Alright, let me just confess right now — I didn’t mean to start a workplace cold war. But when someone keeps stealing your milk every morning, there’s only so much a person can take before you go full spite mode.
So, I work in a small office in Joburg. Nice people, mostly. We’ve got your standard mix — the tannie who brings rusks on Fridays, the guy who still thinks “is it” is peak comedy, and one mystery monster who, for months, kept helping themselves to my milk from the communal fridge.
Every Monday, like clockwork, I’d stop at Spar on my way to work and buy a fresh 2-litre bottle of full-cream Clover milk. The good stuff. None of that low-fat nonsense. I’d write my name on it — CHRIS — big bold black Sharpie. By Wednesday? Gone. Not “used a bit.” I’m talking gone. Finished. Empty. Drained like Eskom’s credibility. Not even a drop left for tea.
Now, I did what any decent person would do — I left polite little notes on the fridge. “Please don’t take other people’s things 😊” Then: “Seriously guys, this is theft.” Then finally: “TO WHOEVER KEEPS DRINKING MY MILK — I HOPE YOUR COFFEE TASTES LIKE GUILT AND LOAD SHEDDING.”
Nothing worked.
I even brought it up in our Monday team meeting. Our manager, Thandi, just laughed and said, “Ag shame, Chris, maybe you should just buy the smaller bottle?”
Smaller bottle? SMALLER BOTTLE? Thandi, I’m not the criminal here!
So, one fateful Thursday morning — after finding my brand new bottle bone dry again — I decided: enough’s enough. I’m declaring war. This milk thief was about to learn a very important lesson about consequences.
I left work early that day and went straight to Woolies. Yes, Woolies. Because this required premium ammunition. I bought a bottle of unsweetened almond milk. You know, the fancy hipster one that tastes like disappointment mixed with cardboard and costs more than a taxi fare to Pretoria. The kind of milk that makes you question your life choices.
I took it home, carefully poured it into my old full-cream Clover bottle, washed the outside so it looked legit, and labeled it like normal: CHRIS — DO NOT TOUCH.
Then I placed it back in the fridge, right at the front where the thief would definitely see it.
And then I waited.
The next morning, I arrived at the office at 7:00 am sharp — earlier than usual. And there it was. My bottle. Half gone.
Operation Almond Betrayal was officially in motion.
I made myself a cup of black coffee (I’d brought my own milk in a flask, hidden in my bag like contraband), sat at my desk, and pretended to work. But really, I was just waiting for the chaos.
Around 9:30, I hear it. A groan from across the office. It’s Steve — our resident “coffee connoisseur” who once spent twenty minutes explaining the difference between a flat white and a cappuccino like he’d discovered fire.
“Guys,” Steve says, clutching his stomach, looking genuinely distressed. “I don’t know what’s wrong with the milk in the fridge, but it’s off. Like seriously off. I feel so weird right now.”
I sipped my coffee slowly, looked him dead in the eye, and said, “Yoh, shame man. That’s hectic. You should really check expiry dates before you drink other people’s milk, hey?”
His face went pale. Not from the almond milk — from the realization.
“Wait… that was… your milk?”
“Yup.”
“But I thought—”
“You thought what, Steve? That milk just magically appears for you every week? Like some kind of dairy fairy?”
The office went silent. Even the tannie stopped dunking her rusk.
Steve never touched my milk again. In fact, nobody did. For the next three months, that bottle of almond milk sat in the fridge completely untouched — a silent, lactose-free monument to justice. A warning to all future thieves.
Every time someone opened the fridge, they’d see my name on that bottle and think, Eish, don’t mess with Chris.
Best R45 I ever spent.
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