I woke at dawn and leapt out of bed in my usual energetic way. As I started to move around I wondered why my legs felt so stiff. I had promised to start going to gym, but had put off the evil moment repeatedly, with all sorts of valid and tear jerking excuses. But the fact is that I could not blame a new gym regime for the stiffness in my muscles.
Then it all came back to me. The previous night I had been driving along the N1 towards Pretoria, dressed to the nines in suit, pink shirt and tie for a dinner engagement, when suspicious noises started coming out of the bonnet of my car. At first I thought it might be the tape I was playing. I turned off the radio. The chattering noises under the bonnet continued. I rushed on through the black night, hoping for the best. At which point the engine cut out completely.
I felt like Jack Palance in one of those Injun movies. My horse had been shot out from under me. The car was coasting along without power, slowing every second, while maniacs in 4x4s roared by in both directions.
In normal times I would always wonder where in the heck everybody was rushing to. The automobile, inhabited usually by no more than one individual on a mission from hell, seems to be part of the pent-up aggression of the country that we live in. They get bigger and faster every day. They overtake you illegally from the inside lane, bringing on a near heart attack as they slice between you and the car in front and zigzag their way to a commanding position on the highway like Michael Schumacher. For what? What do they know that I don’t know?
Anyway, there I was, mercifully positioned to be able to glide without power into the left lane as the car slowed. There was an off-ramp just ahead, and enough momentum left in my damaged vehicle to carry me towards it. The car stumbled down the incline, and I brought it to a halt just before the intersection. There was dead silence, apart from the irregular roar of automobiles flying down the highway, which was now above me.
At a time like this your whole life flashes across the movie screen in your mind. What have I done to deserve this? It’s a lonely feeling.
Then a new thought made my hair stand on end. There had been another killing on precisely such an off-ramp a couple of days before. Another lone motorist had pulled over on the Rivonia off-ramp to ask a friend for directions and as he was speaking on his cellphone had been approached from behind and shot dead, one bullet in the head, another in the neck. The car keys in the ignition had not been taken. The only prize for the taking of his life was the phone.
I got out of the car and looked around at the scary landscape. They could have been waiting anywhere — at the top of the rise, beneath the bridge under the highway, sizing me up, biding their time.
Not daring to think too much, I took out my cellphone and dialled the Automobile Association. They kept on transferring me to numbers that kept on ringing. Nothing doing. I could feel my time on Earth was rapidly running out. What does a cold bullet in your head feel like? Too late to think or feel anything, I guess.
A couple of cars drove past. I knew they wouldn’t stop. As far as they were concerned, I could be a decoy. Their lives were in danger too.
A red Citi Golf paused at the intersection and, because the driver was a black guy, I made so bold as to go to his window and signal for help. I guess the suit and tie convinced him. He pulled over and helped me push the car onto the hard shoulder, out of the way of the traffic that was swerving wildly to avoid contact with me. He couldn’t do much more, but promised to phone later to see if I was all right.
There was a garage up ahead. I locked the doors and blindly picked my way in my party shoes through the grass and dirt. I was finally, safely, in the bright lights of the petrol station. Relief hit my lungs.
And then compassion, ubuntu, whatever you want to call it, kicked in. The petrol attendants gathered round me, listened to my story, and the oldest of them, the leader, said the first thing was to get my car off the road and into a safe environment. Otherwise I would come back the next day and find nothing but a skeleton. He sent three of his subordinates to help me push the car from the dark offramp to the garage.
That’s where the legs issue came in. We pushed the heavy machine for almost half a kilometre up the on-ramp. We had to circle that way and then coast the wrong way down the incline into the garage. We pushed and pushed, stopping three or four times on the way to catch our breath. The guys panted, chatted amongst themselves when we took a break, but never complained.
They smiled gratitude for the tip I spread among them when it was all over. My hosts in Pretoria had graciously sent a driver to pick me up. My hair was still in place. Dinner was on the table. The dodgy odyssey was over.
But my legs, the next day, were sore.