Literally living in a low budget horror movie
I enjoy watching low-budget horror movies, especially older ones in which the knife’s silicone blade wobbles a bit as the deranged inbred swings for the busty college girl’s throat.
The plot must be as thin as the blonde’s blouse who, quite obviously, was chosen for her impressive bosom rather than for her acting skills.
And the psycho doing the slashing need not say one word, but just keep on spilling blood and guts, even after he’s lost some limbs and has vital organs exposed after being run over 10 times.
While watching just such a movie recently, about a deranged psychopath stalking a woman in a house, I realised something: with a little bit of shock, and some amusement, I realised life here in Zululand is a lot like a low budget horror movie.
I saw movement outside through the gap between the curtains and immediately took the torch I keep next to the bed to check whether it’s a branch blowing in the wind, a cat or a whoonga addict admiring my garden furniture.
Luckily it ended up being just a cat, but I’ve had two-legged visitors in my yard before, at night, on more occasions than I can remember.
Dirty Harry
When it happens, unlike the busty blonde’s dead boyfriend, I don’t run outside pretending to be Bruce Willis.
No, I switch the inside lights off, all outside lights on, and yell at whoever is out there to bugger off before I call the police.
It’s a lie of course, threatening to phone the cops.
I never bother because I know by the time they come to collect fingerprints, the Lord would have returned - which is better because He doesn’t give suspended sentences.
It’s heaven or hell, nothing else.
Besides, even if the intruder should be inside the bedroom and humming the theme music of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, inflicting harm upon him will just cause you more misery.
A sly lawyer will persuade a naïve judge that the poor underprivileged soul just wanted to use the ensuite bathroom, and instead of trying to be
Dirty Harry, you should have apologised for not being wealthy enough to afford two-ply and asked him in a gentle tone to put the seat back down when done.
No, best try and guide him towards the neighbour’s house because those bloody drag marks you see in horror movies are a pain to clean.
Their garden furniture is better than mine, anyway.
Jaws
Living in Zululand horror can be around every corner.
Take a wrong turn on the wrong rural road and wham!
A monster chops your head off because he likes your car.
Go fish at a remote spot and splat! You run into a murderer on the beach before Jaws even gets a fair chance to circle you.
Go out for dinner…guaranteed someone is lurking somewhere in the dark, watching you and waiting for the right moment to kill you for anything including your good looks.
It’s terrifying and flattering at the same time because, while those living overseas have to watch horror movies for a bit of entertainment, it’s part of our everyday lives.
In fact, instead of wasting money on a busty blonde and some tomato sauce, movie makers on a low budget can just visit Zululand and roll the cameras.