POETIC LICENCE
IT WAS in a basement parking lot.
Not too well lit. But not too dark either.
She was already walking when I closed my door.
I am generally polite, so I imagined to say hello, and figure her.
And only if she greets back, would I pay her a complement.
BEFORE I opened my mouth; I remembered that even a hello, can trigger her.
She has felt unsafe since her eyelids slid up, and her pupils kissed twilight again, this morning.
But sleep pays no bills.
Closed eyes know no bread on the table.
They know no table.
Closed eyes are only familiar with looped trailers of an afterlife.
Partially in the know about dreams. Completely oblivious to peace upon awakening.
It must be a daunting task to rush through sleep.
How do you calm down, when you are consistently keeping your guard up?
When do you rest, If not at your demise?
NEXT to a mirror before dawn, in the same bathroom, at the same hour, where she always leaves her reflection, she made herself up to mask her stench of fear.
As the sun rose, turning the key on her ignition was a suicide mission.
She drove in front of a taxi this morning.
In the news on her radio, another woman was found dead this morning.
She double checked if her doors were locked when she entered the CBD, this morning.
What is Joburg traffic to a hard place?
Is it not what a window is to a rock? Too many have been smashed.
Too many bags snatched.
Too many lives have been blessed with the same bitter fate.
The same fate unfolding before her.
She hid her fear below latex gloves and a face mask.
Draped it in blue denim, a white t shirt - half tucked in, completely luminous - swallowed beneath a tanned hide of a black lather jacket. She walked it in heals - this fear. The pencil on them damn near cracked the concrete floor.
She was dressed to die.
In that basement. Beyond the vague lights in the shadows, lurked me.
A man, in a “not too well lit, but not too dark either” parking lot, who could be “generally polite” or murderous.
A murderer is proficient too in politeness.
IT WAS at this likeness, when I decided not to open my mouth;
Touched the brim of my hoody. Shied away in shame and walked the other way.
It wasn’t really where I was going. I had no intention of adding to how many times she made it out alive, this morning.
The energy in that basement was as bewildering as the lighting.
But it always comes to this. She was mentally fighting - for survival. Many have succumbed to this.
She held no handbag.
At least her hands were free should she be required to execute one of her half a dozen exit strategies.
In the midst of my stride, walking towards a wall, I was reminded that my existence IS a tragedy.