Home Invasion

I intended to sit down this afternoon and write a little essay documenting my profound observations about crime in Johannesburg. The question keeps coming up, and I’m never quite sure how to answer: Do I feel safe here in this city so notorious for its crime? So, I’ve been compiling my thoughts on the subject and I finally felt ready to put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard).

My afternoon did not go as planned. Instead of a leisurely afternoon at the computer, I spent the past three hours trying desperately to rid my home of an invader. It’s true. But this was no burglar. This was a bird-lar. Yes, this afternoon, I came home to find a bird frantically flapping around my living room.

I should start by explaining that when the weather is nice in South Africa, everyone leaves their doors open. Wide open. Windows too. And screens? What’s that? Come on, you’re in Africa! We are one with nature here. Bugs? Who cares? And what’s a little dust and dirt when you have a maid to clean it up?

So I leave my doors open. After all, I’m in Africa. This is how we live, right? I try not to freak out about the daddy-long-leg spider crawling across my floor or the mosquito buzzing in my ear at night. It’s just a part of life here. So slather on some mosquito repellent, and sweet dreams, good night.

These birds though…

Eventually the bird invader calms down and finds a comfortable spot to hang out in the rafters. I’m staring up at the offending creature, trying to figure out the best course of action when this bird…this BIRD decides that now would be a good time to empty its bowels.

You have got to be kidding me, right? I watch in horror as he let’s another dropping fall and the reality that a bird is pooping all over my living room sets in. I can feel the heat radiating from my face. I feel nauseous. I think my head might explode. I stomp my foot. I clench my fists. I open my mouth but have no control over the shocking words coming out of it.

“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE YOU @#$%&*!

Perhaps now is a good time to mention the mulberry bush. Yes, we have a mulberry bush. You know – the kind that produces that nice blackish purple fruit? Well, the birds love that damn fruit. And guess what it does to their droppings? Yes. Big drops of blackish purple gunk. Scattered across my living room floor. I’m certain this bird has diarrhea.

“YOU LITTLE @*%&, GET OOOUTTTTTT!”

The bird does not seem at all offended by my obscenities. I run to the kitchen for a mop and proceed to jump up and down (still screaming obscenities), thrusting the head of the mop at the bird. I’m not sure what I’m hoping to achieve with this maneuver, but I only manage to scare the bird even higher into the rafters. And now he’s perched right above my couch.

“OH NO YOU DID-ENT!!”

I manage to push my couch across the room while still shaking the mop. I’m starting to sweat. I’m hating this bird like I have never hated any living creature, and I feel the need to tell it so.

“I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!”

But maybe this is the wrong approach. I’m clearly scaring it higher when I need to be luring it down. I run back to the kitchen for a piece of bread. I’m breaking off bits of bread and tossing them at the bird, but the stupid bird doesn’t even notice. Moose however, thinks this is great fun, but I don’t have the energy to scold my dog for eating the bread. I’m too busy hurling chunks of bread at the bird. I’m no longer sure if I’m trying to feed it or hit it. Hmm. I’d rather hit it.

I decide I need a ladder. If I can reach it, I’ll use my mop to beat that little @#$% senseless.

Okay, let’s pause for a moment. I know what you are thinking. Who is this person? What kind of girl would want to kill a helpless creature who just happened to have wandered where it shouldn’t after overindulging in a few mulberries? You’re completely right – that girl is crazy! Surely that mop-waiving, swearing psycho is not me.

As I run to the garage in search of a ladder, I have a minor out of body experience. The Real Me is watching Crazy Me and thinking that I should simply go to the main house and ask Roger to come help me rid our house of this invader. But Crazy Me suddenly has a desperate need to prove that she is strong and independent and fully capable of rescuing her living room from a purple-pooping bird all by herself. Crazy Me takes the ladder back to the living room.

But eventually, Roger comes back to find me in my swearing and screaming and mop-waiving state. And of course he does the only thing that could piss me off more than another mulberry-dropping. He laughs. I turn my attention away from the purple-pooping bird and decide my efforts are better spent beating my husband senseless with the mop.

“IT’S NOT FUNNY!”

“It’s kinda funny.”

“ARRRGGGGHHH!!!!”

I can’t even form words anymore. Who knew I had all this rage inside me? I haven’t thrown a tantrum like this sense I was three years old.

Roger gets a broom and climbs the ladder. He extends the handle of the broom towards the bird as if he’s Snow White and this damn bird is going to flitter over and perch on his broomstick. Right. I tell Roger he is an idiot. Roger does not appreciate my thoughts on the subject.

Eventually, we team up and chase the bird around the living room, banging on the rafters with our broom and mop every time the offending creature tries to land. After a good fifteen minutes of this ridiculous routine, the bird is as exhausted as we are and flutters down to the floor where it suddenly sees the light and makes its way to the open door.

“And STAY out!” I scream as I attempt to slam the sliding door shut. But the thrill of victory is short-lived. I look around my living room and see the many purple presents the bird has left behind. My living room looks like a Jackson Pollack. Seriously. There are even a few drips on the wall.

I take a deep breath and look at Roger who is trying very hard not to laugh. I’m trying very hard to resist the urge to punch him in the nose. But I control myself. Instead, I take my mop and use it for the purpose it was intended.

So how do I feel about crime in Johannesburg? We’ll get to that some other time I guess. However, if a burglar ever does get into my house, he better watch out for me and my mop.