Only a third rate Burglar

Johannesburg is one of the crime capitals of the world. Burglaries here are often true and sickening horror stories.

Many years ago when I lived here as a teenager, two men put a knife to my mothers throat in our kitchen. She doesn’t keep quiet my mother. She screamed and they ran. She screamed at them some more. They grabbed the kitchen radio on their way out. I will always remember her telling us, how, as she screamed at them out the window, they sauntered down the road with an unconcerned nonchalance, laughing and swinging the radio between them. These days the screams, well, they don’t work so well anymore.......

Some-time ago I decided to not read the newspapers here, as I felt I was polluting my mind with the never ending stream of reported violence. I preferred to keep my inner world tidy and happy. Subsequently I have slept fairly innocently and fear free for over a year in my “cottage” which is a converted garage on the side of my parent’s house. We don’t have the obligatory electric fence, there is just an old low gate between me and the street. In the wee hours of the other morning, I am woken by the sound of a heavy object being used to break a window. Slightly disorientated I sluggishly wandered out of my bedroom. I vaguely remember, saying something to the person, something fairly pathetic like “hey… hey, stop breaking my window” and then being rather alarmed that it didn’t stop. So wandered back to my bedroom, shook the fog from my brain, phoned the house, where my father pressed the panic button. You might ask: "why didn't he phone the police ?" We would have smiled a gentle, pitying smile at you. Possibly patted you on the head, for being such a sweet puppy.

We all waited for the security company, (you should hear those alarms, nobody can sleep) and I watched the dim shadow of the burglar leave, I remember thinking, with a growing sense of outrageous indignation: “he’s taking an awfully long time to get over the gate.” He kept getting stuck. Eventually wobbling precariously he perched on the top of the gate, fell off and into a heap on-to the other side. “He’s not a very good burglar” I thought rather resentfully. The arrival of the security company was very dramatic, they screeched to a halt in front of the house. We watched in great admiration as they leapt out of their car, commando style, bristling with armament, and bullet proof vests. They proceeded to impress us even more, by racing around the garden and attacking various large pieces of foliage who were masquerading as robbers. Our large pine tree made the one officer feel particularly jumpy. He arrested this prickly customer not once but three times. In the midst of the drama, my burglar who I suspect was simply a local opportunistic drunk, made his wobbly get away. He probably found a nice quiet spot where he could gently lay himself down for a snooze, and for that, to tell you the truth, I am not ungrateful.