EPTThis my story. I am an ex-software developer who left the Computer Industry and joined the Security Forces (in the country South Africa). Initially I worked in a small town, near the mines and farming lands. At the beginning of 2023 I returned back to my home city Cape Town. It was here that I was offered a job working in the African Township, doing armed escort for liquor trucks. The story here describes my return to Cape Town city, and my account of what I experienced in the African Township. Its significance becomes clearer when you understand that less than 1% of the non-african population or the inhabitants of Cape Town haven't even entered the Township before, because they all remain within the Inner City and outskirt regions. I was paid by a man in Texas to produce this story, and now am releasing it online for the interests of any audience willing to know it. Images taken on my cellphone also feature.
PS: Here are links to photos
https://ibb.co/GFYQ1XH
https://ibb.co/9y0RzQJ
https://ibb.co/Jmhn26R
THE RETURN TO THE CITY (chapter 1)
I was thoroughly disillusioned. An orange autumn sun was setting on the scene beyond the window looking down from above the council flat. I was on its highest floor and could see the grass below, covered in litter and waste. Someone, somewhere was responsible for the waste, and thus the people residing within were, due to their nature, somehow to blame. My friend-acquaintance (the flat owner) was busying himself in the kitchen next door, cooking up a haphazard meal that smelt of brusque onions mixed with impersonal tomato-paste.
Hopefully some meat substance also featured amongst it - I couldn't imagine him processing such a meal after the 4 beers he'd ingested. We had come to his flat after meeting at some Local Pub where within he probably knew, that if we'd met there, I would've felt obliged to pay for his drinks; and my desperate haste for accommodation, now attempted via him, was probably quite obvious. Although I thought that that pub was merely neutral-ground he'd chosen for cementing the deal beforehand, I still went along with it even though it'd become steadily clear that I misread the situation terribly.
At this point, I was standing in the bedroom that could potentially be mine. One simple action would settle it - all it would take was unloading the car and by that act commit, to what retrospectively would later seem an insane offer. He wanted R4500 a month for this room; it contained a bleak bed surrounded by miscellaneous junk. I was somewhat frozen looking out the window weighing my options. Would I go unnoticed in this place, or rather, would I survive? What potential criminals lie buried midst these halls? Is it really so bad? What are the odds the neighbours are quiet and keep to themselves? He came inside to check on me and so ending my reverie. Soon I was sitting across from him in the living room by a table pushed against the western window, which inevitably featured the setting Sun behind the mountain... to the West.
The Man sitting before me was Barry Olivier, a 60 year old Security Officer who was an Unarmed Guard. I met him during Spring 2019 when he started working nightshift in our complex. On the nights he worked you’d always find him seated in the lobby behind a desk. During those times I made repeated visits to him, hanging out in the entrance below. There was a bench against the side and a TV pinned up showing the surveillance. He had surprising knowledge of all the residents; sometimes I’d stand before the board listing the units and ask details about their names. Amongst this time he encouraged me to think about working in Security; he even linked me to someone who did the training. I steadily drew inspiration from this and finally in September 2020, I took his advice and began the process.
It's important to note as I relay this chronology that I left Cape Town City at the end of 2020, and kept in contact with Barry. He was by all means a white Afrikaans guy with 2 brothers who came from the Police Force and South African Navy. He walked with a slight limp, which incidentally seemed to disappear as he got more liquor into his system.
Whenever before I’d seen Barry he was always in uniform, and comported himself thereby suitably. He wore glasses; had a short, neat crew-cut, and the build of a burly Headmaster. It never occurred to me that when he was off he spent his time at seedy pubs and liked slot machines. I always imagined him coming home dutifully to retire before his hearth with a pot of tea and a benign smile on that vacant face - a face that seemed responsibly urbane through the glass of his spectacles. Presently, as he sat before me holding a cigarette flicking it upon the ashtray before us, a sort of precursory terror engulfed me. How many bleak cigarettes has that ashtray had to endure? He wasn’t looking directly at me but continued on over some monologue aimed at me saying things like: “You know James, it’s time you stand up, man up. You not a child anymore…” “…You can’t let your family rule your life. You don’t have to listen to them…” Clearly he was trying to put pressure encouraging me to stay, but done with terrible skill and felt crude.
The above described are delusions one cannot afford within Private Security. Your instincts must never be dampened subjectively trying to see good in everything. The above example might seem trite and dull as hell, yet 2 variables were in critical play here, by whatever names you wish to call them: People & Place - Demographic & Region - Social-class & environment. And you can be sure of one thing, that midst those halls of council flats criminals were buried; and me moving in would've been all the good sense of a man parachuting into an alligator farm. Only a matter of time would lead me to be singled-out as someone with money and thus become a target. If you can forestall danger, do it. If you can avoid loss, do it. If you have money or represent the interests of money, most likely you're a target - and when you become a target, assume that at any given point in the future you'll be dead or compromised - unless you undo the opposing force.
