I don’t know why I didn’t do anything. There were two of them. One white and one black. There is no telling what they got away with that night. Maybe it was because I moved like a tourist. Maybe it was my black skin. Maybe it was the short skirt, the perfume, the hair, the smile, the air, the fact that it was Saturday night. I don’t know why they chose me and don’t know why I got away.
I could have told someone. Right then and there. I could have called the police. Right then, and not now 7 years later. There is no telling what they have gotten away with by now.
Mind, morals and ideals do betray when you are afraid. Afraid because I was in a foreign country. Afraid because I am black and the witness stood there in his whiteness did nothing. Afraid because “this is Africa.” Afraid because, who would believe? I witnessed the dark side of humanity and even I did not want to believe.
The black one. He was short and skinny except for his belly, which was square and round at the same time. It protruded unnaturally from his body like a tumor. His eyes were as red as dirt and he looked at me as if he was looking for something in my direction that wasn’t there. He was sweating and looked nervous. I was thinking, “You’re not going to get lucky, so cool it.” This was South Africa 2002. I was out on the town with some girls from my University; we had come to teach in the townships about AIDS and HIV.
I was feeling my usual combination of bold and lonely. I strayed from the group to have a chat and a little flirt, no biggie, I was planning on returning quickly. After all it was a small club and you could see everything from anywhere no matter where you were standing. I remember the yellow of the club. I remember being fascinated that the club was integrated and segregated at the same time. From a bird’s eye view we must have looked like oil and water. Clumps of black and white, separated and together, never mixing. The bar was not far from where we had been dancing. A long orange bar with a white bartender behind it. He mixed drinks and looked angry for most of the night. I don’t know why he didn’t do anything. Often I think, “it’s because I’m black. Black bodies and the things that happen to them do not matter. Are invisible. These things are too terrible to want to hear or know.” If I had been a white woman, how would the story go? This is South Africa 2002, separate and together. In the aftermath of apartheid it is difficult to articulate the depth of the divide.
The black one. He is the one who disgusted me the most. He had a cocky sweaty stance. He stuttered. He was boldly ignorant. Both of them were nervous and I could feel it. There were parts of me, the survivor and the victim, together and separate who said, “just let this play out until you can slip away. There are enough people here. The lights are bright. Don’t cause a scene and don’t get arrested in a foreign country.”
The white one had called me over. His face was long and reddish, complimented by his orange shirt. His nose was like a long road leading to his mouth. His movements were jerky and awkward. His eyes faded. “Where are you from?” He asked and the thickness of Afrikaans had not quite dripped off of his English, but I understood. “I’m from the US.” I answered. He became slightly more nervous. His eyes darting to the black one, then back to me. “Oh, America. Well, let us buy you a drink, what would you like?”
I contemplated this, I felt unsure, flattered. I thought, why not, these are probably some nice guys, probably nervous about talking to a pretty girl. There are plenty of people here. But there are two. There are two of them and there is one of me. And the black one is still sweating.
They waited, staring at me. “Sure. I’ll have a Coke.” “Okay,” the black one “we’ll bring it to you go dance with your friends.” I looked at them and I looked at the bartender, shrugged my shoulders and said, “okay.”
Every script every woman has ever told me about drinking things given to you by strange men was playing in my head. I just wasn’t sure what to do or how to get out of the situation. Now, 7 years later it occurs to me that I could have turned around and said, no thanks, I changed my mind. Now, 7 years later it occurs to me that I was afraid. I was afraid of being attacked. I was afraid of the foreignness of my self in their country. And I was afraid to be black in their country, even more so than in my own. And I realize now that I also wanted to understand what was happening. So I went back to dance with my friends, for only a moment until I decided that I should go back. I’m not sure why I went back. I’m not sure if it was to tell them that I changed my mind I already had some water, or if I went back to tell them that I wanted a bottle not a glass, or if it was to find out what was taking so long.
