Tumelo Buthelezi, founder and chairperson of Brakpan non-profit organisation The Bold and Brave Foundation, writes:

On my way to work this morning, I looked around and saw South African women doing what South African women do every single day.

Women walking to work.

Women jogging before the day gets too busy.

Women carrying lunch bags and handbags.

Mothers walking their children to school.

Young girls rushing to catch taxis.

Women getting onto buses, trains and taxis, trusting that they will get where they are going and come back home.

Just women living.

And yet, I couldn’t shake this heavy feeling in my chest.

Because with a serial killer allegedly on the loose, how many of these women will make it home today?

How many mothers will kiss their children goodbye this morning, completely unaware that it could be the last time?

How many women will leave home thinking, “I’ll see you later,” without knowing whether later is guaranteed?

And somewhere out there, there is a man who has decided that another woman’s life is his to take.

A man who gets to choose whether she lives or dies.

Whether she gets home.

Whether her family gets to hear her voice again.

Whether her children get to see their mother walk through that door.

And that is the part that terrifies me.

Because South African women already know what it means to live cautiously.

We share our locations.

We call each other when we get home.

We sit in the back of taxis.

We avoid walking alone.

We keep our keys between our fingers.

We scan our surroundings.

We text, “I’m home.”

We’ve turned survival into part of our daily routine.

And now, even the ordinary things – walking to work, jogging, taking your child to school – can feel like acts of
courage.

Because somewhere in this country, a woman may be walking home completely unaware that someone is watching her.

And if she is attacked, people will ask:

• Where was she?
• Why was she alone?
• What was she wearing?
• Why didn’t she fight?
• Why didn’t she take a taxi?

But nobody should have to live their entire life making contingency plans for a man’s decision to hurt them.
Nobody should have to become an expert in avoiding their own murder.

She shouldn’t have to be more careful. He should have to be less violent.

And to every South African woman who is leaving her house this morning:

• I hope you make it home.
• I hope your mother doesn’t have to identify your body.
• I hope your children don’t have to grow up asking why you never came back.
• I hope your family never receives that phone call.
• I hope you get to finish your workday, buy your groceries, collect your children, laugh with your friends, complain about traffic, eat dinner and crawl into your bed exhausted from another ordinary day.

Because you deserve an ordinary day. You deserve to walk through this country without wondering if someone has chosen you as their next victim.

You deserve to exist without being afraid that somewhere, some man has decided that your life is his to take.

And I hate that this is something South African women understand far too well. We shouldn’t have to pray simply to make it home.

But until this country becomes safer for women, that is exactly what so many of us will continue to do.

May every woman who leaves home this morning have the privilege of walking back through that door tonight.

She is not a statistic.

She is someone’s daughter.

Someone’s mother.

Someone’s sister.

Someone’s friend.

Someone’s whole world.

And she deserves to come home.