Growing up, my grandmother’s sewing machine was our home’s heartbeat. Every night, after work, she’d set it up for her side hustle. Neighbours flocked in, bringing clothes to mend, alter, or patch.

First order of business “Strip down, let’s see what we’re working with!” all business, no nonsense. But with us kids cackling in the lounge, they’d turn red, fumbling in their undies.

The next day at school, we’d have ammo to tease those folks whose underpants we glimpsed. But the joke always flipped—kids are brutal.

See, in Afrikaans, a sewing machine is a Naai Machine, and we’d be stuck explaining why my Granny “Naai vir Geld”!