The axiomatic cliché declared aloud : 'Trust No One' is too simple. More realistically, rather assume that anyone who’s alive always has an ID number; every person has a social presence so resultantly, anyone capably walking the streets is a potential subject. No one alive within a city can escape being processed - either as a victim of Crime or a Perpetrator thereof.
As it was, I forged an excuse to leave and fled from Barry’s place checking into a hotel that night. I had to rethink my plan of coming back to Cape Town. I had no choice but to contact my benefactor telling them my plan backfired. In truth I’d given Barry a sizeable advance cash deposit, of which alarmingly, he showed no memory of getting, or even talked about when making his offer. I’d actually left a few notes on the table as a means to say thank you yet spare his feelings from the truth. The awful truth of course being, I couldn’t contemplate living in that depressing place. I also did not expect he could be so boorish.
The day of encountering Barry fell upon March the 5th 2023, nearly 4 months have elapsed since then reaching the month of July, which marks the decision made to start recording these events. I had returned after 2 years of living in the North-West Province, and Eastern Cape Karoo. My time spent in those two regions mark the start of my security career, but none of my previous work brought me within reach of any African Township. When I say African Township, it is a term denotative of a settlement in South Africa which in itself is ubiquitous, for the word denotes a place always sharing the same theme. This theme is impossible to discuss without avoiding class distinction and vivid statistics. More importantly, it is impossible to realistically view the township without comparing other people more well-off. When I say Township I literally mean a demarcated zone isolated from the Upper class set aside for the inhabitant population. Insurance companies for Health & Cars immediately phone the client when their vehicle breaches the area. Fortified walls and barbed-wire prevent civilians entering on foot, instead of via the highway junction. No one claims to have built these barriers on purpose, yet no doubt the anomaly remains consistent across the City landscape. Its significance will become a retroactive-phenomenon on your mind, once you learn more. And I'm certain about 95% of the Status quo have never been in reach of the Township… or rightly grasp its full dimension.
A NEW PLAN
The Bed & Breakfast I'd contacted was found in the same Cul de Sac our family once owned a house within. Since it was familiar, the Innkeeper knew me and gave a room with warm swift reception. I retired that night but didn't sleep well, for although my benefactor said he won't abandon me until I'd resettled, the theme of financial leakage had kicked in. Surely this warm furnished room, scent of linen and peaceable atmosphere should ease my mind, but it all seemed to be lacking any assurance powerful enough to demolish the doom of poverty. I felt these comfortable walls were merely postponing decay and hunger, like a medical artifice that tantalized rather than cured. Lying down that night I kept reiterating over the steps forward: It was a logistical nightmare, since I had to find work, while through the auspices of my benefactor organize permanent residence. It was also unfeasible to search for work while being unsettled – it’s common in the industry whereupon applying to be deployed the very next day, sometimes even that night.
I arose that morning and guzzled a sizeable breakfast, and began simply walking the streets; it was important not to capitulate to any form of depressive lethargy. In actual reality, I was quite excited being back in the city, especially coming from the backwater town I was at before, midst the Karoo Desert – a place called Graaff-Reinet. Perhaps by economical standards Graaff-Reinet was not so backwater since it was a beacon for tourism. It was in this town that I'd taken my first Cash-In-Transit job, working for a company sub-contracted by G4S and Fidelity. The town was unmistakably protected by a non-official Syndicate of wealthy farmers and Afrikaans locals. You can walk around safely at any hour. Every road leading into town has a hi-tech camera monitoring traffic coming in and out. There were two WhatsApp groups designating the North and South sections of the Town that responded to member residents in distress. The men comprising this unofficial force all had firearms legally, either for marksmanship or personal usage.
While there were key moments during my time here, being valid learning curves for my security experience, I was ultimately working in a demilitarized zone – if such a term could be said. Graaff-Reinet is one of a few rare towns in South Africa that have established Peace.
For my own reasons I needed to return to the City. I needed to expand my career and secretly longed for the toxicity of urban interplay. I needed to walk through a mall or busy street and experience artisans, hipsters, Capetonian Cyclists, businessmen, beggars, students, and desperate housewives. There was only so much I could gain from a rural small town. I was feeling alienated for I did not drink, I would spend every Saturday sitting at the same bar surrounded by yokels having little new to talk about.
