The last thing I want in my obituary is that I was murdered by three drag queens

I noticed the three big ones first. Huge young men. At least six foot tall, with muscles to spare. But that’s not what caught my attention. I noticed that they were extremely oddly dressed.

Pink and yellow chiffon skirts not even close to hiding their rugby shorts underneath, multicoloured unmatching socks, and flip-flops.

One wore a flower-covered sunhat while another had a tie around his head. The moment my car came to a stop, they walked purposefully in my direction. I glanced down to ensure my doors were locked. The last thing I want in my obituary is that I was murdered by three drag queens. Really.

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The woman in a car next to me took a completely different approach. While I was contemplating charging over the red light, she was laughing, opened her window and struck up a conversation with one who could easily be a body double for Arnold Schwarzenegger.

I must have looked like a spectator at a tennis match as I scanned the area around me, looking for help or potential witnesses. Then it happened… that dreaded and feared tap on my window.

I cleared my throat to drop my voice down two octaves after inadvertently letting out a little squeal. “Can I help you?” I asked after opening the window just far enough for him not to get his hands through the gap.

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My confidence now slightly restored, I looked him straight in the eye. Really seeing him for the first time, I realised he was still just a boy. He confirmed this when he spoke and addressed me as “oom”.

Turns out he and his buddies are going on a sports tour of some kind and they decided to add to their funds by asking local residents for financial support. I saw similarly dressed characters at the other sides of the intersection, while a group of what I assume to be their dads were taking pictures.

With a sigh of relief, I handed over a R100 note – a small price to pay to keep my obituary safe.

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