daily. South Africa also gets the gold medal for murder and rape: a murder every thirty seconds, a rape every fifteen; one in four women have been raped; one in ten tourists has had something bad happen to them. And here you are. Fifteen seconds tick away and the country is waiting for its next victim.
You’re dead.
And they’re waiting.
It’s a rental, you want to say. It’s not mine. Take it. I have no cash. No cash. No gold. But your tongue is thick and dry. Your skin—your white umlungu skin—is clammy.
‘Can we have a lift?’
You must look even whiter now. ‘What?’
‘A ride. We need a ride to the university. Can you give us a ride?’
They’re playing with you. Even now you can drive off, before they get in. A choice: drive and get shot in the back, or give them a lift, so they can slit you from mouth to genitals, discard your lifeless body in the green and red Zululand backdrop. You know. You’ve read the stories.
South Africa has a very high level of crime, including rape and murder. Thieves operate at international airports and bus and railway stations. Keep your belongings with you at all times. Due to theft of checked baggage at airports, you should vacuum-wrap all items where local regulations permit. You should keep all valuables in carry-on hand luggage. There have been incidents involving foreigners being followed from King Shaka International Airport to their destinations by car and then robbed, often at gunpoint. You should exercise particular caution in and around the airport and extra vigilance when driving away. Some taxis and car rental companies are fraudsters …
Crowded-Planet (2013): p. 120
Go on: rev the car, knock them down like skittles, swerve. The reckless hero escapes, tyres squealing as gunshots crack the back windscreen.
But no.
‘No worries.’
They pile in. Two in the back, one in the front. AK man clatters the gun against the door as he wrestles with it. Panga man slides comfortably into the back. The third man has a scar that slices his face into two lopsided halves.
‘Drive, drive.’ AK man indicates the side road to the left where the green sign points into the furrowing valley. University of eSikamanga, 3 kilometres.
A nightmare. A bloody nightmare. What kind of a welcome is this to South Africa? You’re sick to the gut. You want to throw up. But then, what did you expect? That you could drive through South Africa and not be hijacked?
The leader places his feet on the dashboard and props his AK-47 against the door.
You’re careful not to turn your head, but out of the corner of your eye, you take note of the curved banana magazine, the wooden butt drenched in sweat, the notches—notches!—on the matt black stock. The weapon looks plasticky, homemade, as if he’s assembled it from parts of other weapons.
‘Where do I go?’
‘Through here.’
‘Bundu bashing,’ adds the man from the back seat.
So they do mean to arrow you into the cane fields, back you up against a low anthill and murder you. All for this tinny Golf GTI rental. You can hear the shots already, muffled by the six-foot-high sugar cane.
‘Drive—left … left … now straight, straight.’
You drive as straight as you can on the snaking roads.
‘You a professor or something?’
‘Don’t distract the driver, Caliban.’
Caliban? You steal a glance at the man in the rear-view mirror. Remember to identify the carjackers for the police. Caliban. Scarface. Panga man. AK man. Three, four notches.
‘That’s Kaliban with a K. KU- KU-KU-Kaliban, Professor.’
‘Drive, drive.’
You drive.
You count two kilometres of bumpy roads which have been gouged out of the red mountains, and you have to zigzag around goats and stones and ochre earth spills. A mini-bus plastered with ‘I love eSikamanga’ stickers shoots past, missing the car by inches. You should flash your lights to signal for help. Pull up on the brights. Three times. Morse code. Do they even know Morse code here? A weak stream of water wees onto the windscreen and the wiper blade judders across, smearing red dust—now red mud—across your line of vision. Now you can’t see at all. Slowly the wiper does its job.
‘Straight!’
Yeah, right. An AK bullet straight to the head.
‘By the way we’re the New Strugglers. This is Joel, Caesar …’
‘Kaliban!’
‘Sorry … Kaliban. And I’m Eric Phala.’
Their gang, their group, their little carjacking syndicate: The New Strugglers. What a name for a gang! And what caricatures. They are cartoon characters, confirmation of the worst stereotypes from South Africa: the black thug with panga, the AK-wielding carjacker, the silent brooding youth with a scar splitting his face in two.
‘The New Strugglers for a new South Africa.’ The man gives a guttural laugh. ‘Viva the new struggle!’
They smell of heavy deodorant and hair oil as if they are going to a party.
Some party.
A cow saunters across the road. You brake, looking for an opportunity to do something rash. But you can think of nothing. Red rivulets of paths criss-cross the countryside. Another cow prodded from behind by a boy with a stick crosses the road ahead.
‘Just drive—he’ll get out of the way.’
There must be people who live near here, people who can help you. But all you can see is six-foot-high sugarcane.
‘Okay. Okay. Stop here.’
This is it.
You slow the car, and the red dust catches up, clouds the windows and front windscreen. The three men bang open the doors and climb out, the AK-47 again clattering against the door handle, the panga against the window. You’re spitting dust, but have to ask. ‘Where are we?’
The AK is pointed at your head. The sun is screaming (or are those cicadas?). The man with the scar grins. ‘This is it, umlungu.’
It is at this point that your life is supposed to flash before your eyes. You know you’re going to die, so you quickly review your life, and realise—too late—how precious every moment up to this point has been. If only you hadn’t stopped at this intersection; if only you hadn’t come to South Africa at all, if only she hadn’t left you … if only you could rewind your life, just a little, just a few minutes. Why the hell did you drive down this back road?
This is the point when