Ultimately my plan was to try join one of those large household companies: G4S, Fidelity or maybe even SBV. I imagined using my credentials and experience to become a Cash-In-Transit Officer working in the city; the pay would be greater and the work presumably reasonable.
As it transpired after 4 days, I left the expensive Bed & Breakfast and checked into the Lennox Hotel (a well-known venue used by tourists and drifters) of which whose affordable price gave me about 14 more days to plan further. It was a shared room with 6 bunks inside, but surprisingly tolerable in its ambient layout. Mercifully the residents knew their business, kept a window open despite the cold, and purported no disgusting smartphone habits.
Another feature about Barry that induced horror was the fact upon entering his apartment, he'd left the radio playing at a volume filling the whole place. That lack of instinct warned me not to join him under the same residential flag. The pattern of indiscriminate media consumption, something that separates the chaff from the wheat, is a recurring theme I’d encounter over days to come - something impossible to reconcile without dehumanizing anyone receptive thereto.
The nights spent at the Lennox afforded me some pleasure, being in harmony with my taste and likings. It really was a transitory bastion, like a twilight train station, hosting a vast array of people. There was a large dinner hall with wooden floors, tables and a tray providing free coffee and sugar. The place where residents gathered usually was the scenic veranda with a seating area overlooking the road – I would spend the late evenings here talking to the guard, and meeting different people. The guard was an African guy, and the American girls staying there often treated him to free bonus meals, which was a kind gesture well received, since I’d nudge him to ask for an extra box of 6 nuggets (for me) when they purchased from McDonalds.
One particular girl I met there went by the name of Jeen (though her real name was Zenith). I admit I honed in on her initially as she looked more distinguished than most. Actually one of the guys made a joke saying she was an actress which I mistook literally, believing she really was an actress now out of work. I once took her for a drive to a mall nearby, as a random friendly outing; we also exchanged numbers, of which as you will see, led her to contact me much later.
THE AMERICAN EMBASSY
For the time I had a vehicle and enough resource to travel, affording coffee and frugal meals; I continued looking for a place that met tolerable criteria. Though I’d alleviated the financial drain, the crushing theme of urgency hadn’t left me. I would walk the streets and traverse malls via random itineraries while sighting Security brands that protected shops and businesses. In my ordinary complacent state, I could usually afford some inspiration from the well-groomed people met along the way, but the city never seemed so hostile and coldly disjunctive. You could say what you want about these people - they all looked happily accounted for; they all knew when their next meal was, and they all had an address to come home to. I remember being inside my favourite mall (Cavendish Square) having coffee in a bookshop at a large table shared by others. Across me sat a young guy in his early 20s, donned in thick clothes of wintry black and a pair of boots. Whether it was his hair or garb, something in his arrangement looked strained and rigidly uptight. He was not exactly fat, but wore a fixed, monotone expression on his pudgy face.
Before him lay a pencil sketch, showing an outline of some garment; it was obvious – this guy was studying fashion or works in fashion – he was a fashion designer. Whatever indispensable niche that measly drawing would fulfil someday I’d never know, alarming though his entire lunch hour led up to that moment; that his meal and coffee equated to the energy-output needed to produce that work. But I didn’t have time to scan the ongoings of others, I had to resume my mission. I settled the bill and continued pacing idly through the Centre planning my next move. As I travelled through the ambient murmur of the cavernous mall – in a stride slightly aqueous and hypnotic – it was difficult to believe that I was under pressure. Perhaps that’s the power of walking through the Public Square that by its very nature, one shouldn’t feel overwhelmingly isolated. I was debating whether to start applying for work now or wait until after established in a proper home.
I was unsure if to start distributing my Credentials, while not having a place to stay. Determined though I was to start work, I had no wish for devoted martyrdom, doing long shifts and recovering afterwards in a place unconducive to personal freedom. And more, I’d never be able to search for a home in between those long overlapping hours. Picking a home takes admin: visiting places, dealing with estate agents, signing papers and sending e-messages. The exigencies of security demand sometimes that a new recruit can be deployed the day after joining – there’s usually ample precedence for this given how volatile the industry is. Though despite all these worries I resolved to try the 3 household companies I’d had my eye set on – G4S, Fidelity, and SBV. They were large enterprises and would likely screen a candidate thoroughly during interview. Perhaps then I could explain my delay needed before becoming active on the field.
