I change out of my school uniform, toss it all in the laundry, and carefully hang my blazer – my babe magnet – in the wardrobe.

Finally, I can eat my fries.

But they taste really bad! No salt or spice, just crispy potatoes on a plate. I need salt … except I am not allowed to touch salt. The paranoia over salt in Gran’s house is insane. Whenever she hears any of the cupboards in the kitchen opening, you’re guaranteed to hear her loud voice interject, “Hey, hey, what are you doing in there? I hope you’re not playing with the salt. Your food has enough salt!”

I ask Gran if she can help put some salt on my fries, but she is watching the 7de Laan omnibus, cussing at the TV, shouting and threatening to kill Gita if she ever comes across her in real life. Mom is busy nursing little bro’s feelings; he’s made her feel guilty for giving him a hiding, which he deserved.

The salt is in the very, very top cupboard, out of reach of myself and little bro. I pull out a chair, jump on, and open the cupboard, reach for the salt, put some on my fries. I then go back onto the chair, but something terrible happens.

The chair isn’t as stable as the first time I got on. The leg breaks, and I go down really hard. There is a loud bang. A tragedy …

It’s an accident scene; everything is scattered like the parts of a car after a crash. The chair is there, the broken plate there … and over there, the now-salty-and-ready-to-be-eaten fries, and me right over here. It’s bad. I could’ve gotten really injured, but just have a cut on my knee.

I can hear the footsteps that resemble the sirens. They come running like the paramedics, all concerned about me, I think.

Of course, they are not concerned about me. Black parents only worry about the material things: the money, the medical aid and whatever it is that broke.

“What on earth were you doing? You naughty, naughty, naughty child! Are you insane? Are you trying to exhaust my medical aid?” I hear Mom saying. “First it was the flu and then your brother and his chicken pox, now this. My poor medical aid!”

Then I remember the salt! Did I manage to put it back where I found it? No. It is also part of the unfortunate scene.

Gran looks anxious, afraid, as if she has seen a ghost. She doesn’t move or say anything. Then when she finally speaks, she says, “This is really bad.” She tosses some of the salt over her left shoulder and repeats, “This is really, really bad. Be glad you didn’t break any bones. I promise you it could’ve been worse than this …”

“Ye … ye … yes Gran, I know …” I stutter.

“Shut it! You don’t know anything! In fact …” Gran pauses, still deep in thought and shaking like crazy. “In fact … brace yourself. It only gets worse from here. This broken plate, your knee, it’s nothing. Ask me, I know.”

All because of the salt!

***

Tell us: Are you superstitious about anything?