I approached the orange bar. It was long and orange like the face of the white one. He had his back to me now and his front was close to the black one who was looking at me through the red. The whole thing must have taken 30 seconds but it felt like hours, the walk and what I saw. The bartender, he was there behind the bar watching them both then looking at me as I came near. He opened his mouth as I approached the bar and then closed it and proceeded to wipe down the counter, his eyes cast down. My eyes too were cast down. Somehow I was ashamed and embarrassed for all of them by what I had seen. My anger rose and then went straight to my knees where it buckled my foundation. And my ears must have been ringing because I couldn’t hear anything for a few seconds. All I could do was see. See the white one with his white powder, see the black one turning his back to conceal, see the bartender witness and ignore. See the stirring of something, some powder that could kill, sterilize, paralyze, knock unconscious, and destroy me. See the drink being handed to me. They must have known I had seen. They must know that I wouldn’t drink a drink that is open. A drink that looks like some has been poured out. What should I say? What should I do? Look at the bartender, what kind of person would ignore? Look at the black one. Look at the white one. Hasn’t the violence and hatred done enough? Look at me with my hands and knees shaking, saying thank you and walking away.
I don’t know why I didn’t do anything. I should have called someone, I should have said something. Maybe I should have made a scene, screamed, thrown the drink in their face. Told them it was an American custom to share the drink with me. Told every woman in the bar. These are all of the things I have thought of over the last 7 years. But never then and there. Then and there I was frozen. Ice must have run through my blood stopping my heart and my brain. I walked with my shaking hands back to the table where we had all laid our coats. I put the bottle on the table and watched it. I went back to dance with my friends and I watched that bottle all night because it was all that I could do. And the men, they watched me. The two of them black and white brought together only by their criminal and anti-social leanings and not by history or laws. They watched me to see if I would swoon. They watched me to see if I would fall. They watched me to see if I had drunk. They watched me to see when would be the right time.
“Are you okay?” the red head. She was always the nosy one, but not just nosy, she just knew things. She knew when you were hungry, she knew when you were sneaking guests into the guesthouse, and she knew when you were not okay. “I’m fine.” I said a little breathlessly and we danced. I felt like a fool. And would they believe? I felt ashamed. I felt that it didn’t matter as long as the night would just end. I thought that I would just get through this, just like I always do. Nothing made sense and I didn’t know what to do so the night pressed on.
I watched that bottle. And the men watched me. I was outside of myself, blood like ice running through my veins taking my breath away. Head spinning, even though I had not drunk. I don’t remember much of what happened next except for this:
They pressed through the pulsating crowd, the two of them. Looking redder and blacker and angry now. I didn’t know they were approaching until I turned and the black one was there pressed up against me. His red eyes peering into mine, looking to see if it was time. I stared back, my eyes sober, my face stone cold. My body stiff and rigid. Staring for 3 seconds, each second harboring hours. No breaths taken. Air between us thick with rage. His and mine. This was a man who wanted to rip my throat out for spoiling his fun. The feeling in my heart was so sharp it could have cut. It was as if the world stopped and no one alive lived this moment but he and I. My mind raced until finally he turned defeated and walked out of the club. The white one followed.
Later in the cab on the way back to the guest house and later for years I panicked with the what ifs. What if those men went to another club and successfully drugged, raped, and killed some other woman? What if I hadn’t seen what I had seen? What would have happened to me? How would I have endured it? There would have been no way to fight. Who would have found my body? Would anyone have even searched? Who would have identified me in that foreign land? Would anyone have ever known what happened? What about my family, how long would it take for them to find out? Who would tell my story? What about justice?
I should have told someone. I should have done something.
In those moments I have to remind myself that it didn’t happen. I did see. It was the darkest, most disturbing and inhuman thing I have ever personally witnessed. By divine grace and the grace of everything greater than me I was spared what would have undoubtedly been at the least my own kidnapping, rape and possibly murder.
I am grateful that I saw and that it was not some other woman who did not see, or who was alone, or who was intoxicated, or who didn’t trust her intuition, or who was unaware that this could happen. Now 7 years later, I realize that in a strange way I did do something. I prevented the full sequence of horrible events from happening to someone else that night. In my bones I knew something was wrong. I drew it out. I took their poison, their weapon away and guarded it with my life. It was a weird, irrational and unconscious strategy, but survival is like that. Survival is like this: You do what you can and then you tell your story.
