I realised something today: autocorrect is not my friend. Autocorrect is a small, silent saboteur living inside my phone, waiting patiently for the exact moment I need to appear functional… and then humiliating me publicly.
In South Africa, this is particularly dangerous, because one wrong word can turn an innocent message into a family scandal, a neighbourhood incident, or a fullblown community meeting.
It catches you unaware, when you type quickly.
I once tried to message the school WhatsApp group to say: “Sorry, Cameron won’t be at rugby today. He has a sore knee.”
Autocorrect decided the nation needed to know Cameron had a sore niece. There were questions. So many questions…
Another time, I meant to tell my employer: “I’m running a bit late. Traffic on the N1 is hectic.”
What he received was: “I’m running a bit late. Traffic on the N1 is erotic.”
There is no professional recovery from that. You can’t explain it. You can only stare at your phone, consider emigrating and quietly refresh your CV.
Autocorrect is especially vicious with Afrikaans. It treats our language like a suggestion, not a fact. “Braai” becomes “brain”. “Boerewors” becomes “borrowers”. Once, while arranging a family gathering,
I proudly announced: “Bring your own braai.”
Autocorrect turned it into: “Bring your own bra.” My aunt arrived confused. My uncle refused to make eye contact.
Then there are voice notes. You think voice notes will save you. They won’t. The moment you switch to typing afterwards, autocorrect assumes emotional instability and goes rogue. I tried to comfort my friend Elaine with: “Ag shame, that sounds tough.”
She received: “Ag shame, that sounds tofu.”
She has not spoken to me since.
Autocorrect also has a special hatred for local names. It refuses to believe Sipho exists. It thinks Annelie is a typo. It turns “Johan” into “Jehovah” with alarming confidence.
At this point, I am convinced autocorrect is powered by a bored intern with access to my dignity. It waits until I’m tired, emotionally vulnerable, or replying too fast at a robot and, then, strikes.
One day, when the revolution comes, it won’t be loud. It won’t be violent. It will simply send one last message on your behalf that says: “Kind regards.”
And autocorrect will change it to: “Kind regrets.”
And honestly? That sounds fair.
