It started on a Monday, because of course it did.
At exactly 12:05 p.m., a smell emerged from the kitchen that made everyone question their life choices. This wasn’t just fish. This was snoek. Microwaved snoek. With extra pap on the side.
The scent moved through the office like loadshedding—unavoidable, unwelcome, and somehow worse than you remembered.
By Tuesday, the kitchen smelled like Kalk Bay at low tide during a heatwave.
Then appeared the note. Stuck to the microwave with Prestik, it read:
“HAYI. Stop microwaving fish. This is an office, not Pick n Pay’s seafood section. — Management (and everyone else who can still breathe)”
Sorted, né?
Eish, no.
Wednesday arrived with not only the snoek’s triumphant return, but now accompanied by boiled eggs and what smelled suspiciously like heated tripe. And next to that first note? A response:
“Awu, some of us eat REAL food. If you don’t like it, bring your own aircon. #MyLunchMyChoice”
Just like that, the office went full Springboks vs All Blacks.
Team Yebo (pro-freedom faction): “It’s my lunch, my culture, my constitutional right, baba!”
versus
Team Haibo (the resistance): “Nobody’s stopping you from eating fish—just don’t make it everyone’s problem, mfana!”
Every lunchtime became a tense standoff, like two taxis competing for the same robot.
Someone brought in a Clicks air freshener—the automatic kind that sprays every few minutes. It worked beautifully for exactly one day, until someone turned the nozzle to point directly at the microwave. The following afternoon, the canister somehow ended up inside the microwave mid-cycle.
It exploded.
The kitchen now smelled like “Mountain Fresh” mixed with existential regret and burnt plastic.
By Thursday, HR stepped in. You know it’s serious when HR gets involved.
An email hit everyone’s inbox at 3:42 p.m. Subject line: “RE: Kitchen Protocols – URGENT”
It was written with the diplomatic restraint of someone trying to negotiate a taxi fare:
“Dear Colleagues,
We kindly request that all staff members exercise ubuntu when using shared facilities. Foods with strong aromas (snoek, mogodu, hard-boiled eggs, etc.) may not be suitable for the communal microwave.
Let us work together to maintain a pleasant working environment for all.
Regards, HR
P.S. – This is not a joke. We are tired.”
Within minutes, someone had printed it, laminated it at Waltons, and stuck it above the microwave—right next to the growing collection of passive-aggressive notes that now resembled a shrine to workplace drama.
Everyone had their suspect:
- “Definitely Thabo from Finance. That guy brings his own gravy to work.”
- “No, it’s the new intern from Durban. You know how they are about their fish.”
- “Maybe it’s Tannie Elize from Reception. She’s been too quiet.”
Then Friday happened.
The entire office gathered in the kitchen like it was a public holiday braai. Someone even brought popcorn. The tension was thicker than Mrs. Balls chutney.
And then—there it was. The smell. Stronger than Eskom’s excuses.
Everyone turned toward the microwave as one nation.
The door opened.
Out stepped Sharon, the office manager, holding a plate of snoek, boiled eggs, and chicken feet.
She looked around at the shocked faces, smiled, and said:
“If I’m going to hear complaints, I might as well earn them, aweh.”
Dead silence. Then laughter. Then chaos—the kind of disbelief that sweeps through Home Affairs when the system goes down.
Turns out, Sharon had been the one microwaving everything. Not out of spite, but to make a point. For months, she’d been cleaning up after everyone—unwashed mugs in the sink, spills in the fridge, someone’s three-week-old Nando’s going green. This was her final stand, her mic drop moment.
The microwave wars ended that day. HR replaced the appliance with a “cold lunch only” policy, and everyone silently agreed never to bring seafood again.
But every year since, during that same week in April, someone anonymously leaves a tin of Lucky Star pilchards and a note on the microwave:
“Asinavalo. We will not forget.”
The Moral of the Story
Every South African office has its drama. But nothing unites—or divides—a workplace quite like a microwave, strong opinions, and someone’s gogo’s recipe for snoek.
So what do you think? Was the fish person in the right, or should some foods be banned from the office forever?
Shout in the comments. We’re listening. Unlike Eskom.
Leave a Reply