No ‘secrets’ among good neighbours

Suburbia – where everyone wave politely, trim the hedge just to the legal limit and pretend they don’t know each other’s business.

Except, we all do. The thing about neighbours is, they think their secrets are airtight. But the truth leaks out through thin walls, via WhatsApp groups, and via the neighbourhood grapevine that runs faster than the best fibre.

Take old Mrs Naidoo, on my left, for example. She swears high and low she’s vegan. She lectures us about plant-based living and the moral superiority of lentils.

Yet, every Sunday evening the unmistakable aroma of roast chicken wafts from her kitchen into my eager nostrils. Either she’s hiding an invisible meat-eating husband, or that’s one confused cauliflower.

Then there’s an entrepreneur named Gerald from Number 12 across the street. Officially, he works “from home”.

Unofficially, the only typing sound coming from his house is him playing Candy Crush at full volume. He’s got that “I’m in a meeting” voice down perfectly, right before he yells “Combo” and claps like an excited seal.

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The Jordaan family on my right insists they’re “minimalists”.

They post beautiful photos of spotless rooms on Instagram, all white walls and a single decorative vase.

What they don’t show is their garage – a forbidden hoarder zone stuffed with plastic tubs, Christmas decor from 1998, and a dilapidated exercise bike now serving as a laundry rack.

Aunty Sandra, the self-proclaimed “devout woman of faith”, who also leads the neighbourhood prayer chain, is a shocker. Bless her heart, I murmur often, and bless her secret stash of boxed wine, which she disguises in a Woolies juice container.

“It’s grape juice,” she once winked. Of course it is, Aunty Sandra.

The young couple next to Gerald pretend to be blissfully married.

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But when their windows are open, you can hear the great debates of our time… like who left the milk out and “you never listen” counts as a valid argument.

The next morning, they post selfies captioned #CoupleGoals. We all just smile and scroll on.

Here’s the truth: the whole neighbourhood knows everything about everyone. The rubbish bins alone reveal more than Facebook.

The trick isn’t in keeping secrets – it’s in pretending you believe everyone else’s.

And me? Oh, I’m the quiet one. The observant one. The one who “minds her own business”.

At least, that’s what they think.

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