Sick and tired of the Zumas and Malemas? Aren’t we all? They’re sinners – but then, so am I. And what’s more, I’ve committed the unpardonable. An adulterous affair? 

At my age, don’t be daft. And I’m certainly not in the mould of the frisky kings David or Solomon. Fingers in the till? I’m no politician.

No, it’s a new offence nowhere found in sacred writings. It was brought about by the Chinese bat broth (aka World War III).

I coughed. While queuing in a packed supermarket. Unforgiveable. I suddenly developed a throat irritation probably caused by a particle of dust stuck in the mask when my DIY-mad brother-in-law used a grinder on marble in the kitchen.

And as inevitably happens, trying to stifle a cough exacerbates the problem, like a paroxysm. A gaggle of happy shoppers freed from being cooped up behind four walls with irritating spouses and kids turned into a tidal wave of angry protestors who made Juju’s street fighters resemble a bunch of pre-puberty weenies.

All eyes were on me, including those of the cashier. Popped eye-balls spoke volumes, masks emphasising their intensity. Disgust palpable.

And the coughing continued. Until I spotted him. Meneer Beer Belly, two trolleys away and brandishing a tin of pilchards aimed at me. (Would he have done it to judge Zondo’s sinners?).

The shock of anticipating a stoning caused the coughing to cease. When next I dared looked around, it’s as if nothing untoward had happened. Was I given instant forgiveness? Not quite. The cashier, sounding like a priest in a confessional, intoned: “Sir, you must take that cough to a doctor. It spreads corona. I’ll pray for you”. I waited for “. . . and sin no more,” but thankfully it didn’t come.

In the car park I spotted Beer Belly packing the boot, the pilchards still visible. Luckily he didn’t glance my way and sped away in his new Fortuner bakkie.

The fallout has spawned a nation of obsessive compulsives on the lookout for protocol breakers. Even an inebriated car guard shouted at Heidi for not covering her nose with the mask. 

“I don’t want your germs,” he growled while pocketing her tip.

I haven’t been to a doctor, so when next shopping at the supermarket of my shame sucking an extra strong Wilsons mint, I give the ‘confessional’ a wide berth. Readers welcome to respond: cliffbuchler8@gmail.com

*The opinions expressed are those of the writer, and not necessarily of the publisher, Group Editors.