Dad, asks TomTom, When does this licence expire?
We’re sitting outside a nightclub at 11pm and he’s asking while we’re waiting for the last of the boys so we take home all eleven that we brought (yes, ELEVEN).
Dunno, let’s check, I say. I know he’s interested as we were once bust in Lesotho for an expired licence and he doesn’t want that to happen again. Those okes with guns made him nervous. Me too. Soon after that they had their 2014 coup!
September 2015, I sigh.
So I’m in the queue for my licence for the third time. The first time I sat next to an old toppie (he musta been 60 if he was a day) who was timing the transactions. Average seven minutes per person and there were 17 ahead of me, so I would have been late for work, so I left. The second time I was making good progress when I overheard from the counter “where’s your proof of address”, so I left.
This third time I have all three papers (bakkie, trailer and Jessie’s scooter – those two expired in 2014!) and proof of address and my ID card and money.
But not enough. I had R430 and the bakkie alone is R620 so I’ll be back a fourth time with more cash.
Hell is going to be like this. Queues.