It's happened to most of us. The bowels are screaming to be emptied and you rush to the loo, strip to your ankles and sit down. You whip out the phone and play Candy Crush when boom, the last moron did not replace the toilet roll.
At home, you'll holler for someone to bring the toilet paper. If there's nobody home, you might tsipa your bum cheeks together and do the walk of shame.
Once upon a time in Rocklands, Mangaung, I faced the prospect of a dry Saturday when my friend Wondy asked me to accompany him to a graduation party.
Not one to miss a drinking opportunity, I tagged along even though I did not know the graduate from a bar of soap. The party was one of those intimate affairs and I soon located the object of my desire across the room and started making eyes at her. I could feel it in my veins and pants that nature had created that Cinderella for me.
She responded encouragingly and we'd occasionally lock eyes and shyly avert them in that knowing fashion. The evening was pregnant with promise as the drinks flowed. Then suddenly, my bowels started rumbling like the Highveld storm when cumulonimbus clouds gather. The toilet was outside and even though I loath to do the number two on foreign territory, this was an emergency.
I sneaked out and walked briskly to the inviting lavatory. I released with such thunder I feared the pot would shatter to pieces. Oh, it felt so good! You should have seen the relief on my face. Eight minutes later I was ready to rejoin the party when oops, there was no toilet paper to finish the business. Not even a newspaper or telephone directory in sight.