Actual experience...
“My sister, I need some change. I’m short on bus fare and need just R2.00. The buses are not operating today and I have been here on campus for too long, I’m hungry. Where are you going? Are you headed to the bathroom? I need your help my sister, do you have some change please? Where are you headed?”
He had a crazed look in his wide eyes. Pupils dilated; cloudy as a rainy day. Hair-line shaped like an island, curly but silky. “He must be mixed race,” I thought. “Help me my sister,” he said, as he sort-off paced. Seemingly agitated, and somewhat edgy.
You know how little girls swirl when they talk about charming topics. Enticed by the lure of blushingly talking about something quietly. Something their parents would ban them from uttering; even quietly. I sensed the same tone from him, but the way the edges of his lips curled made my stomach tighten.
I’m not referring to the butterflies in the little girl’s stomach as she swirls about talking a charming topic. Instead it’s a knot, and its tightening in my stomach. Something doesn’t seem quite right; not quite safe. “Why do I feel like he’s invading my space?”
Irritated, I hissed : “Brother, tell me what you need help with, and stop asking about my whereabouts.” Emphasizing the strength in my hiss is important. “Who is he to ask if I’m going to the bathroom or elsewhere?” A flash of seriousness resonates this in my eyes as I squint them, making sure I maintain eye contact.
No. Something is amiss here, almost unnerving.
I’m carrying my phone and office keys in the same hand. I search the pockets of my jean-jacket but I only find 50c, how disappointing. By the looks of his once white shoes; which are now the shade of teeth that have seen too many cigarette days, its obvious he needs the money. Slightly cracked, dark hollow caves between them, mirroring the shape of his posture and back.
“Thanks my sister. This will go a long way. Where did you say you are headed again?”
There is that crazed look again, I would never enter those caves.
He’s slightly hopping on the spot now, but I only notice when I look back as I head to the elevator. He’s almost skipping, looking straight at me. My body goes silent, something is amiss here. Its making me quickly press the 8th floor button on the elevator a couple of times.
Today the doors are just closing too slowly!
Beep!
8th floor…
There’s this level of fear that consumes me as I run to the office. I lock myself inside, switch-off the lights and shut down the computer. I am expecting footsteps. Something in me knows he has followed me. Questioning myself, “Did I invite this?” thinking, “Was it my short brown dress, revealing my fresh-long legs.” No it can’t be, because a woman was kidnapped while jogging this week. “What sexiness is there in jogging?” I ponder.
When I arrived on the 8th floor, walking across the corridor that views all the other floors. I had looked down as I passed, and he was gone, vanished. His presence was close-by though, like the scent of tobacco on sheets, hair and car-seats. Just unmistakably there.
Reminding me of the worst day I was mugged, this was the third time. Three little boys, clinging to knives longer than their legs. I was terrified, out of nowhere, they were just there.
“Think, think, think! The cupboard? Under the table? No, both too obvious”, there are glass panes above the doors, he would easily spot me. My body is now a symphony of rumblings, shakings, and unnerved nerves. As a woman I am reminded of being powerless, vulnerable and above all I’m terrified.
“Click, gulch” someone is trying to open the door of the office opposite the one I’m temporarily exiled to.
Exile. There are those women who died there, heroins; “Were they as threatened?” I wonder.
He’s here.
I feel myself forget to breath.
It terrifies me to think that there are woman whom have to disturbingly face this terror on a daily basis. Hiding in cupboards from their fathers, brothers, uncles and cousins.
I am scared because I do not know what he carries on him, either than the crazed look in his slightly twitching, cloudy eyes. “A knife or a gun maybe? Dammit. My father told me to get pepper-spray,” I’m screwed, maybe soon literally. This is South Africa, women are raped every 30 seconds. 1 in 3 South African women will be raped in their lifetime, mostly infants and children under the age of 7. Breaking families, mothers divorcing fathers, but the child remaining the victim and perpetrator in some eyes. Our leaders accused, charged, but its the women whom have to relocate because some see her as victim and perpetrator pluralized.
My best friend; he’s down stairs. I send him a text and to my horror he tries to call me! I now can hear my heart drumming in my ears, ringing as loudly as my phone, stomping on every object around me. The curtains, the carpet, and chairs. I feel dizzy. “Why did he call? Did he not know my phone would ring out-loud?” I quickly put it on silent-mode as I hear a “thud” from the door across me. Then…
Silence.
