Night in a JoBurg Street

I glance at my wrist clock and gape. It reads 21:07. You know how time flies when one is enjoying. I’ve been sitting here at the back of the varsity campus canteen for hours, with a small group of friends, strumming our acoustic guitars. We call ourselves the Cafe-Crew. That’s what we always do on Fridays – sit by the cafeteria and rock the evening with our amateurish strumming and singing. We all yearn to be rock stars. Quickly I throw my guitar into its gig bag, shoulder it and strut off. The biting cold whips my face, as though in intended punishment. I thrust my hands in my pockets and listen to the whistling frosty wind as it slaps my ears. It was warm back there with our guitars. I’m always warm when I play my guitar. Now I have to walk through the brutal cold of the city of Gold. Home is quite a distance away. These are times when I wish I had a bicycle. Yes, a bicycle. A poor, third year university undergraduate can’t dream of owning a car. So I leave my friends, who either have cars or stay within campus.

I try the card for the fourth time and it’s still jammed. I’m standing by the revolving pedestrian gate that lets walking students out of the campus – one at a time. You have to scan your student card and the gate will unlock, then you step into the carousel, and out you are, into the street. But right now the gate scanner can’t read my card. At this hour, there’s no gateman to assist. I rub my hands together in attempt to generate some warmth. My fingers are freezing. And my toes too. Yet I’ll have to walk the entire breadth of the university to another gate on the other side. The thought of it sinks my heart. "Damn" I mutter to myself."

Through the bright campus lights, I see someone approaching the gate. It’s a lady, I notice: yellow jacket with a thick fur collar; a woollen scarf around her neck; tight denim pants tucked inside knee-length boots. She’s certainly dressed for the season, this young woman. A seemingly heavy handbag is strapped on her shoulder, dangling by her waist. Books, I suspect. She must be coming from the campus library. That’s what serious students do; they spend extra time in the library, not playing guitars at the back of the cafeteria. "Excuse me," I say to her and she stops to look at me. "My card has jammed and I need to exit. May I please squeeze in with you?" Usually when your card jams, you ask a friend to swipe out, and then from outside, he scans the card again and swings the gate inward. The mechanism will register that a person has just walked in. Through the fence, you take your friend’s card and bingo, you swipe out. Now this lady here isn’t my friend and I don’t want to involve her is such a laborious exercise. Besides, I really would like to squeeze in with the girl and get a share of the warmth she is wearing.

She nods. No word. No smile. Just a nod and the gate sensor beeps in response to her card. I squeeze in with her. That space is meant for one person and so I can’t help but squeeze tight. Wow. I want to go round and round the carousel. But it spits me out into the cold street. Quickly she approaches a car that is waiting outside. The girl disappears into the warmth of the car, which, in turn, vanishes into the cold of the city. "Thank you!" I say to the empty street.

I adjust my guitar bag, pull at my jacket and start walking along Saratoga Avenue. Across the street, bright floodlights of Ellis Park Stadium shine. I heard there is a big soccer match tonight. But being myself, I don’t even know which teams are playing. I look up the street. Huge neon lights blink ‘Vodacom’ atop one of JoBurg’s tall buildings - The Ponte. It is, in fact, Africa's tallest apartment building. Also glowing up in the sky is the Hillbrow Tower. These two landmarks are signatures of this city. In movies and music videos, the structures make popular backdrops for scenes. Looking at them now gives me a warm, homely feeling.

I walk. It’s quite a long walk home. First I will have to go through Hillbrow and Berea, then Yeoville and finally my hood, Observatory. Ahead there's a bridge under which there are crossroads with traffic lights. Traffic is never lackadaisical in this city. Even at this hour, it's flowing endlessly. Under the bridge it’s gloomy and murky. Somehow there are no light here, save for the greens and reds and ambers of the robots. I stop by the junction waiting for the green man on the lights to glow.

"Hey wena!" [Hey you!] a voice cuts through the dense night. I look and darkness stares back at me. "Woza la!" [Come here!] It's a commanding voice, full of authority. A thug, my mind registers instantly. But I don’t see anyone in the shadows. Dread grabs me.

"Ubani wena? U funani?" [Who are you? What do you want] I shout back but my voice gives away a trifle waver, a sign of weakness. I curse at myself silently.

"Hai fotsek, maaan! Ngithi woza la!" [Hey fuck off, man! I said come here!]

Okay, I say to myself. This here is certainly a thug. He is most definitely armed. They are always armed. He is going to rob me. I think of my watch, my cell phone and my guitar. Especially my guitar. No. I’m not going to allow him. I’m not a super hero. I’m not trained in the martial arts. But I’m not going to give my guitar to this man. Hell, no ways. It had taken me almost a whole year of monthly savings from my small student stipend to finally acquire this instrument. This isn’t just an instrument to me; it’s a companion. My guitar even has a name. I can’t imagine a day without my guitar...

"Ngithi woza la, mfoethu! Manje!" [I say come here, now!] the voice in the dark crackles.

A cheering chorus fills the air from Elis Park Stadium. A score, it had to be. I shout back again, playing strong: "Hai sukah maan! Ubani wena? Phuma!" [Buzz off, man! Who are you? Go away!] Immediately, I wish I haven’t said that. What was I thinking? But I just said it. So I will have to deal with the repercussions.

"Uthini?" [What did you say?] He’s enraged. I can feel him seething. Then I hear footsteps approaching. I can tell he’s pacing furiously. A silhouette emerges out of the shadows. I brace myself for the bullet. He’s now out in the dim light under the bridge. I can barely make out his face though he is very close to me. If he has a weapon, he doesn’t have it out.

"I don’t have any money," I say to him. "If it’s my watch you want, take it. If you want my cell phone, take it. But you are not going to take this bag on my back, Mr."

Speaking in IsiZulu, he says, "What the heck is in that bag? You have the balls, you know that?"

"I didn’t know that." I grab the guitar bag tightly. The traffic light glows green for pedestrians. Vehicles have stopped for walkers to cross. I start walking away from him, crossing the street.

"Hey, where the fuck do you think you are going? Stop here!" he gives an order but I’m already in the middle of the road. He comes following. I can see him reaching into his jacket pocket. In a second, he’ll pull out a weapon. I’ve driven him over the edge. I have a feeling he’s going to shoot me at the back of my head, in cold blood. I can feel the tension in the air. The green man on the traffic lights turns red and vehicles rev their engines, ready to zoom off.

Without warning, and like a dextrous acrobat, I jump into the back of a small van just as it launches off from the traffic light. The Opel Corsa squeals away, leaving the would-be-robber gasping in the street. The thug is shocked, astounded and amazed. My sudden, unexpected and courageous move just took him off guard; but he also looks seemingly impressed by the stunt I just pulled. He stands there like a sculpture. There is a small hand-gun in his hand. But now the weapon is as good as a piece of wood. With the bright street lights on the road, I’m sure he sees my hand as I stick out my middle finger at him, daring him to shoot. I can see him laughing just before he disappears out of sight. He’s impressed. I have impressed a thug. The driver of the Corsa catches sight of me in the rear-view mirror and rams the brakes. The car pulls to a stop on the side of the road. He reaches for the glove compartment and I think, ‘oh gosh, another gun!’