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To Temu, or not to Temu

From a harmless USB lamp to a chaotic online shopping spree, discover Gillian Schutte's tumultuous relationship with Temu, the online shopping platform that blurs the lines between necessity and excess. Image: IOL It began innocently enough. A quick browse. A USB lamp. Something cheap. Something functional. Just a little practical click to fix the minor chaos of my overlit, underpaid existence. Harmless, I thought. Necessary. Like tea bags or a water-saving showerhead. But let me tell you this: Temu is not harmless. Temu is the casino of capitalism. The stalker in orange fonts and flash deals. The algorithmic sugar daddy you didn't ask for, didn't trust but still flirted with in the dark hours of existential fatigue. From that one USB lamp came the slippery slope. Next minute, I'm knee-deep in camouflage netting, meant for my activist bunker or maybe just my living room—because at this point, what's the difference? It seemed sensible at the time. A digital panic-buy. Who wouldn't want a large swathe of camo netting in a country where Steve Hofmeyr has recently warned me, on X, that I'm 'in for a big surprise'? I figured I'd drape it over myself when the clan of bearded, belligerent boeremag come marching with their hatred, pitchforks, and boerewors. It's not just Steve I'm dodging. There are disgruntled farmers who take offence at being told their freehold farmland sits atop stolen bones. There are free market evangelists who foam at the mouth whenever I utter the words socialism, land audit, or state intervention. And then there's your run-of-the-mill online troll—probably sitting in Kempton Park, wearing a Springbok jersey, and wetting himself with fury over my existence. Camo netting felt... reasonable. But Temu doesn't stop at reasonable. It lures you further. It feeds off your fatigue. It knows your weaknesses and your desperate hopes. You need a pump for your green fish-farming pond? Temu knows. It offers you one for R39. You click. It arrives. It's the size of a broken Bic pen. There are no instructions. No box. Just vibes. You hold it in your hand and weep. Another time, I believed I'd scored a grass trimmer for R120. A real tool. Something I could fire up to tame the wild, post-apocalyptic weedscape around our house. What arrived? A grass trimmer head cover. A lonely orange helmet for the machine I didn't own. A metaphor for my relationship with Temu: all cover, no engine. And yet. And yet. I kept going. Because many times—many times—Temu delivers. You order a wind chime, and it chimes. You order a tapestry, and it actually hangs. You get something that works, and for one shining moment, capitalism feels like it could be romantic again. I've had as many satisfactory things arrive as I've had things that look absolutely nothing like the photos. These moments are real. And that's what makes it dangerous. Other times, you order a grape-coloured winter coat, and what arrives is hot pink. Not just pink. Weaponised pink. Worn over black, I resemble a walking Game Store clearance banner. The kind that screams 'We're closing down! All morals must go!' Then again, I do love the trio of baggy sports slacks, the quilted dungarees, and the smart watch or three that arrived exactly as described. But for every hit, there's a humiliating miss. Like the coloured climbing net. Don't ask why. I blame Temu's fluorescent whisperings. Maybe I thought it would be good for the grand children I don't have. Maybe I saw a future in circus arts. What arrived was a limp RGB palette rope masquerading as structure. No child should hang from that net. No adult should admit to owning it. It now lives twirled around my neck as a scarf. A scarf of shame. A failed loop of remorse. And still... Temu calls. With its chirpy little app. It's fake urgency. 'Only 1 left!' it screams at me while I'm on the toilet, on a Zoom call, or mid-existential crisis. 'Someone in Durban just bought the same self-watering pot as you!' it lies. 'Claim your free gift!' it yells. 'Spin the wheel!' it demands. It's like being in a toxic relationship with an overeager multi-level marketer. It promises you the world, then sends you a teaspoon shaped like a giraffe. Or a wig storage head. Or a collapsible potato basket. And let me be fair: Temu delivers with remarkable efficiency. Orders arrive within days. Duty fees are modest and predictable. They have logistics down to an art form. But like a narcissistic boyfriend with a god complex, Temu expects absolute loyalty in return. It shouts, 'I did this for you! I gave you a garlic peeler shaped like a hedgehog! I sent you silicone fridge liners in pastel!' — and now you owe it. Emotionally. Commercially. Spiritually. You must reward it with ten more purchases, a five-star rating, and at least one public display of affection in the form of social media shame. Sometimes, I dream that I've escaped. That I've returned to a dignified, offline life where I buy actual tools in actual stores with actual packaging. But then Temu sends me a coupon for R10 off a 500-pack of biodegradable earwax removers, and I am once again caught in the neon-lit web of doom. Because Temu is not just a store. It's a psy-op. It's an emotional collapse made visible. It's a vision of the end times where you survive not with weapons or food but with 36 silicone storage bags, a broken nail light, a plastic bonsai tree, and a small army of camo netting rolls. If you see me wandering the bushveld wrapped in mesh and muttering about lost parcels and white supremacy, don't worry. Just know I went to war—and the enemy wore orange. And shipped for free. Which reminds me, I have three 'free' Temu gifts arriving just as soon as I pay the import duties. Pray for me. Or send a therapist. Either way, Temu already knows. * Gillian Schutte is a South African writer, filmmaker, and critical-race scholar known for her radical critiques of neoliberalism, whiteness, and donor-driven media. Her work centres African liberation, social justice, and revolutionary thought. ** The views expressed do not necessarily reflect the views of IOL or Independent Media.