A mother. A baby. Two burglars

Ican hear the wood of the floor groans as it disturbs the tranquility in my room. It is three am — known as the devil’s hour to believers. The hour when the veil is thin between the natural and supernatural world. In my country it is known as the hour where burglars snatch your altered consciousness back to reality. I am in South Africa, my country of birth. A country with a high murder rate, ranked fifth most dangerous country out of 144 countries. I am in my apartment, with my one-year daughter. Alone and scared.

Earlier this evening, my boyfriend James and I had our mid-week celebration of food, wine and conversations delectable of humor and laughter. The night was less gracious as the time ticked away after two glasses of wine. James settled my one year old daughter in my bed. She pulls the blanket over her head. An usual hobby to fall asleep. It is the middle of August in our town, Bloemfontein. We experience a semi-arid climate with chilly days and slightly cloudy skies. After we played the game of stay or go, James dragged his feet to the staircase. I am by no means a fan of the staircase that is shaped in the form of a centipede dunked in rust. I love James. He is not the father of my daughter. We’ve been dating for six months.

I raise my head from the pillow and support my body weight with my right elbow. I blink owlishly. An eerie feeling send a shiver down my spine. A visceral reaction travels through my body. A sliver of moonlight spill into the room, not enough to transmit relief to the darkness, but enough to navigate a definite movement in my room. I jolt my body in a point of awareness. My abdominal muscles tighten and a sheer fluttery evolves in my stomach. I stretch my shoulders back and push my chest out. My back touch the wall behind me and I shrunk away. The hair stand up at the back of my neck. I rub my hands vigorously over my arms.

A silhouette with greater height than average approach me. He stops at the edge of my bed. I squint my eyes in a curious way. “Who is it?,” I asked in a soft tone of voice. “James is that you?” Why would James be back at this hour? How did he did he enter. He does not have a key to my apartment?” “Are you alone?” The voice is low and gravely. My heart punch violent blows against my rib cage. It beats like an African drum during an ancestral ceremony.

Seconds pass. It gives the feeling of hours. The man move from the edge of my bed to my bedroom window. He peeps through the curtain and walk back to the bed. “Where is your husband? He owe us money. We are here to collect our money.” My eyes adjust to the darkness and I can see his teeth. It is flawless, white and detailed. I smell a mixture of sweat and nicotine. I pull my legs up to my chest to hide my baby. I swing an extra piece of my blanket over her in a theatrical move to blind him from her presence.

“Yes I am alone and my husband is not here now. “Did this men entered the wrong apartment? I don’t have a husband. Is he talking about James? James has a job and have adequate money. He is new in this town and barely know people. “My friend is waiting outside your kitchen window. We are here to collect the money from your husband. He owe us $479,92” “But I don’t have a husband. Should I tell him I lied or should I play along? I have $4.98c in my purse. Is this what happens during the devil’s hour? Perhaps this is dream that I will dislike in the morning.” The man’s words are blurry and less easy to understand.

I hear a loud thumb in the kitchen. Footsteps approach my bedroom. A second man enters. He stares at me. He speaks in one of the eleven language of my country. A language I lack to master. They laugh as if this is a prank out of control. “Get out of your bed”, the first man orders. I grapple to interpret the scenes of this occasion. “What about my baby? What if he discovers her? What if she starts crying? I can’t get out of bed. I am half-naked. My T-shirt barely covers my bottom. What if they rape me and my daughter wakes up? What if they take my baby.” I lift my feet with elegance out of the bed. The men smirk while I attempt to stretch my T-shirt that dangles over my hips. My baby remains unnoticed. She does not wake up easily. Her following feed is at five am. “Come. Walk to the balcony.” The man who is in charge pulls his jacket slightly to the side to display his weapon. I open the door. I stand on the balcony.

