Encounter with a neighbour from hell
MY activism as a young Roman Catholic disciple did not sufficiently prepare me to handle the unneighbourly behaviour of some fellow citizen I inherited when I moved to the suburbs.
One day I was minding my business, trimming my lawn, when a man tapped me on the shoulder and started yelping angrily.
I hastily switched off the iPod - interrupting Thandiswa's Uyingoma that I was enjoying at the time - to pay attention to the fuming neighbour.
He barked orders, saying I should tell my "boss" (the owner of the house) to hire professional gardeners with the knowledge and skill to use garden tools.
In my state of shock, I asked what the problem seemed to be.
He showed me his luxurious German vehicle parked on his driveway and said a stone that was accidentally tossed up by the lawn mower had almost hit his car and "could have caused serious damage to its paint".
The stone had missed the man and his car, but he argued it was due to my inability to use a lawn mower that a stone had almost "fatally wounded him".
So I humbly apologised and tried to get back to my business.
But my relentless neighbour demanded that I go get "the property owner or risk getting a kick somewhere tender".
I took a deep breath and a few steps back from the bull terrier, and then explained that I was "the owner".
Just as the man was about to charge, a young Van der Merwe* managed to stop his father.
He saved me from potentially fatal "kicks between my balls or a baseball bat cracking my skull".
The senior Van der Merwe's threats had escalated.
The young man confirmed that, despite my appearance and labour tendencies, I was, in fact, "the authentic property owner and neighbour".
And he went on to apologise for his father's behaviour.
A week later, the house was for sale.
Now I have new, friendlier neighbours.
I will certainly not miss the Van der Merwes, but have asked my priest to improve my dispute resolution skills.
* Not their real surname
- Hopewell Radebe is a poet and freelance writer