When I walked out of my office and found my car in the parking lot with a flat tyre on Friday last week, I was upset.
Admittedly it was an inconvenience because I neglected to repair my spare after the previous flat tyre, but it was an inconvenience that created the opportunity for a discussion that I would not have had if I sat in my car on the highway on Friday afternoon.
One of our friendly security officers took me to the local Gautrain station. I live on the other side of Johannesburg but from the closest Gautrain station to home, it’s just a short Uber trip to the comfort of our humble abode. The well-dressed woman in front of me at the ticket office knew nothing about public transport, but I hardly took any notice.
While I was waiting for the train, the woman approached me: “Will you take a picture of me with the platform in the background?” she asked.
“Your first trip on the Gautrain?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied. “I’m from Tanzania, I’ve only been in South Africa for a week.”
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“Enjoying your trip to our beautiful country?” I asked.
Her answer shocked me: “I’m afraid not.
“People keep reminding me to be careful, that this is a dangerous place. I hardly ever feel safe for even a few minutes.”
On the train, she asked if I mind if she sits next to me. Of course I didn’t – we had a pleasant conversation until she left the train at Sandton. Back home, her remark haunted me.
Is that really what we are? The crime nest of our continent? A place where an African woman can’t travel safely on her own? I wish I could tell her that we are not really like that, but I can’t.
We, as a nation, kill almost 20 000 of our own each year. We object to violence against women and children for 16 days and the rest of the year we murder, rape and assault our sisters, mothers and daughters. Today I can report that my car’s tyre is in a state of perfect repair.
But I can’t say the same about my beloved country.
The colonialists called South Africa a little outpost of civilisation in dark, dangerous Africa. How wrong they were…
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