In correct sequence I drove to their offices and handed in all my papers stapled together. As it turned out, within 6 days I received an SMS from G4S requesting a meeting at their other office, situated at the Airport. That day fell upon a Monday which gave me a bit of time to travel their beforehand and find it. For the address was vague and the airport was massive structure with a mall inside. I arrived on Saturday evening; it turned out the place had G4S guards scattered everywhere; obviously they owned the security contract here. The guards helpfully pointed to a long walk through the parking lot which led to an inconspicuous office building. After finding the office I stalled a bit inside the airport cafeteria (having a light meal) before going home that night.
Monday came and I arrived at the expected place; the only white guy amongst several Africans, who greeted me kindly with the usual banter ensuing amongst fellow guardsmen. 2 idle hours elapsed with the cool sun climbing slowly over the arena. At length a lady called us in and soon we were all seated to write a basic aptitude test. It featured number riddles, field-related questions, and a general knowledge quiz such as: Who is the Premier of Cape Town? Who is the current mayor of Cape Town?
The lady overseeing us showed favourable interest to me and said to report in a week’s time to attend a special interview. It turns out they needed men with both Firearm competency and Driving License for a post at the American Embassy. I had some excitement supplied by the notion - The American Embassy! For working within such a place, technically meant being upon the soil of America. To be privy to or just simply nearby the richest most powerful nation in the world felt something illustrious.
A week elapsed and by this time I’d found a place in my price range: a flat on a corner in a secluded neighbourhood buried in the suburb Claremont; the area fell under the shadow of the mountain (Table Mountain) and thus blessed with the characteristic sunset which disappears behind its height. The place itself was compact and simple with a parking lot. I was on the ground floor; the Southern wall comprised entirely of a glass door opening onto the garden, consisting grass shrouded under various trees. Squirrels could be seen prowling beyond the door, which are the signature rodent of Cape Town City. Other areas in South Africa sport different critters such as monkeys or meerkats (Pietermaritzburg and Klerksdorp respectively). At any rate, I really struck gold finding this place mainly for its ambience that suffered no auditory pollution. The residents didn’t play loud music; the children were under control. The only minor flaw being that upon occasion during day some school or home, several houses away, sporadically hosted children playing, who made the most disgusting sounds of unmitigated screams. Luckily I could only hear this when approaching the bathroom window to the North.
Established in my new base of operations, I travelled back to the airport for that scheduled day. The meeting began very smoothly, face to face with a benevolent aged man. Who seemed on the brink of taking me, however it came to the point where we tallied my total experience in years, and unfortunately the US government was quite vocal that the men they want must have a minimum of 5 years experience; be it any field: Police, Military, Anti-poaching… etc.
Of course, I only had 2 years and couldn’t get the post. He was duly friendly about the business saying quite openly he liked me and will hand my papers over to their Cash-In-Transit division. He also felt to elaborate further on the matter, telling me the US administration will be quite thorough on their side. They will no doubt screen all newly enlisted men in accord with their standard… even checking their online social media accounts. A premonitory sinking feeling engulfed me, merely out of principle. Is there anything I’ve ever said online that’s caused a stir before? Was the current government devoted to some party which set the yardstick of judging ones character, against one cause or another? More particularly was there something historically stupid which depicted me in an overweening bad light.
Within that micro-second I’d undergone a complete revolution, pivoting on the gap between legitimate work, and some impulsive post. I had no problem resolving the matter by vaporizing my existence. Not only that but it was filled with a chastising self-hatred. If I was provoked into writing something inflammatory that later counted against me, I’d carry a grudge impossible to resolve! Suddenly all political feelings and thought seemed like paltry squabble.
These are the sudden shifts of priority someone undergoes when legitimate work comes into play, and weighed against hubristic things done in spare time. While I could say no fanatical seed lay dormant in me, there had been times - especially during quarantine - that I’d found myself browsing online and bickering amongst people. I’ve definitely said somethings, which could be interpreted as pen-strokes of a social martyr. But those things are nothing more than tension and boredom within a person, who’s discharging that tension in the dead-space of a forum, because it gives them the illusion of speaking aloud midst the Public Square.
Combined with the humility over my short work experience (although that could be forgiven, I was after all new to the field) I felt a bit deflated. Feeling somnambulant, I walked out the door into the cavernous parking arena heading absent-mindedly to the cafeteria. The aftermath of this interview, despite ending well and being warmly received, left a dull impression upon me. Another thing the official said was “Don’t put all your eggs in one basket, especially in security” - which was exactly what I’d done. I had fixated on this company due to the prestige of their name; I knew well they were international originating from the United Kingdom. There was something stimulating about their logo and colours too; everything seemed so tantalizing. However it’s important to know I was being somewhat naïve and assumed the workload would be similar to my previous job. Later encounters would prove this was very far from reality.
