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Talk about violated

Annali Roux

(For you Yob, yes, you!)

Where are the glorious days when doe-eyed children could play in the streets and grandparents dared to wander beyond the placid gardens of the nursing home? Carefree, the only worry selfish bliss interrupted by dinner!

Today we trust our gates, electric fences and alarm systems for that warm, safe, fuzzy feeling.

On the other hand, this might also be the relief offered by basking in the pink euphoric hue provided by our increasingly prescribed anxiety meds. Thank you, Dr Karaculeo.

Today, it seems, people are subconsciously clutching their most valuable possessions in their sleep. Lying awake at night, totally fritzed. Did I or didn't I lock the fourth deadbolt from the top on the front door?

Darlings, society has been transformed. Wake up and smell reality. Here it is. Tell your friends. The days of white picket-fences and children's carefree games of cops and robbers are gone, and they are not coming back! Play imitating life?

Standing on the doorstep of my cold cottage, trapped in finger prints and coffee rings, I placidly accessed the situation. I felt it - the rape of the senses. The invasion of personal space. The false independence provided by moving out of my parents' house and owning pieces of Mr Price. The glorious independence held so dear by the younglings of the rat race.

Like candy from a baby's sticky fingers most of my hard-earned and not nearly paid off belongings had been carried off into the night. This, my little friends, is living the independent dream of Jozi.

Yet, after moving from Pretoria, Tshwane, Jakarandastad, whatever they call it these days, I would not let a big-muscled, small-minded rampokker let me live in fear, leaving me nervously groping for the night light. I am independent, I am liberated! Tring-Tring Ö Daddy?

After recovering from my little brush with "wake-up call" I packed what was left of my over-priced cottage and made the move from Westdene to Parktown. Nothing wrong with Parktown. Or was there? Ag shame, sweet naÔve little moi.

Crime, it seemed, had locked on to my scent like a pregnant woman at the entrance to Fourno's. Having your house carried away in your absence is one thing; having a personal belonging nicked from your bag while you turn your back for a second is entirely another. So there I was, sitting on the steps next to a Rosebank pay station, mentally boxer-sizing the Yob who stole my wallet. I took a stand.

What can only be called a murderous jog for a smoker ended in a daring chase by zealous security staff. The mob of Yobs were pulled to the ground across from YDE. Miami Vice style, no less. My wallet was rescued, her soft leather purring in handbag once more, here Gucci-Gucci. I was one of the lucky ones and it felt good, a little too good.

That got me thinking. No, not about becoming a reservist.

What the hell are we, society, suppose to do? Fight, and stand the chance of getting shot? Run, and just leave behind what is rightfully yours? Call a police force that "loses" the docket nine out of ten times? What! Maybe we should follow suit and take note of the Arab nations' "hands off" approach. Cut off a hand I say! Chop-Chop. Yes, try and carry my stereo and my jewellery bag now, smarty-pants!

Let's say it together now: Axe 'em.



LitNet: 18 October 2005

boontoe / to the top


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