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Lenox Lizwi Mhlanga

I KNOW that you don’t have the privilege that I enjoy as a columnist.

When many suffer from high blood pressure, I simply vent my sleep on these pages. Which explains the last article I wrote about business leaders that lack emotional intelligence.

As consumers, we get angry when we are taken for a ride. It’s a right that we need to exercise more often.

This take-it or leave-it mentality must go. When times are lean, people should not just pile on the misery.

The sorry state of the service industry is a case in point.

When you find yourself spending an inordinate amount of time queuing for something, it tells you that whatever it is, it’s important to have.

It can be bread, fuel or cooking oil. Although I have always argued that the latter is a luxury that is costly in more ways than one.

Why people have to torture food by scalding it in hot oil beats me.

But that is beside the point. My issue here is with service providers who find joy in watching us queue for hours.

I know that if something is in short supply, people tend to sacrifice their precious time to obtain it.

The times when one would join any queue without finding out what it was that people were lining up for are back.

Yes, even if you find out when you get to the desk of wherever it is, you definitely know that you count yourself as one of the lucky ones.

In times of scarcity, queuing becomes a science. It takes skill, ingenuity, cunning and of course bucket loads of patience.

Let me share an experience that I had some time ago, in paying for an essential service before it was abruptly cut off.

You can fill in the gaps with the same of any service provider, the experience is always similar.

So, here goes: Day One: Yours truly, being a conscientious citizen, decides to pay a bill, even though I last received a bill in 19-ntolontolo (when dinosaurs still roamed the earth). I calmly queue in front of the Inquiries Desk with a 200-page novel, well prepared for the long haul. Thirty minutes later, (this queue is reasonably short) the kind gentleman behind the desk tells me that I have not been billed yet. So could I be a nice customer and pay a million dollars (old currency) which he tells me is just a “guesstimate.”

Looking at the long and winding payments queue, I decide to write a cheque (as was the norm during those heady days.) Lo and behold I find the cheque deposit box sealed shut.

The security guard standing nearby politely advises that I re-join the queue and pay cash instead.

It’s because cheques are no longer accepted because they are prone to “bouncing” like a yo-yo with the sudden currency revaluations.

Seeing the prospect of spending the rest of my life in the payments queue, I give up and head for work.

Day Two: I am pleasantly surprised by a much shorter queue at the dreaded inquiries desk. There are just two of us there. This is going to be nice and quick I lull to myself. The chappie at the counter informs me that there seems to be “a problem” with my account.

“Go round and join the Credit Control queue labelled voetsak,” he advises.

I then discover why the inquiries queue is so short. It has re-assembled at Credit Control.

For those of you who did not know, the Credit Control queue is composed mainly of sheepish looking people whose supplies have been disconnected for non-payment.

The difference is that I am yet to be cut-off, which explains why I’m eager to know how much I owe first.

Remember, we have never received a bill at our new premises.

The queue is visibly longer than the first one at Credit Control and is not moving an inch.

The lady there is busy cleaning her keyboard with methylated spirit. There is something weirdly spiritual about her ritual.

It’s as if uxotsh’ imimoya. She is meticulous and daring anyone to tell her to hurry up by her occasional cold stares in our direction. We know our place, so we keep quiet . . . like sheep.

We later discover that there is “a problem” with her terminal. So we have to join another queue while she disappears into some back office.

Meanwhile, the payments queue has disappeared and the lady there is dutifully telling anyone who strays there that she deals only with cheques.

What the…? Our queue has grown much longer and soon I regret the folly of having moved from the Western Suburbs to leafy Parklands.

After going through two customers, the “cleaning” lady reappears and moves back to the first problematic terminal which now seems to be working maybe because of the demonic cleansing with spirit.

By then, a bearded white fellow behind me has blown a couple of fuses and is beetroot red. In fact, he is on the verge of inciting a racist riot but he will have no sympathisers.

It also does not help matters that another white lady has cut the queue in the process.

Apparently, he has been queuing since the day before and wonders aloud why there are no bills being sent out and why the computers don’t seem to work.

Good questions those, but no one holds the answers.

It’s now my turn and the “spirit lady” informs me that I have credit, meaning that the utility owe me money instead! However, since bills are sure to materialise this century, I’m advised to pay a “guestimated” amount.

This, I am kindly advised, is the prudent thing to do in case their calculations are wrong. And then I would surely be cut off.

It’s a small victory for the small man to be owed money by a big utility.

I take a glance at the payments queue and I decide that I do not want to miss seeing my children grow into adulthood by standing there.

I promptly head for the door and out into the fresh air.