What started as a cheerful plan to meet the neighbours turned into a carnival of techno remixes, rogue fire and unexpected karaoke.
When I moved into a new neighbourhood, I thought hosting a casual street braai would be the perfect way to meet the neighbours. You know – friendly chats over boerewors. Easy. Civilised. Delightful.
I sent out cheerful WhatsApps and printed a flyer with little flames and smiley emojis.
“Street Braai! Saturday at 3! Bring your own meat, drinks, chairs and smiles!” I even invited grumpy old Mr van der Merwe from number 14, despite the fact that he once yelled at me because my wheelie bin “looked lazy”.
At 2.45pm, the first guest arrived – fashionably early, of course. It was Susan from across the street. Then came Gary – wearing only very tight Boerboel shorts and flipflops, holding a cooler box and a vuvuzela.
He said he was “ready to party”. By 4.15pm, someone had brought a fold-up disco light and a potato salad that was sweating harder than me.
I had thoughtfully prepared a chilled playlist, but then Willem rolled up with a speaker the size of a small fridge, blaring Afrikaans techno remixes of ’80s love ballads.
Suddenly my braai had turned into a sokkie rave. Old ladies were starting to line dance. Kids were eating marshmallows straight from the bag. I had lost control.
At one point, the braai caught proper flame – not the good kind. Just as I was putting it out with my “decorative” watering can, a neighbour offered her vegan sausages.
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“They taste just like meat,” she promised. They didn’t. This sparked an argument between her and Oom Jan, who claimed her wors was “an insult to meat and fire”.
Meanwhile, Gary’s shorts got singed. There was panic. He called it “a brush with death”. We called it a highlight.
By 6pm, someone’s child was asleep in a camping chair, holding a chicken wing, and two neighbours were debating conspiracy theories over peppermint crisp tart.
Oom van der Merwe, who we’d all thought hated fun, took a sip of someone’s brandy and started doing karaoke. He nailed it.
It wasn’t what I expected. I didn’t get polite conversations and small talk. I got chaos, laughter, rogue fire, suspicious salads and more personality than I ever bargained for.
But somehow, in the ashes of overcooked wors and disco-fried nerves, I found something else: a neighbourhood.
Messy, noisy, slightly flammable – but full of heart.
