I am a young woman (23) who drives a little Suzuki Swift with a mighty 1.2 engine. Calling it “speed” would be generous.

I know I’m not the fastest car on the road, but I do drive the speed limit. If it’s 60, I’m doing 60. If it’s 80, I’m doing 80. If gravity lends me a hand down a hill and I accidentally hit 70 in a 60, that’s probably the closest I’ll ever get to street racing.

I also stay left whenever I can because this isn’t Formula 1 and I genuinely don’t care if someone wants to get somewhere 30 seconds before me.
Yet somehow this isn’t enough.

Every second Hilux, Ranger, Fortuner or Everest appears in my rear-view mirror at approximately Mach 3, parks itself six centimetres from my ass, flashes its lights, then overtakes over a solid white line like they’re on their way to stop an asteroid from hitting Earth.
…Only for me to pull up next to them at the very next traffic light.

Congratulations, Oom (and in some cases, Tannie).

I work with RAF cases, so dangerous driving isn’t just a pet peeve. I’ve seen first-hand how one stupid decision can leave someone paraplegic or permanently disabled. A lot of these crashes happened because someone thought the speed limit was merely a suggestion.

My own mother nearly died because Oom Jan in his Hilux decided she was taking too long to turn at an intersection. He tried overtaking at speed, T-boned her, wrote off his own bakkie and left insurance to sort out the mess. Great success.

The other day my dad (who drives a Fortuner) asked why cars seem to speed up when he gets close to them.

I told him, “Because people see a Fortuner or a bakkie flying up behind them and immediately think, ‘Here comes Oom Jan. Better get moving before he climbs into my boot.’”

I do exactly the same thing. The moment I see a Hilux approaching in my mirror like it’s being launched from a catapult, I suddenly find a little extra courage in my Suzuki’s 1.2 litres.

So, genuine question to the Ooms (and some wild Tannies) of South Africa:
Why?

Driving a bakkie looks lekker. I’d love to own one one day.

But why do so many of you drive like you’re personally responsible for delivering the Springboks to Ellis Park before kick-off?

Is it an ego thing?
Do you think women are impressed?
Because I promise you, the only person you’re impressing is Oom Jan #2 in his Raptor, who’s still secretly upset he didn’t buy a Hilux instead.

Car guard stops a running crook at Zevenwacht Mall, Kuilsriver, Western Cape. Rassie take note.

Never seen briquettes stacked this neatly before.

This kakness did not spark joy.

Spotted at my local SAPS. There were two more of these beautifully printed signs inside the building too. Obviously a major problem.

I miss "English" names.

For those who don't know, back in the day it was common for black parents to give their children a name in English- in addition to their actual/cultural name. This was due to the belief (maybe it was fact I don't know) that if white people could pronounce/recognise you name you were more likely to be hired.

So of course there were people with the stereotypical English names like Mary, Elizabeth, Cynthia etc. however, I always loved the direct translation name.

The classics like Victory, Conquest, Prosperity etc.

Names that basically were basically the adverb translation of African names.

Such names still linger you know: the Angel, Pinky.

I know the tradition still exist in other African countries- particularly Zim but I just genuinely miss those names you know what I mean.

When I tell most people this they say such names are a relic of the past but come on: are you telling me you wouldn't want your kid to rock a badass name like "Conquerer"? Not even a little?

So yeah. Just wanted to mourn just that small dying tradition.

Edit: it seems a few people think Im saying we must pay homage to the institution that made this necessary when I mean the opposite.

The parents that gave their kids these kinds of names gave them yes, because they were forced to, but the fact that they were so unconventional in and of itself was a form of rebellion.

It was easy to just choose the word Rebecca because you saw a white woman named Rebecca. What these parents did, however, was say rather than me name them something I don't understand I'll give them a name I know the definite meaning of.

It's was them saying, "I might have to give this child a name in your language but it will be my meaning and my heritage."

They definitely never met a white person with the name "Landmine" but they knew what it meant and as long as that semblance of defiant independence lived- independence in knowing the meaning- then that's what they named their child.

It was a way of defining an identity even under the thumb of oppression.

Yes the names were English but their adverbial and unconventional existence still made them distinctly African.

Anyone know make and model?

Found something we can do with the kak new recipe