From nightly to nine-to-five

Stepping back into the office after six years felt like being thrown into a parallel universe where everything was the same but also absolutely wrong. Like St George’s Mall with only one pigeon. Disturbing.

Going from working at home to working in an office again was a full-on culture shock. Suddenly, I had to iron clothes and take early showers. And spend 30 minutes deciding on a top and a bottom outfit, praying it will fit. 

Meanwhile, my former work uniform (that holy, loyal nightie) lay abandoned, betrayed, whispering, “So this is how you treat me?”

Then came the emotional turbulence. Nostalgia? Panic? Existential dread? All of them doing cartwheels in my DNA, feeling like it was my first job as I swiped my access card at the new building’s entrance.

I nodded at the security guards with the confidence of someone who definitely isn’t using a stolen card, hoping no one notices.

Next time I'll remember their names: Sipho and Ntando, the guardians of the gates, watchers of the suspicious employee returning from the wilderness.

Flashback to six years ago: three colleagues were working on ancient PCs with the energy of Windows 95, no laptops, no WiFi, nothing. Meanwhile, the rest of us were escaping home faster than Cyril could say “My fellow South Africans…”

That’s when my colleague and I started to bond, and we both discovered that we could sketch. We were trying to draw faces, and that was our last attempt, but we were not bad as the faces we drew were recognisable in a sketchy kind of way.

Our old office was emptier than a Woolies shelf during lockdown. We wore masks, breathing our own Aquafresh-and-coffee-scented air like it was a new designer fragrance: Eeau deToilet.

Then a plot twist hit us - someone in the next department caught COVID. And she was the one person who loved taking scenic bathroom tours through our office. She had walked through the day before. Breathing, touching air and possibly coughing. That was enough for me. I packed up my PC and keyboard like it was a fire drill and set up my essential-worker booty at home.

Ah yes. Home. Where my new colleagues were my mom, dad, and kids. All with PhDs in Interrupting.

Whenever I needed to focus on writing, my mom would burst into my bedroom/office with me sitting in pyjamas at 11:30am to discuss urgent matters like what the neighbour told her, or how someone was throwing rice for birds. I nodded politely while thinking, “Are the birds wearing masks?" At that point, anything felt possible, like was COVID man-made.

Interviews were done via WhatsApp and phone calls. It worked… mostly. Until the day I was on a call with Mr Jones and my dad yelled from the other room, “We’re out of sanitiser and Domestos. Put it on the list, Mabel!” (Not her real name).

That was when I thought… You know what? Maybe the office is the lesser evil.

So now here I am, back in the lift with real, fully clothed humans. No more Zoom calls where the top half is Beyoncé and the bottom half is a depressed hobbit. No more whisper-threatening the kids to  “be quiet, as my job is on the line.

Adjusting to all the voices and conversations in the newsroom was daunting. It’s like deliberate eavesdropping with a mixture of office politics, real hard news stories, as well as offbeat ones about chicken yoga and pet insurance.

Seeing so many faces was overwhelming at first. When did I become a hermit who thrives on social media like a chaotic butterfly fluttering from meme to meme? Suddenly, I was surrounded by actual humans again with make-uped faces blinking at me, hair that had been brushed on purpose, and shoes that weren’t my emotional-support Crocs.

There were real hugs instead of emojis, actual coffee with colleagues instead of my witchy honey-and-ginger immune-boosting potion, authentic human CO₂ instead of sterile sanitiser fumes, and direct eye contact instead of hiding behind filtered screenshots. And the outfits, OMG.

Fashionable clothes everywhere, while I stood there mourning my home uniform: Troll Chic Chanel.

Two months in, I’ve adapted. I actually walk to the canteen for coffee instead of pairing it with last night’s banana bread like a feral raccoon.

Look at me. Corporate zombie.