Fool's Paradise

The damage :
2 x minor grazed knuckles,
1 x  bruised Adam’s apple,
1 x dash of slightly bruised pride,
1 x slightly diminished faith in the urban renewal of ‘Jozi

OK, first things first. I know, I know – just damned stupid!! The classic “don’t try this at home kids” would apply. What on earth was I doing walking to the JAG on my own? Broad daylight aside – Joubert Park is still Joubert Park. So:  crazy, naïve, lucky – all those adjectives apply and the lesson is considered learned.

I walk. I need to walk. ATW walks. It renews me, shakes off the black dog as Churchill would say. I also know the hazards of walking in this country and have developed a spare set of eyes in the back of my head for just this purpose.

The story then. A calculated decision (in retrospect a poor calculation) to walk the 2 blocks down Wolmarans Street, into King George St to visit the Johannesburg Art Gallery during lunch.

Minding my own business, walking purposely and as vigilantly as possible. From nowhere, it seems – despite a brief warning flurry like a swirl of wind, a black-sleeved arm is very tight around my throat as it’s owner, monkey-like, clambers on my back, pulling me backwards onto the tarmac in the process (hence the grazed knuckles as I break my fall – still clinging with same knuckles to my famously and relatively unique “lim” leather-clad A5 notebook). All the time there is a loud but hoarse gasping “I kill you, I kill you” in my right ear.

At least two others grapple with my flailing arms and legs while a fourth man, older and in a green track-suit frantically but methodically works his way through my empty trouser pockets. My relatively well-stocked wallet & cellphone remain safely tucked up in my underwear. All the time it’s like watching a movie or being in a dream, where everything is vivid but in slow motion, but somehow I do not panic and remain almost acceptingly in control of myself, somehow being aware that no knight exits that is about to appear and rescue me from whatever fate awaits. The pocket search proving to be in vain the searcher moves around in front of me, presumably to obtain a better angle on my right hand pockets. All of this is happening on the ground, as I lie, held back. For a moment I see the crotch of the green track suit in front of me and with my only free limb, my right leg, aim my foot at his balls. I generate a fair bit of force, but sadly only connect with fresh air.

My reactionary wriggling remains vigorous and with it becoming evident to my assailants that their efforts may be in vain, their grip slackens. I find my voice: “FUCK YOU, FUCK ALL OF YOU” is the best I can muster as I continue to flail some more. Violently kicking the air and lashing out with a now loose arm.

The scoundrels scatter as I am allowed to stand up, to see the odd bemused spectators still wide-eyedly taking in the spectacle. I repeat my previous comments toward the backs of my scattering assailants and to anybody who cares to listen.

All of this is over in perhaps 3 minutes. I walk off, minding my own business, walking purposely and as vigilantly as possible, but with a serious amount of adrenaline pumping through my system and heart beating in quadruple time. I slow things down and write up this tale longhand in my now battle-scarred, but never released, notebook over a Coke & Nandos burger at Park Station, briefly jumping out of skin as an invasion of striking security guards stroll past and rattle on the windows behind me with the handle of their sjamboks.  It will probably take a while to digest these events internally, and I also know that these events are pale and trivial compared to much that goes on in this town. Time will tell if the experience jades my outlook. It also strikes me as a write this that it hasn't occurred to me to consider reporting  this incident to anyone.

By the way, the JAG is closed on Mondays. I know, I know – just damned stupid!