It wasn’t a big knife. Serrated with a pointy top and black plastic handle, I kept one just like it in my kitchen drawer for slicing oranges.
The difference was that this one belonged to a stranger who was holding it to my chest, and although he possibly adored oranges, he was keener on my bag.
”Give it,” he said.
Two years in Johannesburg, and here was my first mugging. It was midday, balmy, and I was strolling along with a sports bag containing spectacles, keys, a wallet and a cellphone.
Standing half-hidden by a lamppost, the stranger grabbed my arm as I passed. Flashing the blade, he tugged my bag.
”Give it,” he repeated. He was slim, about 22, and nervous.
To strike in broad daylight in front of half a dozen people was bold, foolish or desperate, but the gamble paid off. I let go of the bag and he turned and scampered up a knoll to some woods.
At which point I became furious, shouted for help and chased after him. Either by accident or design he dropped the knife. Reflexively I scooped it up and continued the pursuit.
An exciting town, Johannesburg. One minute you’re walking in the street, the next you’re galloping through woods pondering whether to stab someone.
At this point it is worth mentioning my ambivalence writing about this. I love Johannesburg. It is Africa’s New York, a sun-kissed, pulsating metropolis of immigrants and dynamism that does not forget to smile and wish you a good day.
Downtown is blossoming into a cultural precinct of theatres, galleries and yuppie flats. There is the Apartheid Museum, the new Nelson Mandela bridge, the gentrification of Soweto.
That the world knows Johannesburg chiefly for its crime is a travesty. So as a foreign correspondent I resolved to write about the less well-known, positive developments.
Why then bang on about being mugged, something which can happen anywhere? Well, for the simple, sad reason that crime in Johannesburg really is that bad. Recorded levels of murder, rape and car hijackings are horrific, and therefore newsworthy.
Everyone has at least one tale of woe. In the past year I have been burgled three times. My girlfriend’s car was stolen, her handbag snatched. A neighbour literally chains his Volkswagen Beetle to a tree. Armed-response signs and barbed wire proliferate. However wonderful, the city’s cultural and economic renaissance cannot wash away this other reality.
So, back to the mugging. After a half-dozen metres, gaining on my quarry, I dropped the knife, figuring I did not really want to stab him and there was the chance he might wrest it back.
After another 6m, I half-regretted that decision when he stopped and picked up a rock the size and shape of a pineapple.
Panting, we eyed each other.
”Give it,” I said, gesturing at the bag. He hesitated.
”OK,” I added, ”keep the cash from the wallet, but I want the other stuff.”
He lowered the rock and fished out the wallet, weighing the offer.
Then about six men thundered up through the trees to my rescue. If the mugger read the newspapers he would know vigilante justice was popular with South Africans. And me too, at that moment.
Dropping the bag but clutching the wallet, he fled. I pursued again, bellowing for him to please extract the credit cards and driving licence but to keep the cash. Heedless, he vanished down a storm drain where I dared not follow.
Since then I have become more cautious. No more gabbing into the cellphone when strolling in public. Only the bare minimum of cash and cards in the wallet. Discreetly checking out strangers.
Chronic, low-level anxiety is not an ideal way to live. But if that is the price to call this city home, so be it.
With its people, climate and zest, Johannesburg is worth it. — Guardian Unlimited Â