The piercing sound of the gunshot on the other end of the line splinters my soul, I drop my cell phone and it makes a loud sound as it lands on the floor face down. I desperately gasp for air trying hard to regain my composure.
"Nothing bad has happened, he is fine," I whisper a short prayer in need of assurance.
I pick the phone up and surprisingly the LCD is still intact; either the screen protector I bought added an extra layer of durability, or it is only through sheer luck the phone isn't broken.
The call is still ongoing.
"Phillip" My cries for his name get the reception of dead silence. Soon I would take this as a lesson that it is what death means, silence.
I don't know what to do. I watch as the call minutes tick, restlessly pacing up and down the room. I do not want to hang up. I can't and I won't hang up until I hear this man's voice command me to stop being dramatic and stay calm. Isn't it the drama, sensitivity and fragile nature of us women that make men comfortable to use the word "woman" as an insult to each other? But my hopes are shattered when the line gets disconnected; the minutes must have run out. I try to call over and over again but nobody picks up. Perhaps it's time I call 10111, 911 in America.
"South Africa Police Services, what is your emergency?"
"Hello!" I whimper. "My...My..." At this point, I am almost having a panic attack; my heart is racing and I hyperventilate as I struggle to choose my words.
"Mam, I would like you to calm down," The call operator says. Her voice is flat and boring with no hint of sincerity; I suppose she is just following protocol, saying what she was trained to say when dealing with distressed individuals like me. "Take a slow deep heavy breath and tell me what has happened," she commands.
"Okay," I obey.
I close my eyes as every atom of oxygen fills my lungs. Then I let a heavy rush of air escape from my mouth.
"That's it! You are doing great chomie- friend" She praises me. Seeing she has gotten comfortable to call me chomie, she must have picked up my Xhosa accent. "Why do you think umuntu wakho - your person/ boyfriend is in trouble?" she proceeds to ask.
"He called saying this weird stuff before a gun went off," I explain.
"Do you know where he is?"
"No, I don't; he left as I was sleeping". I am combing back my weave with my fingers.
"So you live together?"
I pause.
"Chomie!" she makes sure I am still on the line.
"No! Sleepover." I feel a weight on my soul as the words slip out of my mouth. It was not long ago when a girl died at a sleepover and she was burned at the stake across several social media platforms. Some people commented: Yena ebeyaphi -where did she think she was going? Naye Ebephapha - the girl was too fast! Tshosho, unyanzelekile- That's it, she got what she deserved. I suppose my new chomie thinks the same of me judging from the sudden derision in her voice, "Ohoo uthakile - you are at your boyfriend's place for a sex rendezvous."
"No," My reply is faint.
"So, uthakisile – you invited him over for a sex rendezvous?"
Great. Now I have made it worse. I remain silent.
"Okay ke – then!" she makes a popping sound. "Since you do not know where your boyfriend is, I cannot send a patrol car out. But I have put out an all-points bulletin (APB) for reports on gunshot sounds across different areas in Cape Town."
YOU ARE READING
Trying to Escape Poverty
Teen FictionFor Phillip, getting a college degree is the only way to escape poverty. But school-life balance is not as easy as he imagined, especially for students on financial aid like him. When his High school sweetheart, Zizile, succumbs to the FOMO that mo...
