The rainbow nation has turned a rather distressing shade of crimson. Twelve souls, unceremoniously snuffed out in a Johannesburg shooting spree, leaving the South African authorities scrambling and the British Foreign Office issuing the sort of advice that makes one long for the simple, honest terror of a wasp in the car. British expats, we are told, should 'take shelter.' From what, exactly? A hail of bullets fired by a ghost who, at the time of writing, is still cheerfully evading capture across the sprawling, sun-baked urban nightmare that is Joburg.
Let us paint a picture for the gentle reader who has never had the pleasure of visiting this charming locale. Johannesburg, the city of gold, is a place where the wealth of Croesus and the desperation of a Dickensian orphanage exist cheek by jowl. Where a man can drive from a gated community patrolled by armed response units to a shanty town where the only law is the law of the jungle, and the only rich people are the ones selling the bullets. And now, some enterprising soul has decided to add a little chaos to the mix, transforming a Thursday into a scene from a half-remembered Tarantino film.
The details are predictably grim. Shots fired, people falling, the inevitable helicopter buzzing overhead like a bored metallic mosquito. The police, bless their cotton socks, have launched a manhunt. One imagines them peering under desks, checking the boot of every suspicious Toyota, and generally doing that thing where they look very serious and shake their heads a lot. Meanwhile, the British government, in its infinite wisdom, has issued a statement that reads like a warning label on a bottle of bleach: 'Avoid the area. Remain vigilant. Take shelter.' Yes, thank you, that's jolly helpful when one is trying to buy a loaf of bread in a city where the bread might be laced with lead.
What is a British expat to do? They left the gentle drizzle of Surrey for the promise of sunshine and opportunity, only to find themselves living in a real-life version of that film where everyone is armed and the only thing more terrifying than the criminals is the security guards. The advice to 'take shelter' is, at best, patronising. At worst, it's a tacit admission that the authorities have no idea where the killer is, what he looks like, or when he might decide to add another tally to his scorecard.
And so, the manhunt continues. A dance of shadows and sirens through the streets of a city that has always been a little bit mad, a little bit dangerous, and now, a little bit deadlier. The expats huddle in their apartments, peering through the blinds, wondering if this is the day they cash in their chips. The rest of the world watches, tuts, and moves on to the next crisis. Johannesburg, you magnificent, terrifying beast, you've done it again.
In the grand tradition of gonzo journalism, I will now pour myself a large gin. It is warm, it is probably South African, and it tastes faintly of regret. Cheers, Joburg. May your manhunt be swift, your arrests successful, and your guns a little quieter.