My facial muscles shake in an attempt to warm up as my teeth chatters freely. “Since your husband is not here and you failed to give us our money, we are giving you two choices. You can jump or we rape you?” “But my….” I think about my daughter. “We are two stories high from the ground. “ It is not that far. I can jump, run and look for help. There is a 24hour garage next to our flat. It is a two minute run.” In a last attempt to escape this devil’s hour I beg them to come back the next day in the hope that they will leave. Their laughter gives tribute to this hour. I am vulnerable. Tears roll down my cheeks in the absence of sound. I pray to God. I pray to the universe. I pray to my ancestors. I pray to whoever can protect my daughter. I jump.

The cold air fills my lungs. Gravity pulls me faster than estimated. How do I perform a proper leap? An unfortunate situation. I land flat with both feet on concrete. Pain instantly greets my my toes, feet, ankles and right wrist. In an effort to balance myself, I press forward with my right arm. I wrench at the sharp sensation that shoot through my arm. I am flat on my backside. My baby is in the bedroom. This is all a blur.

The squeaky sound of my door is a hint that they are leaving the apartment. I need to move but the unplanned physical sensation is beyond what I can bare at the moment. I collapse in a stupor. I need to get to the petrol station . I can hear the two men dribbling down the staircase. They are coming for me.

I press on my left hand and get on my knees. My image resembles a three-leg dog. I crawl over stones, litter and sharp objects. It stings badly. I am at the end of the alley and see the street lights. I crawl on my knees and one hand. I am half-naked. The cars pass me. Some fast and others slow. I reach the pavement in an attempt for someone to notice me. No one stops. I cry out loud. The sting in my arm complement my swollen wrist. My knees are bleeding. My toes and ankles are swollen. I am at the back of the petrol station. If I can crawl until I reach the corner in the hope that a petrol attendant will see me. Then it happens. I see a shadow approaching the corner. It is them. It is over. I sit flat on my behind. Hopeless.

Aelderly woman appears. She has a blanket wrapped around her waist. Many South African cultures use blankets to represent their specific ethnic groups. She calls out to me. I call out to her. She screams for help. The woman run to me and wrap the blanket around me. More shadows appears around the corner. It is three men. One of the man rush to assist us. Then I see them. The other two men that came around the corner with the petrol attendant are the burglars. They stroll pass me and smile as if it’s the first time they see me. One of them place his finger over his mouth signing that I keep quiet. Bile violently escape my mouth . The elderly woman try to console me, unaware of the danger that lurks beside me. The men move on. The petrol attendant carries me in the shop. The elderly woman call the emergency police number 911. I recognize the women. She works here at the convenient store. The police arrives. The elderly woman explain the story to them as I have told it to her.

They rush to my flat and return minutes later with my baby. She is asleep and unaware of the commotion. I cling to my baby and ask for atonement in her ears as my tears wet her blanket. “ Did they rape you?” No. “Assault you?” No. A feeling of guilt and sadness pours over my body as the police officer whisper with care in my ears. The ambulance arrives. They lift me in the ambulance. My daughter is safe on my chest. James arrives at the hospital after the police informed him. We cried and comfort each other. James takes my daughter to my parent’s house.

After a week in the hospital, I return to my apartment with James. He moves in temporarily. I detest the apartment, the staircase, my bedroom and even my balcony. The nightmares are cruel and violent. The investigation is slow with no progress. Memories of the police interrogation a day after the accident haunts me. They found fingerprints of the two men inside my kitchen but never made an arrest. James suggests that I move in with him until I fully recover. Both my legs are in plasters and I am in a wheelchair scheduled for six weeks. My daughter stays with my mom and I stay with James in my apartment. Feelings of hopelessness and shame embrace me daily.

James wash me daily since my arm and both legs are in plaster. He carries me to the toilet at night. He arrives home during his lunch break to prepare lunch for me and secure that I have the essentials until he returns after work. The plasters are removed after six weeks. James asked me to be his wife. Despite our love that is so deep and genuine, we end our engagement shortly after. The incident left scars on both of us.

The nightmares never left for remaining months of our relationship. It entered my next relationship that led to marriage and later to divorce.

I lost a part of me the night I jumped. I lost a part of my sanity. I lost my faith. I lost my James. I found guilt. I found doubt. I found loneliness. I greeted an illness that negatively affects how I feel, the way I act.

I survived.

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