Never swear a child to secrecy

I live in a quiet little suburban neighbourhood, baboons and chickens aside. It’s a bit like living in a time warp of the mid 1970s. Well usually.

Last week the friendly neighbourhood Spar brought in new security guards. I pulled in to discover a posse of six foot tall, Kevlar padded, gun wielding sex gods manning the parking lot.

Bear in mind that I am used to the drunken car guard aimlessly directing traffic into chaos.

My curiosity has always been my downfall so I reapplied my lipstick, swore my 10 year old (ineffectually) to secrecy and trotted over to flirt with the newcomers.

“For heaven’s sake, don’t tell your Dad I said they were hot,” I hissed at my son.

“What are you doing?” he asked as I hastily speed dialed my friend up the road.

“I’m calling so and so’s Mom to tell her to get down there and have a look at that Kevlar!”

We arrived home, he shot inside, his father shot out.

“What do you mean the new security guys are hot?”

So, he drove down to the Spar

Turns out, my quiet little corner of South Africa’s crime capital is not so quiet after all.

A car a week is hijacked in Stirling Avenue, Buccleuch at gunpoint. I was advised not to fix the dent on my car to deter would-be attackers. These are not reported because the PR would be a BAD thing.

The gang of friendly guys who amass by the car wash or outside the Post Office are not so friendly after all. They were bust with R90 million worth of heroin. And that sweet blonde teenage who I see sitting there with them, she’s not there to chill out and have a chat while her car gets washed either.

So, am I naïve, blind or both?

Definately not blind!

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