Yesterday I saw something that deeply disturbed me. As I stopped by a
convenience store in my area after work, I heard, even before I saw, a down-syndrome man of about 28 being accosted by the
Indian shop keeper and his assistant. Both of them seemed to be enjoying the act, there were smiles all over their vicious faces while their victim was squealing like a pig. I was taken aback by what I had just witnessed, and walked into the isles, though all I needed was airtime from the counter. My initial reaction was to turn away. It was easy enough.
When I walked towards the till, the man had been pushed to the ground, and the shopkeeper was now kicking and punching him, whilst the black assistant lady was smirking him along, like a smug cheerleader cheering on her
quarterbackdick boyfriend punching a junior in the face. It turned out that the
moonbaged, spectacle-faced dupe has pocketed three Bar One chocolates to harvest this beating. I asked the brownfaced dastard to stop. I didn't say it very loud. Part of me was too shocked, winded by what I was seeing, another part of me felt gut-less. I repeated myself two or three times. Another man had come to the scene, and was asking the victim for him mother's name, but he had withdrawn completely, resorting instead to a continuous, torturous wailing of tears and "I am innocent, I just want to go home". The
Indian wouldn't stop tormenting the man. He kept on poking, provoking until his plaything wet his pants.
I dumbed down. I bought my 12 Rands worth of airtime, gave the other assistant my money, and turned my back - I did nothing.
I am a coward, and there is no excuse for it. It's the squealing that I can't stop hearing . . .
I must take care not to fall into the habit of re-blogging what has already been posted elsewhere, but I can't seem to be able to help it, when I find something I love I simply must share.
