Faldien Taladia
Let me begin by saying this loud and clear: I love my mother. She’s the kind of woman who can make the best curry in Cape Town and still find time to remind you that you’re a disappointment before supper. She’s beautiful, kind-hearted, and generous—but also as stubborn as a goat wearing lipstick. Growing up, our personalities clashed like two thunderclouds over Rylands.
Now, this story takes place when I was in Standard 9 (Grade 11, for those born after the dinosaurs). Back then, my second home was Fun City Ice Rink—a place owned by the Bedford family and buzzing with skaters from Hanover Park, Mannenberg, and every other corner of the Cape Flats. It was the 90s—Michael Jackson was still black, bell-bottoms were still a thing, and every second guy thought he was the next Jean-Claude Van Damme.
We’d skate, flirt, and pretend to fall just to hold someone’s hand. After the rink closed, I’d usually bring a few friends home. My sisters would end up making sandwiches for the whole of Cape Town, while my mom—God bless her—would quietly boil inside.
Then came that Saturday. I was lacing up my skates when Mom suddenly appeared in the doorway, arms folded like a judge about to sentence me. “Faldien,” she said in her courtroom voice, “I think it’s time you find yourself some Indian friends.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?” She continued, “Birds of a feather flock together.” Now, my mother is a beautiful dark-skinned Indian woman married to a fair half-Malay man. And there she was, giving me a racial lecture that sounded like it came from a rejected apartheid pamphlet. I was shocked.
Finding a Collaborator for Pranking My Mom
As I walked to the rink with my brothers, steam was coming out my ears. “Can you believe her?” I ranted. “My own mother! A dark Indian woman saying I must hang with my own kind! That’s racism in a sari!”
My younger brother Zakwaan—the family Einstein—tried to calm me down. “Bro, you’re overreacting,” he said. “Mom didn’t mean it like that.” “Oh, she meant it exactly like that,” I said, eyes narrowing. “And I’m going to teach her a lesson she’ll never forget.”
That’s when I spotted Natalie. Now, how do I describe Natalie without summoning lightning from the heavens? Let’s just say she was… substantial. A sweet, man-ish looking, big-hearted girl with a beer belly that could have its own postal code. God gave her everything—except coordination and good looks. She laughed like a truck starting in winter. She was perfect.
I walked up to her and whispered, “Natalie, I’ll give you fifty rand if you help me with pranking my mom.” She looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “Naai voetjek, I don’t do that kind of thing,” she snapped, stepping back like I’d proposed marriage. “No, no!” I said, panicking. “Not that kind of thing! It’s just a joke!”
After a few minutes of explanation—and a pinky promise that I wasn’t a weirdo—she agreed. The plan was simple: Natalie would pretend to be my pregnant girlfriend. My mom, who already thought my friends were the United Nations of chaos, would probably collapse.
Introducing My Fake-Pregnant-Girlfriend to Mom
As we approached my house, I positioned Natalie perfectly in the middle of the stoep. She stood there, belly out, smiling like a proud mama-to-be. Inside, my mom was in the kitchen—prime viewing position. “Mom!” I yelled. “I need to talk to you urgently.”
She came out wiping her hands, already suspicious. “What now, Faldien?” I guided her to a chair and said, “Mom, the woman on the stoep… that’s Natalie. The love of my life.” Her eyes darted to the window. She froze. It looked like she’d seen the ghost of Elvis Presley in a crop top.
“Faldien,” she whispered, “you had so many pretty Indian girls after you. And this is who you bring home?” I nodded proudly. “She’s the one.” Mom took a deep breath. “A face like that will give me nightmares,” she muttered, clutching her chest.
That’s when I dropped the nuclear bomb. “Also, she’s pregnant. Six months. We’re getting married next month.” If you’ve never seen your mother go from human to statue in under three seconds, you haven’t truly lived. She stood there, pale as rice paper. “What will your father say?” she gasped.
“I don’t care!” I said dramatically. “I love her. And I’m going to do right by her.” Then I called out, “Natalie! Come meet your future mother-in-law!” Natalie waddled in like she was auditioning for Days of Our Lives, cradling her belly and grinning. “Aunty,” she said sweetly, “I can’t believe I’ll be living in such a big house when we get married.”
Mom blinked twice, then three times. Her lips moved, but no words came out. A bead of sweat rolled down her temple. I tried—tried—not to laugh. My brother Zakwaan was behind me, biting a towel to keep from screaming. Finally, Mom whispered, “Oh, dear Lord. Take me now.”
A PowerPoint Can’t Beat Pranking My Mom
That’s when I broke. I burst out laughing and shouted, “Mom, it’s a joke! Natalie’s not pregnant! We’re not getting married!” Mom’s reaction was swift. She picked up her glass of water and flung it straight at my face. “Get out of my house, you idiot!” she screamed.
But then she started laughing too. She grabbed Natalie by the shoulders and said, “My son could convince a nun to rob a bank.” I apologized, hugging her tightly.
“I love you, Ma. I just wanted to show you that people are people—doesn’t matter where they’re from.”
She smiled, shaking her head. “Next time you teach me a lesson, use a PowerPoint, not a pregnant woman.” I took Natalie home like a gentleman and handed her the R50. She laughed all the way.
We stayed friends… from a very safe distance. And as for Mom—well, she never again complained about my friends. She just made sure to say a prayer every time I walked out the door. Because with me, she never knew if I was coming home with a friend… or a fiancée.