I sat at a synthetic table inside the cafeteria holding a coffee immersed within the tranquil din of the airport, and debating quietly whether to follow the advice of this man. My instincts told me the hope of joining G4S would never happen; sort of a looming feeling in my pumping heart. But my intuition performed a series of contradictions that did away with all doubt. And yet I knew, I knew, that I was procrastinating! The very act of stalling at the Airport Mall was a way of basking in its ambience, for I hoped it would reflect and portend the nature of my future workplace. I assumed my return to the city would entitle me to a position working amongst the city and its people. It is the entitled assumption of the Middle Class to blend into the harmony of cosmopolitan life. Everyone wants to become a daily unit fulfilling its aqueous interplay and machinations: A postman picking up a parcel, a driver dropping off a meal, the technician fixing a wire, the janitor replacing a bulb, the florist attending flowers, the assistant striking the till, and of course…. the armed guard protecting the ATM on standby. This presumed ‘peaceability’ is also due to the coastal atmosphere of Cape Town, being much safer than other places in South Africa, and it really is (more or less). By that I mean when a high-scale crime happens the criminals cannot easily flee due to the ocean lessening the avenues of escape. The other main city Johannesburg, which is situated more inland, is notoriously infested with crime. I saw footage before of a CIT guard getting shot inside a mall, surrounded by civilians. The perp drew his weapon from beneath his jacket, about 4 feet away and unloaded 3 rounds point blank. Naturally I was glossing over things as bad as that, trying omit risk and danger. Essentially my mind had drifted into fantasy: working for a powerful company; being on top American soil; standing in a cool mall guarding an ATM.
I began retreating further into my mind in a manner that could be defined as intellectualism. According to the Oxford Dictionary of Psychology, intellectualism is when the mind over-defines things to escape itself from truth. I began by objectively placing myself in relation to the strata of geo-politics and global custom: I’m in an airport; I’m in a beacon of airspace within South Africa – a country that’s been influenced by Britain and America, a place abiding by Free Enterprise and Democracy; I’m trying to fulfil a noble duty of being a private security officer - the next best thing to law enforcement; what makes the law legal? Guns! No, not that… The Constitution, and its collective signature, notarized by a higher power. I should be in harmony with this system, at least I should be since I’m prepared to work. No doubt, the system will look after me and protect me from poverty and hunger. The system too has given me an ID number which invests me with the power to vote, and control the future. Not only that, it’s given me the right to travel to other lands across the globe… why I could get on a plane right now!
So ensued the monologue within my mind, and while these key ideas seem blurred, tame, and devoid of flame they would come into play much later in pending futures.
As it was, the present day fell upon March 28, on a Tuesday. What would ensue over the entire month of April was a long month drawn-out, making periodic visits to the airport and G4S office. Each encounter proved a disenchantment of assuring words, more or less hearing my papers were indeed handed to the correct agent, that the person overseeing recruitment was handling them but hadn’t arrived that morning yet, or was indisposed, or away on leave, or due back later that hour. Despite all this I still clung to hope!
As April subsided, winter began availing itself with hints of grey cold and looming rain, and my new home became more hospitable than ever. I still found myself setting out every day embarking on random itineraries, usually just walking. For it was crucial to stay in shape and keep my vital system above nominal.
At some point through the month, the aforementioned Jeen girl whom I’d exchanged numbers with made contact. She needed a place to stay and knew I’d left the hotel to finding a better place. Of course, she already needed a place, hence being at the Lennox. What she really meant was could she perhaps camp out at my place for a time, to lighten financial drainage. She was sitting on a lump sum of money she’d amassed after selling all her furniture, and no doubt it was running out faster due to accommodation fees. Upon the basis of fulfilling household chores and prepping meals better prepared than by my dull hand, I said yes. Jeen considered herself Cape Malay which denotes a brand of Muslim people typical to Cape Town, yet she expressed no particular custom thereof. One would assume via her manner and garb she was merely a coloured girl. But ultimately she looked like a random white woman with tanned features.
Jeen was somewhat interesting. Actually as a study attesting to our Status Quo she was fascinating. Her previous situation was enabled by some foreign middle-eastern guy born into extreme wealth who owned a General Store. He had funded her entire apartment, furnished it lavishly, buying utilities, and gave her a monthly allowance to spend on lifestyle. This situation continued unabated with seamless harmony for about 18 months; He’d visit her periodically to spend time with her, though he’d never stay longer than two days, disappearing afterwards to run his business or travel back home. It’s critical to note that during this time she took no advantage of her position. She never asked him to say, pay for an on-the-fly beautician course or buy a laptop & headset to teach English online. Her days consisted of filming decorous videos of herself usually in her lush apartment, or taking an Uber to the mall then ordering an artisan meal which in turn was also photographed with annotations.
