The street braai that turned into a sokkie rave
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.
ALSO READ: Neighbourhood secret agents are always watching
'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.
NOW READ: Neighbourhood secret agents are always watching
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The Citizen
9 hours ago
- The Citizen
The street braai that turned into a sokkie rave
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. ALSO READ: Neighbourhood secret agents are always watching '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. NOW READ: Neighbourhood secret agents are always watching
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Andriëtte Georgiou, Ivy Mjojeni and Nazreen Gamet prove that cooking and baking is about more than providing sustenance – it's survival, joy and power When retrenchment ended her music career, Andriëtte Georgiou turned to baking and built South Africa's most heartfelt cookie business. Inside a teal and white warehouse, the smell of butter and vanilla hangs in the air. Georgiou arrives a little late, apologising with a smile. The businesswoman and self-taught cook was on the phone – someone always needs something. That's what happens when you've built a cookie empire from the ground up. She tears up easily, tells stories effortlessly and talks about her business like it's a living, breathing thing. Because to her, it is. Music and mouthfuls 'People don't even know I was a musician,' Georgiou laughs from behind her desk at Mondvol HQ. These days she's known for cookies – the gooey, gourmet kind that go viral on Instagram – or as a season four MasterChef South Africa finalist. 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