More and more people are choosing to live inside private security estates.

They’re hard to miss. Just drive up the coast north of Durban. Balize. Salta Sibaya. Zimbali. Zululami. Simbithi. Zuleni. Elaleni and other words appropriated from the Zulu nation. All have been built on land once covered in sugar cane or coastal bush.

Gated communities have never appealed to me. For a start, you can’t even call them communities. Gated, sure. But a community implies a potpourri of people from diverse backgrounds. A mixed bag of nuts, if you will.

In these elite urban cocoons, the common denominator is wealth. From what I’ve heard, though, even this doesn’t guarantee acceptance. As microcosms of South African society, you will still be judged according to the size of your house, your skin colour, the kind of car you drive and the school your children attend. You are, however, spared the risk of being stabbed in the face by a man in a balaclava while you sleep. Well, let’s say the risk is minimised.

Having said that, let me also say that I live in a gated community. Not on the grand scale of Zimbali, obviously. My father gave me a modest simplex as an early inheritance a few years ago after it appeared increasingly likely that he’d outlive me. It’s one of your basic complexes. There are no guards. Nobody demanding a saliva sample and sworn affidavit before allowing you in. I have a remote for a rusty sliding gate and the property, consisting of 50 or so units, is surrounded by a fence that was probably electrified before the monkeys short-circuited everything.

I don’t live there because I’ve been in Cape Town for 25 years and my unit has been on Airbnb since I got it. I stay there occasionally when I need a break from the filthy Cape winter, but it’s never for more than a week or two. I feel trapped when those gates slide shut behind me. I get anxious when I drive down the tarred strip with its speed limit of 10km/h, past the rows of duplexes on the right and simplexes on the left, silently cursing the man with the leaf blower and avoiding the eyes of neighbours I’ve never met.

I’m vaguely aware there are rules that govern living in a complex but I’ve never bothered to familiarise myself with them. I also sort-of know there are trustees who take care of stuff. I liked the idea initially because it meant I didn’t have to worry about doing the garden or, I don’t know, anything, really.

I don’t know who the Trustees are. Anyone who volunteers for a position of authority is unlikely to be invited to my place for a drink. It’s mostly been an arrangement free of conflict – until I received an email from the managing agents.

They had received a report of a “violation” of the Sectional Titles Act by my Airbnb guests. I was shocked. They seemed like such a nice family, and there they were, breaching a law promulgated at a time when PW Botha was declaring a State of Emergency. This was clearly a law passed by serious men at a serious time and was not to be trifled with.

Attached to the official complaint were three (3) photographs, from three different angles, of a silver VW Polo parked at the top of my driveway. I stifled a scream, biting down hard on my knuckles. Even though the car wasn’t blocking the road or in anyone’s way, it wasn’t in its designated parking place. I felt deeply distressed at seeing the physical evidence of this harrowing display of anarchy and had to take a handful of Xanax to calm down.

I was informed that this atrocity had been going on for two weeks. Two weeks! That was enough time to pepper spray my guests and drag them out into the common area so that the residents may set about them with cattle prods and horsewhips. It was also enough time to knock on the door and ask them to move their car. But that would have been too easy. What’s the point of being a Trustee if you never get to put on your jackboots and stamp your authority? Stalin accomplished a lot more than Gandhi, right?

I was advised that “fines will be applied should this transgression persist”. Fines? Fines are too good for the likes of me. Even though I had no idea of the horror being perpetrated by my guests, ignorance is no excuse. I deserve to be publicly castrated. That’ll teach me not to know about things.

Then, a couple of weeks later, another warning letter. This time, in connection with a guest who had driven through the complex in a car with a loud exhaust. There was no reference to decibel levels. I imagine someone complained when the car drove past their unit, perhaps disturbing their afternoon nap. There are speed humps, so the car couldn’t have been going faster than a walking pace.

Three weeks later, another complaint. My guests, a couple of young black dudes, had committed the cardinal sin of having a few drinks at the communal pool and leaving the bottles lying around. Allegedly, since no evidence was offered. One also had the temerity to stand beneath another unit’s carport while waiting for an Uber, apparently with a beer in hand.

Then this: “Please be advised that the maximum of R2,000.00 (two thousand) worth of fines has been imposed for the multiple infringements and nuisance created which has been debited to your levy account.”

So, the maximum fine even though there had been no major disturbances, no loud music, violent brawls or even homicides. Just a poorly parked car, a loud car and drinking at the pool. Out of hundreds of guests over the course of ten years.

It went on: “The Trustees now request that (the managing agent) receives advance verification that the complex rules have been supplied and explained to any prospective guests. We also request to see confirmation that the Airbnb host has checked and verified potential guests as being suitable.”

How would I verify that I’ve explained the complex rules to prospective guests? Do I videotape them reading the rules? Should I do an interpretive dance? Similarly, how would I provide confirmation that I’ve verified potential guests as being “suitable”? Airbnb does its own vetting of guests. Do I need to hire an investigator to run background checks on anyone who wants to stay at my place?

Right away I lodged an appeal with the Community Schemes Ombud Service, the industry body that deals with disputes in complexes.

I don’t think the Trustees, who aren’t terribly bright, were fully prepared for the ferocity of my counter-attack. It was carnage. A full year later, the CSOS finally made a ruling. I was expecting the worst.

“The entire fine is dismissed.”

So there it is. In future, the swine will hopefully think twice before fining me for bullshit. For those who live in complexes, don’t let the body corporate bullies grind you down. Go to the CSOS. It’s free.