Then what happened, she eventually discovered that in actuality he was married to another woman living in his origin country. She discovered this when surreptitiously browsing his phone and apparently a huge scene erupted. Jeen described the scene to me as her completely freaking out, demanding him to choose her over his legitimate wife. Obviously some kind of effusive display must’ve ensued; she showed me a picture of a smashed flat-screen TV that’d gotten damaged during. In any case, the guy then basically pulled the plug on her and disappeared, leaving her in an apartment she couldn’t pay for. He might simply have gone back to his country, forgoing the lease, because the landlord soon turned his attention onto her. She made some promise or supplication assuring him she’d take care of it.
Two Months elapsed of her fighting and struggling blindly, trying to enlist random strangers to move in and cover the whole rent (with her still present) but no one was feasibly interested. Eventually she sat there with no electricity, no money and the threat of a third month’s payment due. As a compromise she sold all her furniture, utilities and even some clothes to the Landlord – hence the lump sum of money she wielded.
As you hear these details, your impression has probably depicted her as some abrasive cliché: a shrill hot-headed, toxic entity shrieking like a harpy. This is not quite the case. True, when things didn’t go her way her voice rose to a nagging whiney pitch, but never anything aggressively unsound. To all appearance, she was the most innocuous, regular, unassuming girl on the menu. She only smoked cigarettes and was nobly opposed to drinking. This was also due to her actually upholding the tenets of Islam – that is the Muslim faith. Yet done so privately and alone and never factored into her image that dealt with people (This too was interesting since in the evenings she’d ramble, quite unequivocally, about Judas being the true messiah who substituted the position of Christ during the Crucifixion). She never spoke at a volume that thrusted her into attention, and whenever listing her moral outlooks (if there are such things) it all sounded powerfully harmless and diluted with good. When driving beside me in the car, invariably within 3 minutes she’d produce her phone to begin filming herself or snap a quick photo, once again of herself. I found this highly irksome; it’s discourteous for the co-pilot to be so vividly preoccupied they don’t see anything around them. You could sense that when busy with her phone her awareness was utterly neutralized; additionally its distractive effects extend to the driver since he’s aware of someone fumbling and zoning out beside them.
Her spending habits though were truly terrifying. On a basis that was almost hourly she’d pass by the shop to buy incremental bursts of sweets. Like flavoured gum, a lollipop, and hard-boiled sweets - things that cost almost nothing, but made me grind in protest wondering what it accumulates to. Another detail to be known is that ALL her media bits taken were done to bolster her online profile, which revolved around the OnlyFans app. However she ran everything through a filter that made her look like an unfeasibly hot 25 year old. That’s not to say she was unattractive per se, but seeing her up close you could not ignore the odd blemish here and there: a vein on a leg and the coarseness of her face. All of it attesting to the raw truth that she really was 39. A phrase she kept on repeating when it came down to what she did and wanted to do was something like: “You know, I really know how to have fun. But I like innocent clean fun, that’s my style…” And she’d continue like so.
Her days consisted entirely of zoning out on her smartphone, watching media and browsing. Very soon I enforced she must use headphones. I came home one day and she’d setup her filming stand, playing music, dolled up in a white top or short dress that barely covered her lower regions, and wearing mickey-mouse kitty ears. She was bobbing rhythmically to the sounds entertaining a live audience. I simply walked in, moved her aside and placed my undesirable face into the camera then said aloud “Sorry lads, show’s over - Captain Buzzkill is here.” I was slightly fuming but did not show it - it had more to do with the music than any lurid display tantalized thereof.
At this point the audience could ask if reporting any of this is relevant to the overall theme. But its significance becomes clearer when depicting the inertia I suffered; the stifled panic running through my nervous system. Heavens above please give me work, anything that ensures me never to be at the mercy of this… this lifestyle, or anything that resembles this! The memory of Jeen acted like a delayed stimulant; it gave me strength to bulldoze onwards. Because it felt like I was fighting against the very stasis incurred by her quality of life. One assumes that a moderately attractive girl can never be a bad trade-off? Not all the time! While it was subjectively true my reason for letting her stay was to fill the vacuum of loneliness, to create household traffic, and to have a female presence capable of tending to me. To some degree she did bring her part: cooking better meals, cleaning the place nicely, and being someone to talk to bouncing ideas off. But even those tasks she started to complain about gradually, as if my terms were unreasonable. What transpired was a series of events that converged on her leaving, and verily make no mistake… it was something terrible to behold.
