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  • Slow Walk to Freedom
  • Andie Miller (bio)

I suppose by the law of averages it was my time. I was mugged again today. Though technically I'm not quite sure; like I assume rape means penetration, I always get the feeling mugged means there has to be actual—rather than just the threat of—violence involved. Is this accurate, or just South African perversity?

The first time I was attacked was December 1996, in Hillbrow in Johannesburg, Sunday, 7:00 p.m. Preparing to go on holiday, I had been doing last-minute work that weekend. My friend David had too, and so on the Saturday evening we walked home together from the Centre for the Study of Violence and Reconciliation in Braamfontein where we worked, to Yeoville, through Hillbrow.

When we reached the park on the border of Hillbrow and Berea (most memorable at one time for the pigeon lady, who could be seen on any given day covered in the pigeons she was feeding), we debated whether it would be more sensible to walk through it or around it, and we decided that open streets were more conducive to safety than being fenced in. "What would you have to lose now if you were mugged?" David asked.

"Oh, not much, just my life," I replied, thinking about the tedium of replacing ID documents and bank cards. But we reached our shared corner safely that evening, wished each other happy holidays, and went our separate ways.

Perhaps because of that, a false sense of security, or invincibility, denial, foolishness, I reasoned that the biggest thing I had to fear was my own lack of trust, decided not to call a taxi the following evening, and walked home on my own. Stopping off at the Hare Krishna restaurant for a take-away, I continued on around the park. By the time I realized the three men were converging on me, it was too late. "We want money," the one with [End Page 44] the knife threatened. Midthirties, perhaps younger, prematurely aged. His accomplices holding me from behind, I didn't see more than their shapes. But his face was close to mine, as he broke the chain with the labradorite crystal (helps one remain calm within chaos) around my neck, and I screamed at his knife at my throat. They scattered, and I continued home with my curry, effectively shaken (can't walk alone after dark anymore, I thought), thinking about the month of paid leave ahead of me and about how the man with the dangerously desperate face now etched into my memory had in all likelihood never been and would never go on a holiday. (Was I being naïve?) I felt entangled in rage, and guilt, and a dark sadness.

But that was a long time ago and had faded into a distant memory now, as I was confronted again with a knife in my ribs: "Give me your bag. Don't scream. Just cooperate, and we won't hurt you." Muggers seem to have become almost polite and more educated since my last encounter. And definitely more educated. And much younger. (But they still swarm, in threes.) Sixteen? Eighteen? It was hard to tell: disturbingly young.

Of course I couldn't be sure if he would stab me or not, but this time I wasn't taking any chances. Last time my rage and pride got the better of me, and I was determined to be heard. This time I was sandwiched between the boys and the German shepherd screaming louder than I ever could, behind the suburban wall (must remember to walk closer to the road).

It's a pity dogs don't protect you when you're on the outside.

I had been happy this afternoon. I was walking home from a visit to the dentist, where thankfully she had managed to desensitize a tooth and avoid having to pull it. Just a few blocks from the dentist I encountered something unusual for the northern suburbs of Johannesburg, an elderly white lady walking down the road very slowly—looking vulnerable but self-assured—with an umbrella, as though on an outing. I don't...

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