A nice cup of Milo and I’m off to bed,” I think to myself. I close my eyes to take the first sip and think about my nightly routine of closing windows, drawing curtains and locking doors. Still savoring the first mouthful, I suddenly notice the man standing in front of me. Just then, time briefly came to a complete standstill. I am aware of the cup slipping from my fingers as the first blow lands and I am both surprised and shocked to feel that my bottom jaw is shattered. The second blow struck me a little higher and I could feel the bone around my nose and eyes breaking as I helplessly sank to the kitchen floor. Still confused about what has caused the loud buzz in my ears and the strange feeling of paralyses in the lower part of my body, I suddenly become aware of my wife kneeling next to me. The look of bewilderment in her eyes and the tears running down her cheeks fills me with tremendous pain. I can see her lips asking me what had happened and before I could utter a sound to warn her, she is suddenly dragged away by her hair, her flailing feet disappearing down the passage and I start praying, “Dear God, please have mercy on us. Don’t let them hurt her.” The fact that everything around me suddenly has a pinkish hue doesn’t bother me as I helplessly listen to the banging of cupboard doors and someone screaming, “Where is the money, where is the guns,” followed by my wife’s desperate pleas to allow her to tend to me. From the sounds that follow, it is clear that they have no interest in whether we live or die.
An ominous silence follows and I interrupt my praying to gather my senses. I try to swallow, but the throbbing pain in my face and head is just too much. For the first time, I notice the man standing about one meter from me with a pistol aimed directly at me. His face is emotionless and he reeks of alcohol. He is very young, about my son’s age. This thought suddenly makes me realize that my fifteen year old is in his bedroom doing homework and for once, I am thankful for his irritating habit of listening to music with earphones on, while doing that and I pray that he is spared this terrible ordeal.
A stifled scream and the sound of material tearing sends chills down my spine and the desire to do something takes hold of every fiber in me, but what? The pistol in the other man’s hands seems real and he appears to know how to handle it. A throbbing pain in my lower back suggests that he must have attacked me from behind, while the other came from the front. It is quieter in the bedroom now. For a minute I thought I can hear my wife sobbing softly, but the sounds of someone grunting and the significance of what is happening now overwhelms me. The man near me turns his head in that direction and calls out in a language I don’t know. The response he receives seems to satisfy him and he swiftly disappears down the passage. I immediately make an effort to get up. “I’ll get the bastards.” I keep thinking as I repeatedly slip in my own blood, but I manage to get up and find my way to the scullery. I grab my daughter’s old hockey stick and using it to support me, I wait, and listen. My whole body is acing and my legs are like rubber. Silently, I inch my way back through the kitchen and into the passage and I wait, and I listen. It is still very quiet and I continue to inch forward to the main bedroom. The passage is very dark and I am relieved to find the door to my son’s bedroom still closed and I continue forward. At the door to the main bedroom, my heart skips a few beats and I grab hold of open door. I feel totally defeated as I stare in disbelief at my wife’s lifeless eyes staring back at me, her mouth open as if she is still begging for mercy, while the curtains at the patio doors are gently swaying. They are gone. Sadness and regret consumes me. I want to scream, I want to run to my wife lying on our bed, but I cannot move. I ignore the strange sound coming from my throat and feel my legs collapsing under me.
I am startled by the sudden noise behind me, and with tears streaming down my face I am relieved to see my son coming through his bedroom door, unaware of what happened. I wave my arms at him to draw his attention before he starts towards the kitchen. He looks up, starts to say something and rushes towards me. “Pa, pa, what happened?” Desperately I gesture towards his mother lying sprawled across the bed and hear myself saying, “Help her.” Helplessly, I sit and watch him cry softly while he covers her with a sheet and I desperately try to tell him not to cover her face, as darkness descends on me………”Dear God, dear God” echoes my mind, as I drift away into the dark….”
Willem Rossouw, writer of this incredible story asks anyone with similar stories to contact him on this email: Email
Please share this story, the pain and grief is unbearable. Real people loose family members in the violence of South Africa. Children loose parents to senseless murders. We call for an end to this genocide.
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