How to Tell You’re South African Without Saying You’re South African

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You can claim you’re international all you want. You can sip flat whites like you’re auditioning for a Melbourne coffee ad, throw “signals” around instead of robots, and wear that subtle accent you picked up in London. But the second someone says “shame” and you nod with full-bodied understanding, your cover is blown. You’re South African. And honestly, there’s no escaping it. It’s not just the ID book in your drawer or the pothole memes clogging your WhatsApp groups. It’s the instinctive shudder when someone whispers “Stage 6.” It’s your uncanny ability to time four minutes exactly when microwaving food before load-shedding cuts you off. It’s saying “I’m on my way” while you’re still in the shower and knowing no one is fooled.

Whether you’re still rocking your Ultra South Africa wristband from 2017 or pretending your palate is too refined for Simba chips, here’s the truth: there are certain quirks, habits, and inside jokes that make you undeniably one of us. Even if you deny it. Especially if you deny it.

Take “just now” and “now-now.” To outsiders, they sound like time frames. To us, they’re a lifestyle. You don’t need to explain what they mean because, truthfully, no one actually knows. We just… know. Or the way we greet people with at least three languages in one breath: “Howzit, dumela, sharp.” It’s the multilingual warm-up of everyday life. And if you’ve ever tried pronouncing “Ngcobo” with confidence while everyone politely pretends you got it right, congratulations, you’re playing the national sport.

All cold drinks? “Cold drink.” Not soda, not pop. Whether it’s Coke, Fanta, or Creme Soda, it belongs to one sacred category. And heaven help the foreigner who tries to argue otherwise. And then there’s the braai. You’ve explained it overseas at least once. “Not gas, wood fire.” You watched their face crumble as you described it, realising they’ll never understand the spiritual difference.

Woolworths food? That’s not groceries. That’s an out-of-body experience. You’ve panicked in the shower when the lights went out mid-rinse, stood dripping in the dark, reevaluating your life choices. You’ve planned your entire evening around two hours of power. “Oven? Yes. Laundry? Maybe. Ironing? You absolute daredevil.” You’ve queued at Home Affairs and walked out as someone else—aged in ways science cannot measure.

You don’t trust anyone who says, “I’ll be there at 12” unless they add “ish.” You’ve used “eish” like punctuation. You’ve eaten slap chips so vinegar-soaked they momentarily gave you an ancestral vision. You’ve survived the trauma of EskomSePush Stage 6 notifications like they were boss fights in a video game. You know Spur is family, KFC can be Christmas, and a braai isn’t a braai until someone fights over who turns the meat.

We all know “the guy with the thing from the place.” And somehow, we always understand exactly who that is. You’ve debated vetkoek or samoosas like it’s a matter for Parliament. You’ve celebrated the first signs of rain like it’s the second coming, even while standing in traffic with a plastic bag on your head. And you never, ever leave home without a jersey “just in case”—because the one day you don’t, you’ll regret it.

We hoot when exiting a driveway. It’s respect, it’s tradition, it’s law. We never know our bank charges and we’d rather not find out. We apologise for handing over exact change, as though coins were contraband. We’ve stood at the till arguing about chakalaka prices until it became political theory. We’ve begged traffic lights to change colour more often than we’ve thought about retirement. And yes, every single one of us has threatened to emigrate at least once during load-shedding or pothole season. But here we still are. Because we don’t really want to leave.

Being South African is more than geography. It’s a state of being. It’s laughing at political chaos through memes. It’s dancing to Jerusalema at a wedding with no shame whatsoever. It’s knowing that if we didn’t laugh, we’d cry. And even when we do cry, someone still says “shame.” So go ahead, insist you’re not like the rest of us. Pretend you’ve outgrown slap chips. Deny that you cried during the Rugby World Cup. But the moment you tap the roof of your car to say thank you, you’ve given yourself away. Welcome back, bru. You were never fooling anyone.