Mrs Daniels revealed Bin-Day Brian and Three-Car Trevor, leaving the writer wondering if she is SpeedBump Sonja or Pajamas-at-Noon now.
Picture for illustration: iStock
I used to think nicknames were reserved for celebrities, criminals and that one cousin who insists on being called “Sharky”, despite never having seen the ocean, my mother piped up after our weekly breakfast appointment.
Funny that she should mention something that also crossed my mind a few days earlier. I was never aware of the nickname thing until I moved into my new home.
Mrs Daniels, an old lady who lives a few houses down the road from me, mentioned she was dropping off soup at “Bin-Day Brian’s” house.
I assumed Brian had a recycling hobby. Turns out he once put his bins out on a Tuesday instead of a Thursday and the street WhatsApp group has never forgotten that.
On that same day I found out that our street has a “Curtain-Twitch Carol”, a nickname that is self-explanatory. “Three-Car Trevor” lives next door, but there are rumours that he just bought a fourth one. “Drone Gavin” spies on anyone and anything. “Parcel Priya” is a Takealot and Temu addict.
I am impressed that nobody was given cruel nicknames. They’re observational. Anthropological. Our street is basically a suburban safari and we are all being documented in our natural habitats.
After learning this about my fellow Brakpanites, I laughed. I judged. I contributed. Until the terrible realisation hit me like a shocking municipal bill: If everyone has a nickname… then so do I.
The question is what. I tried reviewing my recent behaviour with forensic intensity. Is it “SpeedBump Sonja” because I drive over them at 40km/h?
Did someone witness me trying to outrun a wasp with interpretive dance movements?
Or worse. Is it something quiet? Subtle? Devastating? Like “Always-Waves”, because I wave too enthusiastically at passing neighbours, and occasionally at strangers.
Or perhaps it’s something far more specific and horrifying, like “Pajamas-at-Noon”. Every time I step outside now, I straighten my posture. I carry props. A book. A reusable shopping bag. A plant.
Here’s the thing about streets, my mother interjects after my complaint… they are ecosystems of memory. One slip, one odd habit, and it fossilises. Nicknames stick until we move. Or die in the same community, she added.
There’s something comforting about this. To be noticed is to belong. To be named is to be seen.
Still… if I hear someone shout “Wasp-Dancer” from across the pavement, I’m moving.
Immediately.