Long ago via her online dalliances she’d met some guy who owned an auto-repair business. They’d exchanged numbers and within the month, as she grew more discontent, she decided to revive their chat by messaging him. What elapsed was a typically remote WhatsApp dialogue that eventuated in her taking up his offer to stay with him. Now… it is crucial to acknowledge that she – without the grace of acknowledging the process – represented herself as a radiant, angelical, hot 25 girl (she even set the profile age that). And, behind the scenes during the day she too comported herself as someone feasibly attractive, moving with presumptuous grace. What I mean by this is that when going about this business it never occurred to her that the online persona was a thousand times more attractive than she was in life. The day came; she assembled her stuff and soon that evening we stood outside waiting by the gate. I asked her if she knew him, unto which she either misheard or lied, replying yes. At length a car pulled up, a guy in a black coat emerged and helped load the stuff. He was burly with dark features but looked reasonable; I couldn’t imagine him being on OnlyFans. But if he was disappointed with what he saw, he hid it well. And remember that Jeen, while not being commensurate with her online-self, still looks likeable and wouldn’t cause him to disappear leaving tire marks on the road. They loaded everything and she hugged me goodbye and was gone. I walked back into my empty apartment slowly, taking in the atmosphere hands raised eyes closed, I embraced the freedom for several seconds.
That next morning, I set out early and printed multiple copies of my credentials and accompanying paperwork. I approached 4 different businesses that day, handing my papers to all their receptions. All these places were Reaction companies whose logos I’d seen pinned around beside houses and shops. The one secretary actually invited me in to complete an application – this ended up consuming over an hour. Her manner though was icy and businesslike, as if the entire process was meant to size me up. She sent me through a door to use a table in the boardroom. I sat before a tall shimmering wooden surface surrounded by 8 evil looking conference chairs. Everything looked clean and intimidating; there were flashy model cars placed in the table’s middle. This business must be owned by a Muslim guy!
The seats were the most impressive. They looked premium, sinister, and expensive like ones used for gaming, probably each costing about R4000. After completing the form I went to find her, she bid me back into the boardroom in a bossy fashion, as if I should’ve foreseen remaining there. Sitting me down she then spoke into a recording device; an interview was now about to commence.
The interview contained a variety of key moments, some harmonious, some disjunctive. One particular incident I recall was her asking me to explain a Mist burglary, as if it be something I should already know. I then replied “It’s when a crime or break-in happens during the dark and isn’t seen…” She looked away seeming somewhat satisfied but then corrected me saying “It’s more like when a break-in has happened, but the guard missed it when checking the premises. Probably because he wasn’t being thorough… negligent checks result in this and if a client discovers it…”
But halfway through hearing this I blurted out. “oooh, a missed burglary, yes! Sorry, I thought you said a mist burglary… as in happening in the fog.” That exclamation went down on record.
Later that afternoon, I also sent out a bunch of e-messages applying to other places. Soon the sun was setting and I decided to go for a walk, reaching a busy park with a stream of water and a sports field; the quiet buzz of families spending time with their dogs and children in the air. I then heard my cellphone ringing - it was Jeen. What now? I answered and heard her voice trying to appear casual asking “James, can I come back to you?” My God in Heaven!
I couldn’t imagine what had gone wrong. She had already posted multiple photos and statuses boasting her new, better, upgraded abode. I knew for she’d kept in contact updating me. It was a fully-fledged house in a secure complex. She told me he’d done a room up; he bought new curtains and bedding and it was all clean… She even had a bathroom set aside for her. I ended the call saying please try work it out, but she said I must go onto WhatsApp (probably unable to speak). Apparently they were already in the car coming back; he came home from work that day and without precedence told her he’d changed his mind. And said aloud in Afrikaans while putting his hand on the table “as ek së ek wil iets doen dan ek sal dit doen” Which basically means when he says he’s going to do something then he will do it. But all of this I would hear described after she returned. For now she merely sent an audio message in her voice possessing that shrill whining quality. Obviously I had no immediate choice, not yet at this rate. I hot-footed it back home; I was about 45 minutes away. Getting back I loitered outside waiting. Soon enough the same BMW pulled up. They climbed out. And he calmly but quickly helped her deploy her stuff, basically outside the gate on the road. I opened the pedestrian gate to join them. Everything was unloaded at an alarming rate. He was busying himself with his wallet emptying its cash into her hand – no doubt a kind sympathetic afterthought. I tried Announcing my presence in a way saying playfully “Jeeez, ah, I say… that was quick!” He pocketed his wallet with a resolute gesture while saying “well sorry… shit happens.” He climbed in his car and drove off (He blocked her right after). Thus Jeen stood their helpless surrounded with her bags and goods, focusing on me saying “He just left me here.. he just LEFT me!!” As if things could possibly be otherwise!
