Ben10 Engineer, and Why I Am Absolutely Not Hiding in a Basement

Howzit julle.

Listen, I am not "packing a noodpakket," okay?

What I am actually doing is reliving my entire South African nervous system in real time, complete with background static from my transistor radio days, historical trauma that could fill a bakkie, and that familiar tightening in my chest that pitches up before logic has even managed to find its takkies.

It all started with the letter.

A physical letter.From the government.In Europe.

The moment I saw it, my chest went tight. Not because I had read anything yet, hey, but because letters like that are never neutral. Especially those envelopes. The official ones. The beige ones. The ones that look like they were designed by a committee whose only brief was "cause unease whilst maintaining plausible deniability."

Letters mean things, bru.

Letters mean:

• you owe money,

• someone has died,

• or history, that old skelm, has finally decided to come fetch you personally.

  
  

I opened it.

"Beste inwoner…"

And just like that, I was no longer in the Netherlands.

I was back in South Africa.Early 1980s.A household where vigilance was normal and silence was survival.

I matriculated in 1984, which should tell you everything you need to know about how my nervous system was assembled and which default settings it still runs on. Aikona, this is not a system that does "calm."

The letter talked about preparation.Power outages.Communication failures.Possible conflict.

Possible conflict.

WAR??In EUROPE??

Ons is NIE GEWOOND NIE, my mense.

Also — honestly — what in the entire bliksemse aandblom is this?

I did not sign up for this particular sequel.My nerves could not cope.And here, in this highly civilised, bicycle-filled country, the medical response to anxiety is still largely a Panado and a gentle suggestion to drink some water. No anxiety meds. Just vibes and maybe a biscuit. 🙈

My brain did not respond calmly.

My brain time-travelled like a badly-tuned DeLorean.

Suddenly, I was a teenager again, being quietly instructed in the dark to:

• Sluit die verdomde deure.

• Turn off the lights, en trek die gordyne toe.

• Sjjt, bly stil. Moenie so hard praat nie.

• And above all, laag lê.

• 
  

Then I was older. The load-shedding years rolled in, uninvited and relentless as that one auntie who rocks up to every family braai with her own cooler bag and opinions about everyone's life choices.

Candles everywhere, melting faster than promises from Eskom.That one torch that only worked if you klapped it at precisely the right angle, like some kind of percussion instrument.Cooking supper by cellphone light while chirping, "Ag, it's cosy!", like a proper liar.Eskom tweeting cheerfully, "We are aware of the inconvenience," as if they'd just run out of milk at the Spar.

Then came Y2K.

Withdraw your money! The banks are crashing! Planes will fall from the sky like overripe spanspeks!Blikkies bully beef stacked in the garage like we were prepping for the Second Coming.And always, always, someone's oom from Kempton Park saying, "Ek het julle gewaarsku. I warned you."

So. Naturally. I panicked.

My Ben10 husband, however… eish, he had a different reaction.

He lit up like a robot at a Jozi intersection when load-shedding ends.

You know that look, né? That specific, shining look that men get when a theoretical crisis finally, beautifully, validates every single open browser tab, every dodgy gadget purchase from Takealot, every "just-in-case" item they were never supposed to buy.

He looked refreshed. Energised. Like a man who had just been handed a VIP pass to his own personal practical fantasy.

"Finally," he said, with a serene sigh.

F I N A L L Y ? ?

Jislaaik, this man has been in training for this exact moment since the days of 28.8k modems and Counter-Strike 1.6 LAN parties in Benoni.

While I was clutching that government letter like it had personally insulted my voorvaders and questioned my bobotie recipe, he had already transitioned into Full Engineer Mode™.

Not "grab some candles" mode.Ag, no.This was next-level, bru.

This was:

• weight-to-function ratios,

• battery longevity calculations under duress,

• redundancy planning for the redundancies,

• and something I can only describe as apocalypse ergonomics.

• 
  

He opened The Bug-Out Backpack.

Listen. This was not a bag.This was a stelsel. A system, boet.

Camo pattern on steroids.Waterproof to the point of arrogance.More straps and buckles than a dominee has prayers.All balanced so perfectly that if you so much as sneezed, the weight redistributed itself with a quiet, approving click, like it was judging your posture.

Very calmly, as if discussing the weather at a Sandton coffee shop, he announced:

"You can walk twenty kilometres with this."

Sir.EXCUSE ME.

Why in the name of all that is holy and Table Mountain would I be walking twenty kilometres?

If things get that hectic, my plan is to wait for you under a tree. Or, more realistically, curled up inside the bag with the Turkish Delight.

But inside that bag… yoh. Yoh. Yoh.

A torch so blindingly bright I swear you could signal the Mother City with it. Not just bright-bright. This was Eskom-owes-it-money-and-an-apology bright. The battery life? A full month. If that torch had existed back home during the dark ages of Stage 6, load-shedding would have issued a formal written apology, retired in shame, and opened a spaza shop in Mpumalanga.

Then, the radio.

Not a normal 5FM-type radio, né.This thing charged on solar power, on a hand crank, and seemingly on pure, unadulterated optimism. I am fairly certain it could still pick up Springbok Radio broadcasts from 1987 and a crackly interview with Bles Bridges.

Then he produced the Kelly Kettle.

