Armed robbers rammed a revolver into Jeremy Daphne’s mouth and dumped him in the veld. He lived to tell the tale
Reversing out my drive, radio playing, looking forward to a cheery supper with friends. Feeling good in my new, second-hand denim jacket. Hope they will enjoy my R11,99 dry red wine.
Flashy new combi blocks the way, gunman looms up, revolver held sideways and from aloft – movie style. It’s happening to me, oh my fuck, my turn has come.
Shall I try and reverse? Too late, two more gunmen join the first – must keep my hands in full view. What was that advice about hijack etiquette? Yanked out of the driver’s seat and across the car roof. Will they shoot? Snub-nosed revolver rammed in my mouth and vigorously rotated.
God almighty, these guys mean business. I’m in for a thrashing before they take my car. Where is everyone? Why is the street so quiet at 7pm? Christ almighty, it’s me and them – at least six of them – and nobody else.
Thrown on to the ground – quick, quick, quick – where is your gun, where is your bank card, where are your friends – hushed, menacing but calm tones.
Open the boot. Staring at the open boot – no guns in the boot, what do they want with the boot? Get in, a voice commands. Get in, get in, get in – unbelieving – no, no, no. Is this the end? Yes, this is the end.
Lying in the boot – red glow from the tail lights – slight smell of exhaust fumes. The car is going to be driven at reckless speeds – screeching of tyres – thrown all over the place – maybe an accident.
No, the car cruises slowly and carefully. Radio still on my favourite station, voices chatting happily. Am I religious? Will the gods cast their last blessings upon me, and help me meet my end? Nothing happens. No sense of spirituality. Why did I ask the question? Scientific rationalism will have to do.
Alone in the boot. Nobody knows. Have I had a good life? – whirling existential thoughts mixed with numb, tingling fear. Becoming steadily more numb.
Car cruising, radio playing. Can’t feel if it is cold or hot. I must do something. I must throw off the clawing numbness. I must feel the pain of my destiny, and fight for my life. Should I kick open the boot and jump? Yes. Heart races, fear strikes in deep, painful stabs as I prepare. No. No. I am too afraid to try.
Leaping straight to my death. I will engage my captors. I will appeal to their more humane side. They don’t seem to be common street thugs. I will show utter compliance, but also that I am a human. If the car drives into the veld, they will shoot me.
As they open the boot I will negotiate for my life. My most important round of negotiations. How do you negotiate for your life?
Red glow of tail lights, slight smell of exhaust fumes. Curled in the boot, feeling numb again. Car slows down, radio stops. Car bumps and jolts as it leaves the road. Engine switched off. Still feeling numb – what was it that I was going to say?
Boot does not open. Sound of striking matches and faint smell of smoke. All the tortured souls that ever left this earth in pain and agony shriek as the realisation of a slow death sears through me. I am going to be roasted alive. The car starts again and music plays. Probably stopped for a smoke – maybe a smoker would have known better.
Numbness claws again. The car bumps into the veld – boot opens – numbness swiftly erased by heart-racing dizziness – keep your eyes closed – negotiate, negotiate – I am on your side, I understand, this is a trade union car, I am not one of those white racists – fist in face – fok off, shut up.
Dragged by feet across the veld, into a room with cold cement floor, bright light above. Many voices. Many voices. Boot pressed roughly on my throat. Hands tear off clothes. Where is the card? Where is the money?
Hands at my throat – head explodes with a flash of stars. Hands released. Where is your card?
Hands clasp my balls. Time to beg – a thin, frightened voice comes from my mouth – please don’t hurt me. Give me your jacket, pull up your pants. Zip broken. Sudden coldness overwhelms me.
Dragged across the veld to the car – into the boot – red glow of tail lights. Radio on my favourite station, and my security whistle being gleefully blown. Enveloped with numbness again. Can’t smell the exhaust fumes. Don’t care anymore.
Boot opens – swung in the air by hands and feet – should we give him R10 or R50 – a note pushed in my hand – flying through the air – hope surges, fierce and strong – crash into the earth – run, run, run – into a security fence.
Is this a cruel joke? Cling to the fence and wait. Where are they? No sound. Clamber up the trench – a car approaches – here they come again – jump again and wait. Clamber up again, a row of houses appears, joy floods through me.