She melted upon saying this and tears were probably streaming down though I couldn’t see in the evening light. We hurriedly piled her things into my door several strides away. During this I caught glimpses and fractions of what happened, but when everything was safely inside. She fell face down on my bed like a rigid stiff ragdoll and exploded into muffled tears. The lights were off and the room lit only by the dark grey evening outside - it was a terrible scene to behold. That I had to inherit this hell was something intolerable, and my compunction was taking strain.
Enough to say I comforted her as I could and presently loaded her into the car and headed to some café. I cannot recall this business further without causing huge digression. Sufficient to say that within a few days I invented an excuse to send her back to the Lennox for a temporary stay, which I paid for. Then contrived to tell her due to my terms of lease I’m unable to host another tenant, and so there she must stay. Thus ended the saga of Jeen. However during her absence, one of the prospective companies I’d approached had phoned to schedule an interview.
Liberation in its various forms avails itself in ways at times vigorous. And liberation is never to be confused with freedom. Freedom usually is the freedom to act, or immunity from something, or having open grounds, an ambient space to move. Liberation can denote undoing something which hitherto that point was stopping you. It can be something as mere as standing up to a morbidly negative ‘friend’ or saying something the brain is programmed not to say.
For now all that matters is my nervous system and household was feeling liberated. The fluids in my body were circulating better and my brain tension gone down. And though people don’t realize it, like a poet has a circuitous data-loop of words he’s compelled to say, every normal person has a similar cycle of things they need to shout. The period with Jeen I’ve compounded into a small delivery, and although there’s a huge amount of extra data and things I could easily write more about, I must continue without distraction, not forgetting the real purpose of this text is to describe my experience within the African Township.
As I said, a company had finally made contact with me. They were called Compass Tactical. That name was a good name for me. I always fancied an orphic notion unto the cardinal points, especially since that scene in Lord of the Rings where Frodo stood upon the summit to behold the four corners of the world. I always imagined those points to be ruled by supreme powerful entities, like dragons at the end of the ocean. On the scheduled day I dressed in my basic garb and set out to their office, which coincidentally was about 3 minutes away by car. The street of houses suddenly opened up into an area of busy commerce. The Compass Tactical office was actually an undistinguished house next to a Church. A Ford dealership stood across the road, separated by a flat island of stones and sand, which served as an area allowing cars to park upon. Thus there I parked and headed through the gate entering the premises. Walking through the front door I found myself in some kind of reception area which looked like an armoury.
I announced my presence and the secretary, a kind portly coloured lady, bid me to sit down. The environment had the theme of simplistic military grit, as opposed to the slick prestige of that other company. Soon enough I was invited through the armoury door. The first person I met was Mike, the operational manager. The atmosphere and handling was fluent and concise, as if happening on-the-fly. He scanned my papers, and the expected question I always got came up: “Why are you going into security when you’re a qualified software developer?”
Unto which I gave my rehearsed answer:
“I’m not satisfied with the lifestyle; I also suspect there going to be changes in the industry that I can’t keep up with.”
He seemed pleased with this and proceeded to tell me about their company.
While I thought they were an Armed Response company, it turned out they also have a contract with a liquor business. “We do static guarding and armed escort for liquor trucks in the Township.”
I don’t know why or how but I told him unequivocally I’m willing to do this, and I’m basically ready for action. We shared a few more words, and soon he arose and ushered me into another room further in. There at an important desk against the sunlight of the window sat the owner of the company, of whom I will refer to here onwards as The Big Boss. His son, who was at another table, who featured more actively during operations, I will call The Boss. It was clear they both were derived of the same strongly defined ilk. Naturally wide muscular and tall, with a tinge of orange coloured hair which did not reflect their skin-tone. That is to say while they had ginger looking hair, they suffered none of its genetic ailments. The Big Boss was warm and congenial, telling me to relax and be at ease: “You’re in a good place.” The Boss too had himself a few questions about development and my egression thereto. I always reply and bring up Microsoft. It’s always interesting to mention their grip on the programming trends, of which I find myself unable to keep up with. In summary, it was clear I was joining their workforce. I was to show up tomorrow for the first shift. All I had to do was arrive the next morning at 5:30am, dressed in normal garb and be ready for a 12 hour day.
(PART 2 BEING PREPARED SOON - WHICH WILL COVER THE TOWNSHIP EXPERIENCE)
