A girl died in Cape Town this morning. The news came on the radio while I was sitting in the taxi from Pimville on my way to campus. I wasn’t really following the stories but that one caught my attention. There are a lot of stories like hers making the news lately. By my count this should be the third in just as many weeks. And those are just the ones we know about. There’s been talk on social media about a human trafficking syndicate that’s trying to establish itself using South African women to make a name for themselves in the underworld. I’m not sure about all that. I’m not sure I want to know either. I try not to think about it all but it’s all anyone can talk about lately. Getting off of the second taxi where I usually do at Bree taxi rank, I feel a nervousness that I always feel in the area. Campus is on the other side of the Nelson Mandela Bridge. It’s beautiful and has bright lights in different colours but it’s no place to sit about and take in the scenery when you’re trying to get to the other side. I always walk across it briskly. Trying to walk faster than everyone else on the bridge so no one has a chance to rush me and take me for an easy target. Occasionally the rare shadow of a man much taller than me, with a stride longer than my legs allow, creeps up and I tense up waiting for him to walk passed, hoping he doesn’t make an abrupt stop to start a conversation that ends with me losing my phone, purse, and anything else he might want. Even with a brisk walk, the only time to cross the bridge is early in the morning before the cool breeze is done sweeping the sleep out of the inner city. If you can see the colours of Mandela’s rainbow in the surrounding darkness, crossing isn’t worth the risk. It’s best to catch a taxi headed to Auckland Park and get off after the bridge. It feels like a waste of money for such a short ride but it can’t be helped.

When I get to the other side I breathe a sigh of relief but maintain my pace and make sure I get to campus without spending more time in Braamfontein than I need to. I’ve heard all about the stories in Braamfontein and I’m happy I don’t have my own to tell. I would be happier if there were no stories altogether. Stories about how you should avoid the orange Ford Focus that roams around Juta Street. Or is it Biccard? Rather avoid all Fords and both streets. Maybe it’s better to just avoid all the cars and all the streets. Then I’ll be safe. I get to campus and I feel a weight lift off of my shoulders. The closed environment that shields me from the rest of the moral decay in the city. I go about my day attending lectures and tuts and once in a while I use the bathroom. Some lecture venues are in quiet buildings and the bathrooms are always empty. I walk in and make sure the door of my stall is locked before I sit down. The tension from out there in the city finds its way onto campus and tracks me down. I listen carefully to all the sounds the dripping tap, buzzing lights, wind rushing in through half opened windows, and the creek the opening door makes while I pee. I hear the door of the stall next to mine open and shut. I hear a thump as the person occupying it sits down. I start breathing again when the sigh of relief in a woman’s voice makes it through from the other side of the thin divider. I leave the stall, wash my hands and head to my next lecture.

It’s lunch time and my lectures are over for the day. I call my sister to see where she’s working from today and ask if she might be able to pick me up so we can head home together. The thought of heading back to town and walking through the congested streets to catch a taxi filled with strange men, driven by even stranger men unsettles me and I hope to avoid it as often as possible. She tells me she’s seeing a client for coffee in Maboneng and should be able to pick me up around 15:00. She tells me she’ll pick me up on Empire road and I should wait for her there. I leave campus and tense up again to face the city outside the illusion of safety on campus. I stand at the robot waiting for my sister. Its 14:55. I have five minutes to stand here waiting for her. I’m both unnerved and comforted by the presence of a homeless man at the intersection. His dry eyes and brown hair make me shiver but I try not to let it show. His presence makes it unlikely that anyone else will try something with me. But I can’t be sure. And his presence is just as threatening as it is comforting. Maybe even more so. I’m happy the intersection is busy. It’s 14:57. I only have to be here for one hundred and eighty more seconds. A man in a grey Volkswagen Polo stopped at the robot tries starting a conversation and offers me a lift. I don’t say anything to him. It’s 15:02. She was supposed to be here by now. I wonder what might be keeping her. I want to call her and find out where she is but I don’t want my phone to draw unnecessary attention. She arrives at 15:05. “Sorry, there was some light traffic”. She tells me she needs to pass by the office before we can head home. On the way there we hear the story about the girl found dead this morning. “Have you heard about this yet? They say the body was burnt and it will take a while to identify her”. “I haven’t been following the story but I heard about it in the taxi this morning” I tell her. At the office I wait for her in the foyer. She tells me it won’t take long. She just has a report to drop off. I wait for a few minutes. Fifteen-sixteen. Maybe less. Feels like more. A man from the bullpen two doors down the hallway passes by me three times. He looks at me each time but avoids making direct eye contact. The nervousness of the city exists in this building too. These marble walls and glass doors can’t keep it out either. I might as well still be trapped and holding my breath in that bathroom stall. She comes back and we leave. We’re going home for sure now. I fall asleep in the car and wake up to the sound of her opening the gate. We’re home. I get to the house and she asks me to lock the door behind me. She lets out a fatigued sigh. It’s been a long day. But there is also relief in her sigh. The weight lifted off her shoulders is just like the weight I feel lifting off mine. The weight she felt at every robot on her way to me. In the walls of the building she works in and at every client meeting she had throughout the day.  

I go to my room to check on my friend Karabo. She’s studying in another part of the country. Her phone is off and I haven’t heard from her since last night. I hope she’s okay.