A Load of Shit

Paranoia always follows a robbery. It does not matter how well you take the initial shock or how calm you are about being outwitted one of societies crafty agents, you remain a little jumpy and doubly cautious about your property and person. Who is that man on the street corner? and what is that shadow in the backyard?

One Sunday morning, Tobre and I came home to find a message from the private police to say the alarm had gone off. Inside the house, the back-window was open but all that was missing was my phone. I thought, in my vast experience of theft, that we had gotten off lightly. The computer, digital camera and my wallet remained untouched. One of my much better robberies.

And yet my equanimity gave way to suspicion and exagerated caution. In the first instance, although little was taken that Sunday morning, the robbery was a little unusual. While the introduer had taken only a phone, he (all burglers are ‘he’s somehow) had left something behind. On the grass at the back was a small deposit of human feaces. The visitor had reason for spite it seemed. It must have been Gift, I thought. He has his reasons for spite. “God will judge you” he said. Perhaps the prophecy had come true (again). If not Gift, perhaps one of the casual labourers that hang about across from the corner shop waiting for jobs, of which Gift was a member. They would know, from the bordom of their daily vigil, when we are out and when we are out for a long while.

This explains why my instinct for sleuth was piqued on the following Saturday morning. Just as we drove out the yard, past the phalnx of casual labourers, one of them stood up and began to make his way down the street that goes past our backyard. The very one, I am sure, who was built slim with a fat nose and a wide hat, that grinned at me crudely that morning after the robbery as I drove past. “Thank you” he seemed to be saying with that smile. I was convinced he was on his way to make another attempt on the houses defences.

To catch him in the act, I drove around the block, drove up to the house from a different direction, pulled into the driveway, disarmed the alarm and opened the front door in the same movement, and then stormed into the house. I rushed to the back window to see who was there. I expected to catch him, with his hand through the window, groping around for more goodies. Or I expected to see him stood in the middle of the yard, caught in the act. I wanted him to see me seeing him. I did not want to apprehend him. I wanted to look him in the eye as I caught him in the act. I wanted to tell him with a subtle nod that I too am always watching. I will be watching him much closer than he will be watching me.

I drew the curtains open in one abrupt and triumphant swing. In the backyard there was no one there. Everything was quiet, except from the constant noise of cars on the motorway yonder. Nothing was broken or missing.