Ode to the Non-leavers Association

I’m at that age when I have to keep an elaborate network of young men in my harem. No, you filthybrained scum, not that type of harem. My Technophobe Support Harem, who help this 51-year-old technophobe with all his needs in this, the digital age.

It’s a mutualistic symbiosis. They help me figure out that sometimes you just have to switch your gadgets off and on again, and everything is as right as Mike.

In return, I contribute generously to their beer funds and date-night budgets. And on top of getting my gadgets taken care of, I get to spend some time with young men and live vicariously through them under the guise of imparting my experiential nuggets of wisdom. Some of these are nothing more than dried-up hyena turds, but who’s keeping tabs?

On Monday afternoon I arrived at this young man’s tiny bachelor flat in Edenvale for my laptop’s appointment. Let’s call him Nathi, mostly because that’s what his folks christened him. The first sign that something was wrong was the aroma of lamb stew. I didn’t even realise he had a stove. The second was that I could see most of the furniture with the naked eye. Ordinarily, I identify his furniture using Braille because everything is hidden under clothes, bed linen, computer parts and boxes of leftover pizza.

The mysterious transformation of the claustrophobic germ factory was explained when a tiny girl wearing only his Sharks jersey walked from the bedroom into the kitchen to check the pots. I couldn’t help seeing him twitch nervously when she introduced herself to me with the sunniest smile I’ve seen since I was last near the Equator.

After about 20 minutes of tinkering with my laptop, Nathi insisted on walking me to my car. “Grootman, I’m in a bit of a situation here,” he blurted out as soon as we were five steps from the door.

About three sentences into his rant I was laughing so hard I was doubled over, tears and snot running down my face. Apparently he had gone out with friends to one of those Bolton Road pubs off Jan Smuts Avenue. Great fun was had by all and when he got into his Bolt at 2am, one of his newly acquired friends got in with him and went back to his place, as one does in one’s 20s. So far, so good.

By late Saturday afternoon it had become pretty evident that great fun was still being had by all and she wasn’t leaving. Later, some of his friends came through to watch an EPL match and have a braai. On Sunday afternoon, after they’d finished a late Mr D lunch, he anticipated her asking him to hail an Uber for her. Instead, she walked into the bedroom, shut the door and crawled into bed.

What the young man didn’t know is that South Africa is replete with stories of folks who just rock up and never leave

“No need to worry. She’s just taking a nap,” he thought. At about 6pm he woke her up and, with concern, asked if she didn’t have anywhere she needed to be the next morning. Her response? “Let’s worry about tomorrow morning when it comes.” That’s when panic set in.

By the time I arrived at his flat on Monday afternoon he had broached the subject of when she was planning to leave twice and both times she had given him her best Helen Keller impersonation — no discernible sign that she’d heard him.

After I’d recovered from my immature burst of laughter, I told him: “Son, what you have in your flat right now is what we call a non-leaver. These are people who ostensibly come to your house, decide they like it there and that they’ll be staying longer, indefinitely.”

The young man was mortified. “Bb-ut she has to leave! I don’t want a roommate. Also Grootman, she’s using my toothbrush, my shower gel, washing rags and she’s wearing the same panties from Friday night!” After I regained my breath for the second time, I gave him the obligatory BS line: “Don’t panic, we’ll figure this out.”

What the young man didn’t know is that South Africa is replete with stories of folks who just rock up and never leave. One of the families in my extended family from Georgedale, near Hammarsdale, has an uncle who isn’t related to anyone by blood. He arrived at their homestead during a big feast and never left. The year was 1983 — he’s still there. To this day noone knows where he’s from.

Now, if I told you I regaled Nathi with this beautiful story to calm him down, I’d be lying. I shared it because I wanted to see more panic on his face at the prospect of his little visitor staying with him for the next 40 years.

Then I told him his best course of action would be to sit her down and have a heart-to-heart. As it happens, this is the same thing I did about 30 years ago when I found myself in such a predicament. I didn’t tell him it didn’t work for me, forcing me to bring out the big guns. And by that I mean I hired one of the cleaning ladies in the building to impersonate my mother, rocking up for an “unannounced visit”. The young woman tried to ingratiate herself by calling her “mommy”, but my fake mother told her to leave and earned herself R150.

These are the stories I share with my sons in the hope that they don’t repeat the mistakes I made as a young man. Nathi got off lightly. By the time he plucked up the courage to politely ask her to leave, it was Wednesday afternoon. She took her expulsion like a champ and left quietly. Naturally, she “forgot” her USB cable and her solitary pair of drawers drying on the bathroom rail. She’ll be back.