Dinner in Parktown
Awkward
It was one of those balmy Jozi evenings, just as the world was tentatively shaking off the grip of the COVID pandemic. I’d been invited to dinner at the home of an old school friend in Parktown, that venerable suburb where grand Herbert Baker-designed homes still stand like silent guardians of a bygone era, their red-tiled roofs and stone facades dotted along tree-lined streets. The invitation promised a low-key gathering—nothing fancy, just good food, wine, and conversation to reconnect after the isolation of lockdowns. Little did I know it would devolve into one of the most surreal and uncomfortable encounters of my adult life.
The guest list was small: my friend, his father (a warm, retired businessman with a penchant for marketing), and a neighbor named Rex, a retired South African judge who’d hung up his robes a few decades earlier. Rex was in his eighties, sharp-eyed and impeccably dressed in a crisp shirt and trousers, exuding the kind of authoritative presence that comes from years on the bench. At first, the evening unfolded pleasantly. We sat around a wooden dining table laden with homemade bobotie, fresh salads, and a robust bottle of local Pinotage. Conversation flowed easily—reminiscences about school days, the quirks of Parktown’s history, and the shared relief of emerging from pandemic restrictions. Masks were off, vaccines were in, and there was a palpable sense of normalcy returning.
But as the main course gave way to dessert, the tone shifted. Rex, perhaps emboldened by a second glass of wine, steered the discussion toward the pandemic itself. What began as mild skepticism quickly escalated into a full-throated rant about conspiracy theories. “It’s all Bill Gates’ doing,” he declared, his voice rising with conviction. “That man’s not content with his billions—he wants to control the world, Illuminati-style. The vaccines? Just a ploy to track us, make more money, and play God with humanity.” He went on, citing vague “sources” from fringe online groups and social media echo chambers that amplified such nonsense, painting Gates as some shadowy puppet master behind global events using microchips hidden in vaccines.
I listened politely at first, but as someone who’d built much of my career around technology, I couldn’t let it slide unchallenged. “With all due respect, Judge,” I interjected calmly, “I’ve spent my entire professional life using, supporting, and deploying products that originated from Bill Gates’ company. Microsoft has been a cornerstone for so many of us. Gates? He’s just a plain old nerd at heart—a brilliant one, sure, but his philanthropy, especially in medical causes, strikes me as genuine. He’s poured billions into fighting diseases like malaria and polio, not to control the world, but to make it a better place. It’s about giving back, not some sinister plot and there are no microchips floating in vaccines.”
The room fell silent for a beat. Rex’s face reddened, his judicial composure cracking like thin ice. Then, without warning, he leaned forward and barked, “Fuck off.” The words hung in the air, crude and jarring, utterly out of place in this refined setting. My friend froze, fork midway to his mouth; his father cleared his throat awkwardly, staring into his plate. I blinked, staring back at Rex, wondering if this was the onset of senility or just a flash of unchecked temper. Had the pandemic’s isolation frayed his edges, or was this the real man beneath the robe?
The rest of the evening limped along in strained politeness. Dessert was eaten in near silence, punctuated by forced small talk about the weather and local events—anything to avoid the elephant in the room. As I drove home later, winding through Parktown’s shadowy streets, I couldn’t shake the unease. How had this man, entrusted with presiding over courtrooms and dispensing justice, harbored such irrational beliefs? How could someone so unbalanced in temperament have wielded the gavel, deciding fates with the weight of law? It was a stark reminder that titles and authority don’t always equate to wisdom or restraint. In the end, that dinner wasn’t just awkward—it was a window into the fragility of reason in an age of misinformation.
But, hey, the world is full of those.