Taxi Prayer

The taxi driver says he’ll pray for me. It’s one of those rides where it’s just the two of us but it feels as though there is little space and even less air as we hurtle from Ausspannplatz to Maerua Mall with the weight of the world spreading out within the confines of the car. Crushing our voice boxes, killing conversation, devastating decency.

The man who runs a red robot in front of us breaks the spell and the taxi driver mutters under his breath.

Furious expletives that have little to do with the red robot runner and more to do with the tail-end of his tirade that seems to splatter the interior with a dark, pent up fury which explains the oppressive silence.

A man has been killed by a suspected murderer out on bail and it makes the taxi driver see red.

The red of robots ignored, of blood and of the newspaper logo that bears the grim details between the clutch and the car radio.

It’s the same story that has taken up residence as a lump in my throat.

A father shot dead in his own home for N$8 600, a laptop, a camera, a cellphone and some jewellery. His children left without a father the night before Father’s Day. His wife about to begin raising them on her own in world that has failed her.

The taxi driver sees scarlet. The reckless run red robots. Life is cheap and the justice system lets murderers walk the streets breathing the same air they will gladly steal from another’s lungs but only until their luck runs out and they can graduate to looting our taxes.

Because even the scum of the earth needs to eat, drink and sh*t behind bars.

The taxi driver has no patience for such swindle or for Oscar Pistorius.

He’s been following the trial, watching the state’s money go down the drain like hot, heavy crocodile tears and he is amazed that, even in South Africa, there are ‘passion killers’.

At this point, I realise I have barely said a word.

I’ve been nodding my head, sucking the air through my teeth in all the right places and I’m about to tell him how South Africa has plenty of crime and it is one of the reasons I moved home after school but the comment gets stuck to the lump in my throat and I don’t say anything.

I don’t tell him that I left South Africa because I missed feeling safe.

Because with Hans-JÖrg MÖller murdered, freed killers walking amongst us and women beaten to death every other day, it seems a stupid thing to say.

I don’t feel safe.

And instead of sighing with relief when I returned home from Cape Town recently because I could finally stop looking over my shoulder, setting alarms and strapping my bag tightly across my chest, I came home to live like I do in the place that I left.

To see Ndaponah Shikangalah take to Facebook to ask for prayers for her friend who was stabbed right in front of her house. Seven times by six men at 20h00.

To try and remember the taxi numbers my girlfriends post on Facebook with warnings to avoid them at all costs because they have been hit on too aggressively, threatened with violence after a dispute about the fare or been driven in the wrong direction before jumping out of a moving car.

And to fight off the gang of drunks trying to grope me on my way home as my sister and her boyfriend listen to my screams through the cellphone in my hand as I kick and scratch my way free.

I don’t feel safe.

And by the end of the week, nobody will.

We’ll all see the faces of two missing little girls photographed amidst the unspeakable.

Reports that four children were raped over the weekend will surface and sicken.

Another woman to add to the countless will be murdered by her significant other as she prepares to go and guard everyone but herself.

And a hostel caretaker will be suspended with full pay after being accused of molestation. Not once or twice but thrice.

Before the media storm.

Before the man who allegedly raped and killed 13-year-old Minette Shikongo is let out on N$1 000 bail and the residents of Oshiyashemanya stand up to protest.

Before the Walvis Bay community mourning Captain MÖller hold ‘No Bail 4 Murderers’ banners outside the magistrate’s court as the impassive killers arrive for a hearing, the taxi driver says he will pray.

In an age of information overload, Sunrise is The Namibian’s morning briefing, delivered at 6h00 from Monday to Friday. It offers a curated rundown of the most important stories from the past 24 hours – occasionally with a light, witty touch. It’s an essential way to stay informed. Subscribe and join our newsletter community.