Sachet, Sa-shay, Sa-chit

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?

My family would keep them “just in case,” but nobody ever used them. Our factory default setting? Using the household All Gold tomato sauce and Cerebos salt shaker.

We would go to a restaurant and pack the extra sachets of tomato sauce, vinegar, and salt in the doggy bag. We’d still take the sachets even if we didn’t have leftovers to put in a doggy bag.

We’d go to Wimpy? “Take extra sachets, Katlego.”

KFC? “Don’t forget the salt packets. They don’t expire that fast.”

Ocean Basket? “Pack the lemon wipes too. We’ll use them at home for… something.”

They would pile up in the kitchen drawer for weeks until there was no more space. Eventually, the drawer would get so full it would struggle to open. You’d tug it, and it would groan like an old taxi going uphill in Hillbrow.

That’s the only thing that would prompt a quick inspection of one-or-two of the sachets. If most of them were expired, then we’d throw all of them away and start the collection from scratch.

We’d keep them longer than a pastor’s sermon at a night vigil. Maybe, even longer than your auntie’s prayer at Christmas lunch.

That brings us to that awkward Sunday afternoon. The Great Sachet Purge of 1999.

It started innocently enough. Ma was trying to find the can opener, and the drawer wouldn’t budge. She pulled. It resisted. She pulled harder. It resisted harder than an ANC cadre after a corruption charge.

Eventually, it jerked open with a dramatic squeal, flinging a few sachets into the air like they were trying to escape.

“HAI! What is all this rubbish?” she snapped, holding up a tomato sauce packet that looked like it had been through apartheid and democracy at the same time.

Katlego was sitting at the kitchen table, peeling an orange. He tried to act like he hadn’t seen anything. “Huh? Looks like… um… sauce.”

“Don’t act brand new, Katlego. These are yours. Your father doesn’t eat vinegar. Your sister doesn’t even like sauce. So who was collecting them like Pokémon cards?”

Papa, from the lounge, piped up without missing a beat, “I told you all, those things would take over. One day we’ll wake up and the sachets will have their own informal settlement in the house and demand services like electricity and running water.”

“Papa, you’re being dramatic,” Katlego mumbled. Ma helped to sort through the drawer, though half-heartedly. His sister walked in, chewing gum and scrolling on her Tamagotchi.

“What’s going on here? A sachet stocktake?”

“You laugh now,” Ma said, holding up a tiny packet of vinegar. “Wait till you open a sachet, and it’s just dust inside.”

They began sorting them into piles: tomato sauce, vinegar, salt, pepper, sugar, and Canderel. One tomato sauce packet had exploded long ago, sticking some of the others together like they’d been glued with guilt.

“Okay, expiry dates,” Ma instructed. “Let’s check. If it says ‘best before 2000’, throw it away.”

“2000??” Katlego gasped, holding up a mayonnaise packet. “That’s Y2K! This thing won’t even survive till the end of the world.”

Papa walked in, arms folded. “You know, in some countries, they’d call this hoarding.”

“Isn’t hoarding what happens in Hillbrow?” asked Ma.

“No ma, thats whor…”, Katlego’s sister slapped him on the back of the head before he could finish the word.

“In this household, we call it being prepared,” Ma replied sharply.

His sister held up a small, wrinkled lemon wipe. “What about these Ocean Basket lemon cloths?”

“Keep two,” Ma said, without hesitation. “They smell nice.”

“Ma, they smell like regret.”

By the end of the ordeal, they’d filled half a black garbage bag with expired sachets. The drawer could finally open and close smoothly. It was like breathing after months of sinus problems.

Katlego looked at the empty space where the sachets used to live and asked, “So… we’re not collecting anymore?”

Ma gave him a look. “No, we are… but smarter this time. Only take what you’ll use.”

He nodded solemnly. But the next week, after a quick stop at Wimpy, he slipped three tomato sauce packets into his pocket out of sheer habit.

[End]