I’ve lost my ID book.
I don’t know whether it was in Kenya or at The Killers.
One usually doesn’t care where they lost an important –oh-my-gracious-fuck-I-have-to-go-back-to-Home-Affairs document; they care that they lost it.
I care. But I care where more.
Because as Ant pointed out in a sweaty moment after The Killers: ‘You could be married to a Nigerian by now.’
My odds are twofold: If I lost it in Kenya, I could be married to a Kenyan.
If I lost it in ZAR, I could be married to a guy from Lagos.
Or. Or. There could be another Peas On Toast running around. Identity burglar.com.
Now besides the obvious admin of various document collecting mare-ishness, only precedented by the dodgiest, most corrupt place in Johannesburg, I’d say getting hitched unwittingly to a faceless man, who could be hailing from Chad, for all I know, is not on my list of immediate priorities.
Getting an ID book, and then – God – getting a divorce, is. Does this ‘steal ID book and marry to get into the country’ thing happen a lot?
I mean is this a common and frequent maloccurence?
Am I fucked basically?
Identity theft or otherwise?
Christ, I need an affidavit, I need a birth certificate (which, it so happens, is being processed at Home Affairs and do not have one in my actual hand as yet), I need proof and other shit for a new one.
The other one survived 12 years of hardship. It went through two washing machine cycles, it went places. I looked 17 in the picture, because I fucking was.
But more disconcertingly – if my new husband is reading this, fuck you bro.
Can you say ‘alimony?’ Although, if indeed you are an illegal immigrant from a country in the armpit of Africa, I’m gathering I won’t get much from this divorce, except inconvenience.
Surely if this stuff does happen, someone would inform me? As in, ‘Dear Mrs Nbongo, congratulations on your wedding. Sincerely, the Court Of Law Inc.’
Look if Richard Hammond picked it up, he would’ve read the ‘Dear Richard/Fuckleberry Finn – you found me [book]. You know where to take this and you know what to do. Kiss kiss’ message scrawled in the ‘Firearm License’ section.
In other news, I went for my now-regular poen wax last night. It IS getting less painful.
And they’re not whacking me in a room that’s soundproof because I’m screaming profanities of the fuck kind out loud and scaring away the other clientele.
I’m manning the hell up.
So on that note. Now to de-man. Of the potential unwanted husband type. Off to see a man about a