There, gliding into the Sangoma initiation compound looking like a reincarnation of Brooke Logan in Louis Vuitton sandals, was none other than Charlize Theron. Yes. Charlize. The Academy Award-winning actress. In Gucci. Holding a cow horn like it was a clutch bag at the Oscars.

Katlego blinked. “Haibo,” he whispered. “This must be a TikTok prank.” It felt like Kyknet had just done a collaboration show with Moja Love.

Charlize smiled politely, oblivious to the eyes burning into her from every direction. “Good mooorning! I’m here for the Sangoma… um… bootcamp?”

“Sangoma initiation school,” corrected Gogo Mmaphuti, adjusting her headwrap, trying to contain a face full of confusion and judgment.

Charlize beamed. “Yes, that one! I had a dream where there were only 44 Afrikaans-speaking people. And months later, 49 came to America. I just know I have the gift. At this rate, I could use it to win the Powerball.”

Katlego’s jaw was still on the floor. “Why are you even here?” he asked, wide-eyed. “You’re Charlize Theron. Don’t you have a Netflix deal or something?”

Charlize gave a dramatic sigh like she was in a perfume advert. “Sweetie, even Netflix deals can’t fix the struggles of Mojolo. But, a solid bag could.”

The other initiates were whispering. One girl poked her friend and said, “Imagine how her family in Benoni would feel when she comes home to slaughter a goat.”

Charlize was already fumbling with her beads. “So, when do we start the drumming thing? I brought my own djembe—got from a spiritual healer at the Zulu Parade.”

Gogo Mmaphuti looked like she was going to combust. “We don’t djembe here. We use cowhide drums.”

Later that afternoon, during go hloma badimo (calling the ancestors), Charlize tried to do a sun salutation mid-chant, causing two initiates to scream because they thought she was being possessed by a yoga spirit.

“Am I doing it right?” she whispered to Katlego, who by now had given up trying to understand anything and was just recording everything for future blackmail.

“I think you summoned an app,” Katlego muttered. “Your ancestors are probably buffering.”

When it was time to slaughter the chicken, Charlize gasped and pulled out a packet of Beyond Chicken from her tote bag. “I don’t do animal products. Maybe we can… try a vegan sacrifice?”

Gogo Mmaphuti finally snapped. “Spirits don’t eat vegan! They want real chicken! You think Gogo Maweni’s spirits are here for soy protein?”

But despite all the drama, the ancestors must’ve taken a liking to her. That night, during a trance dance, Charlize started speaking fluent Zulu with a Limpopo accent.

Everyone froze.

Even Gogo Mmaphuti squinted. “Yho. The ancestors really want that Oscar.”

When Charlize woke up, she just smiled and said, “I think my inner child met her inner nkosikazi. I’m totally rebranding.”

Katlego shook his head. “Next thing, she’ll start a sangoma-themed skincare line. Or, sell Isphandla by Gucci.”

And just like that, Charlize “The Wrong” became Charlize “The Right.” Or maybe just Charlize “The Rebranded.”

And somewhere in America, a confused Afrikaans uncle was telling his boetie, “Ek weet nie, maar ek dink sy’s nou ‘n sangoma. En sy’s nogsteeds hot.”

[End]