I'm starting to get the feeling that you can't call yourself a South African unless you have been a victim of crime...a sort of right-of-passage. Either that, or you must be a criminal.
A week has passed since another friend-of-the-family was killed on his plot. He was an elderly man, shot dead without questions asked. Last night someone broke into our garage and made off with two of our bicycles. I think our dog was making too much noise for their convenience, so they were gracious. The one bicycle was a gift from a widow-friend of ours who lost her husband in Iraq. It was an expensive "Bianci" bike that belonged to her husband, the other, my wife's mountain bike.
I am angry, even though we can consider ourselves not having lost much. We work hard for what we've got, and we don't have much. Everything we have has been saved for, planned for and eventually enjoyed when we got it. Now, some schmuck thinks he can simply march onto my property and take what he wants. And if I should dare ask a question, or poke my nose out the front door, I could expect a stolen gun to be pointing back at me.
What is this? Did I miss something? Am I supposed to feel sorry for the poor person who steal my stuff? I am not even going to try to compose a soppy message about how I should see this creep in a Christian-light... how I should pray for his salvation, because, at the end of the day, Jesus loves him just as much as me. No, I am angry, for this is not the first time... this is not the second time... this is not the third time. There is a part of me that prays that he will fall of that blinking bike while crossing over a bridge, to the road below, only to be met by an 18-wheeler.
Now for a few months of light sleeping, waking at every sound, paranoia about locking and checking, worrying about my family's safety while I am away at evening meetings, spending more to upgrade the security system on our property... I am tired, and did I mention, ANGRY!