Last Friday, while I was walking home from work, a man stopped me to ask where he could catch a taxi to town. I stopped briefly to answer him, and for those ten seconds I was bracing myself for something bad to happen.
I held on to my bag so I could have it close to me in case I had to break into a run. In my mind’s eye I saw all the tweets and Facebook posts from the past week warning women about engaging with strangers. Before my heart rate could increase enough to send me into a panic, the man and I went our separate ways. His best bet was to go to the taxi rank, but I told him he could wait at the garage just up ahead so that I could be free of him and be on my way.
When I got home I messaged my friends to tell them how, in that short time, I thought of all the horrible things that could happen to me in the blink of an eye. I thought “this is how people get kidnapped”.
As someone who rarely interacts with strangers, and who is generally uncomfortable around male energy, I found the news this month about women being kidnapped, assaulted, and murdered deeply disturbing. The reports of violence were not new to me: as a young black woman I’ve basically been scared my entire life. Suburb or city, school or office, it’s all the same. But it was the steady stream of horrible news that affected me. I started thinking about how vulnerable I really am, and about how I can no longer afford the luxury of believing that “it won’t happen to me”. Women were being attacked in my area – it could literally happen to me!
Along with this renewed fear, came feelings of helplessness and hopelessness. The reality of how much it takes to survive in this world as a black woman weighed heavily on me. Usually, I acknowledge the fear, hope to never be in such a situation, plan who I would lean on if I ever did, and then move on. But last week, it was like being in a cold, dark room with voices calling out to me and hands writhing all over my body. It was terrifying, and I saw no way out. I, like everyone else, was tired, scared and frustrated.
This week, I don’t feel as scared. I still don’t like seeing a man walking or running behind me – it reminds me too much of when I was mugged. I am not hiding; I am still making plans to go out to the mall and to events – but there is a little voice in my head that says “what if you won’t be safe there?”
But I am still here. And I have had to think about whether I am doing enough to keep myself safe. If comments from our ministers are any indication, no one else will do it.
Nkhensani Manabe 