By Shane Alexander Greenhough
Copyright 2012 Shane Alexander Greenhough
It was rush hour in Johannesburg when they dropped from the sky, smashing our cars and our squat, sturdy buildings as easily as they splattered gawking bystanders. No one had expected it – why would we? For years our televisions and the literature we’d so hungrily devoured had made the facts clear: when they came, they would land in New York City – in the good old U.S-of-A.
Local may be lekker, but somewhere else was clearly better.
At a stretch, we thought, the invasion might begin in a small, rural town somewhere along the great emptiness between actual locations in a more important country. We were led to believe that each of these towns – thousands of them, it seemed, dotting the North American landscape – was a riper target for attack than the sprawling mass of Jo’burg.
As far as
we’d been told, South Africa wasn’t even on the list of invasion
destinations. We simply weren’t interesting enough.
Our intelligence, as it turned out, had been wrong.
Hollywood had lied to us
one came to ground in the open land of Bezuidenhout Park (Bez’ Park
to the locals), in the east of Johannesburg, at three o’clock on a
cloudy Wednesday afternoon. Straight out of the sky it dropped, at a
perfect right angle to the ground, a great grey boulder and nothing
more, by all accounts.
The only witnesses to the event that would usher in the end of our way of life were a uniformed group of boys from the nearby Queens’ High School.