There’s a reason I don’t play poker and other games where you can’t let the other person know what you are thinking. Long ago, I discovered my emotions appear in my facial expression, no matter how much I may try to disguise them.
This inability to keep my expressions to myself is one reason why I will do anything to avoid Zoom, Skype, Teams, Facetime and all other forms of face-to-face telecommunication.
As a result of this kink in my personality or character, I am also averse to surprises. In fact, I am now at the point in my life where I can say: If you are planning to surprise me, please don’t, as it could end up being quite traumatic, for you.
I remember one time many years ago, when friends decided to throw a surprise birthday party for me. I am sure they meant well, but two problems arose. First, I was in no mood to celebrate my birthday with a big crowd, and second, I had made my own plans.
The third issue was actually quite funny. In trying to keep the whole thing a big secret, nobody remembered to organise to get me to the venue.
So everyone invited showed up but I was busy at my usual watering hole, blissfully unaware that about five kilometres away my increasingly irritated and impatient friends were expecting me to walk through the door of the restaurant where the surprise party had been arranged with a cake and everything.
I really don't know how I was expected to show up at an event I was unaware of, but thanks all the same.
Speaking of cake and surprises, on Friday I had quite a bizarre start to my day when I turned up at work to be confronted by a package that had been delivered to me from a South African supermarket chain that has become well known for delivering groceries door to door within an hour of their online purchase.
When the people at the reception, which also serves as a security desk and temperature gauging and hand sanitising station at my office, stopped me to tell me I had a package and showed me the supermarket bag with the goodies, I was certain there had to be some mistake.
I had not ordered anything and I was sure nobody I know would have spent money on a two-litre bottle of Coca-Cola, a packet of Doritos, some crackers and a cinnamon-dusted custard pie known in South Africa as a melktart (milk tart) for me.
For starters, I am not particularly fond of any of the snacks in the bag, except for the soda, and in particular I think the beloved melktart, or any milk-based sweet for that matter, like the aptly named Barfi, are vile.
As there was no card or message accompanying the gift, my antennae went up as did my sense of paranoia and I began to sense either a prank or some sort of corruption trap.
Of course on further reflection and after I dialled down the paranoia quite a bit, I realised it can’t have been a serious attempt at bribery or corruption.
After ringing the help centre at the supermarket and explaining that I thought there might have been some mixup, they looked up who sent the package and the sender turned out to be a woman whose story I had written a few months ago.
I called the poor woman up, thanked her for her gift and then told her I couldn’t accept it, as I had just been doing my job, for which I am already adequately remunerated.
The woman was very embarrassed, which was not my motive in telling her, but she understood and said that at her place of work, they are not allowed gifts either as the intention behind them can be misconstrued.
The incident reminded me of when villagers in Kenya would give chickens to village chiefs as thanks for carrying out their duty and how oblivious they were of participating in a culture of corruption.