"What is that?" I asked, already wary, my Afrikaans spidey-senses tingling.

"You boil water," he said patiently, "with twigs."

T W I G S.

Sir.

I experience a minor spiritual crisis when the gas bottle runs out mid-braai. You are now telling me that, in a crisis, I am expected to become some kind of urban forager? To wander a Dutch forest collecting sticks like a demented hadeda building a nest?

He explained it all. Calmly. Patiently. With a level of quiet competence that was, I must grudgingly admit, irritatingly attractive.

"This," he said, in that engineering tone, "is how you survive."

Survive what, my love? The Woolies deli strike? A shortage of Ouma Rusks?

There was a first-aid kit that looked capable of treating:

• a sprained ankle,

• a minor amputation,

• emotional trauma,

• and quite possibly a failing marriage.

There was duct tape that could rebuild a nation. Paracord for days. A multitool with more attachments than my Tannie Sanet has judgmental opinions. Water filters so advanced they appeared to judge the water before condescending to clean it, like some kind of hydration dominee.

Everything was labelled.Categorised.Perfectly weight-balanced for Optimal Human Flight™.

Then, I made my contributions.

Snacks. Lip balm. Panado (obvs). Turkish Delight. A million hair things that I will need. A jersey that sparks joy. And wine. Decanted, for space-saving purposes. Obviously.

He stared into the bag's meticulous interior, his engineer's soul visibly trembling.

"This," he said, pained as a Bok supporter watching Argentina score, "exceeds the optimal load."

O P T I M A L L O A D.

Eish, wena.

I reminded him, with some force, that I am not a military mule. I am a woman with needs. Atmospheric needs. Snack-based needs. Cosmetic needs.

Also — and this is crucial — where exactly was my laptop supposed to go?

"We don't take laptops," he stated, as if this was carved in stone on top of the Afrikaanse Taalmonument.

"And then what?" I fired back, my voice climbing. "I'm just leaving it here to be demolished during warfare? So some invader can use my hard drive to play Solitaire? Izzit?"

"Sterk staan, Suster," he said, infuriatingly calm. "Ek gaan dit NIE dra nie."

Ek ken vir jou. I know your type, my man.

The same applied to my phone.

"If the Wi-Fi goes down and I cannot Google what is happening, I will simply lie down in the nearest tulip field and expire. I am not facing an apocalypse with unanswered questions, bru."

So, no. I am not hiding in some damp, mouldy Dutch basement that smells like old potatoes and regret.

Now, of course, I can't sleep.

At two in the morning, the thoughts are louder than a hadeda convention at dawn. I finally tap him gently on the shoulder.

"Hey, dude… word wakker.Gaan ons nou laag moet lê as die bollie die fan strike?Moet ons 'n fort bou met klippe en goed?Is this, like… apocalypse DIY or what, my china?"

That cellar smells like disappointment and forgotten aartappels. That smell alone would finish me. And what if it's black mould, né? 🙈 My immune system would simply hand in its resignation letter and tjaila out of there.

"Where do we even hide?" I whisper-shout into the dark.

"In this cellar?"It's the size of a shoebox, bru.Moet ek the whole time op jou skoot sit of wat?

"In the dark?""With mould?""Without Wi-Fi?"

Aikona. Absolutely not.

Because war scares me, boet.

Not funny-scared. Not joke-scared.Deep, old, South African scared.

The kind that smells like candle wax, Koo baked beans, and the thick, strategic silence of a household holding its breath and hoping the robot outside doesn't turn red at the wrong moment.

Meanwhile, my Ben10 engineer is thriving.

This is not fear for him.This is end-game content, bru.

He is running scenarios with the focus of a Springbok flyhalf reading the game.

"If the grid goes down for more than 72 hours...""If cellular communications fail...""If we have to move to a secondary location..."

MOVE WHERE?

Pietermaritzburg?Benoni?Back to Boksburg and someone's oom's smallholding?

Because that, my friends, is always how these stories end.

I spiral. I joke. I hyperventilate into a paper bag that is not optimally packed.

He prepares.

And here is the honest-to-God truth, né.

I mock him. I call him dramatic. I threaten to hide his Takealot account login.

But when he is calm like that — organised, steady, thinking ten steps ahead while the world falls apart — it does something to you, my mense. It makes you feel... safe.

Annoyed.But safe.

Like when your ouma used to say "alles sal reg kom" and you believed her because she survived worse with less and a better attitude.

So yes. I am still packing.

With one eye on the past, one eye on the future, and one hand permanently, lovingly, on my phone charger.

Ons is NIE GEWOOND NIE, but ons is ook nie mal nie.

If chaos comes knocking with its beige, official envelope?

Ag, we've survived worse with less.With candles.With humour.With a boer-maak-'n-plan attitude.And absolutely no instructions except "maak 'n plan" and "kyk Noord en fok voort."

Now please, for the love of all that is lekker, do not ask me to leave the important things behind.

I

f civilisation ends, I will not face it with bad eyebrows, chapped lips, and a gatvol spirit.

I will face it with my Turkish Delight, my joy-sparking jersey, a proper dop of decanted wine, and the unwavering belief that a good snack can solve most problems.

And if it can't?

Well, then we braai.

Sharp sharp. 🇿🇦🔥

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