"To him who is in fear everything rustles." - Sophocles

I arrived back in Grahamstown late on December 23rd. I had returned to the "City of Saints" just before Christmas so I could spend the day with the kids from Eluxolweni.

It was drizzling and dark and the bustle and movement of High Street during the day is replaced by a deserted, ominious, wide-open street filled with closed buildings, curbs scattered with trash from the day and the occasional lighted store front.

I grabbed my luggage and began down High Street. The street was utterly silent except for the rolling of the luggage wheels along the slick pavement and the occasional splash when I'd step in a puddle.

When I heard a bit of rustling, I immediately looked up. I'm a bit too nervous sometimes. My mind plays tricks on me; I feel like somebody's about to emerge out of the darkness and take my suitcase at knife point. I trick myself into thinking it will actually happen.

I glanced around and spotted a figure standing in the alleyway. I could see only the shadow of a rather tall, skinny looking guy. He walked out of the alleyway, approached me and, once he was under the street light, said "Hello Jason."

I knew this guy. It was Thanduxolo. He was a former student at Amasango. But I was, perhaps, more terrified once I realized who it was. This boy is a very smooth talker, but he's one of the scariest kids I've encountered during my time here. Many of the kids at Amasango are violent, but I'm not frightened by most of them. This boy scares me, terrifies me--and with good reason.

Last time I was here, he was the one plotting to stab me and take the laptop. He's been accused of stealing from the school. He's been credited with fashioning weapons out of seemingly ordinary objects and beating people with them. In May, a student came to Amasango terrified, bruised and bloody claiming Thanduxolo had looped a belt around a metal cup and beat him because Thanduxolo believed this boy was an informant.

He's asked Thulani, the boy who lives with us, whether he's ever stolen from Joanne, Jane or myself, and told him he's stupid for not having tried. He's asked if Thulani knows the code to the Hi-Tech armed response alarm at Jane's house. He's asked the name of the three dogs at Jane's house, likely, so if he decided to come and steal he could call the dogs by name to quiet them down. He looks innocent, and that, perhaps makes him even more dangerous.

"Hi Louie," (he goes by Louie most often, not his Xhosa name, Thanduxolo.) I said, trying to conceal the fear in my voice. "How are you?"

"I'm fine thanks," he said, gazing down at my bag.

I thought to myself "here we go." I've been lucky and haven't been robbed during my three visits here. I suppose it's my turn to be formally welcomed to the country, undergo my initiation and have my bag stolen.

"What are you doing out here now?" I sputtered.

"I'm a car guard," he said.

I laughed in my head, but certainly didn't let that laugh escape. If anything, this boy would be one who would be breaking into cars, not somebody who should be guarding them.

Thanduoxlo continued, "can I help you carry your bags?"

I didn't want help, especially from him, but I didn't have much choice.

"Sure," I blurted out. "But I'm not giving you any money for doing it. But you are more than welcome to walk with me."

Looking back, I don't know why I said that to him. If he were to bring a knife out of his pocket, he could have the money, the luggage and whatever else he might be interested in taking.

I'm sure many people reading this think "You should fight back Jason and not be such a baby." People who subscribe to that argument either are incredibly brave, almost to the point of being stupid, or have never experienced the depravity some of these people are capable of. The knife, with many of these criminals, isn't just to scare you. It's to stab you--to kill you--if you don't hand over what they want. It's happened thousands of times across the country; innocent people fighting back and dying for their material possesions. I decided long ago if I'm ever asked for anything at knife point, I'll give it to them. They can take my clothes or my iPod. I'll at least walk away unharmed.

"Okay, let's go." Thanduxolo said, taking the handle of my luggage and beginning to roll it down the street.

I asked him what he was doing for the holidays. He told me he wasn't doing much.

I asked when he might come back to Amasango. He told me he likely wasn't coming back.

I kept my eye on where his hands were, and got nervous if they ventured even remotely close to his pockets. They didn't.

We kept walking. We kept talking. And talking. And talking. Thanduxolo was talking quite a bit. He wasn't asking me when Jane might return or about the dogs. He was just telling me about his life. It was what I would describe as a non-threatening conversation. It was bordering on pleasant.

We were nearly at the end of the street and I told him I could take my stuff the rest of the way. I didn't want him anywhere near the house. He smiled. I thanked him, and we went our separate ways.

The entire walk lasted no more than ten minutes, but it was a ten minute walk I won't soon forget. That 10 minutes went from me being terrified of what he might do, to me actually enjoying--albeit cautiously enjoying--his company. He really seemed like he just wanted to talk. He could have robbed me. Nobody was around.

I really believe he just wanted some company. Somebody to listen. Perhaps if he had, as a child growing up, had somebody to talk to, he wouldn't have grown into the monster he's become. He wouldn't have become yet another stereotypical South African street child: male, poor, prone to criminal activity, often violent, drug-addicted. It's almost as if those 10 minutes walking down High Street were 10 minutes he tried to reclaim of his otherwise lost childhood.

He could have taken my bags. He could have threatened me. He could have, slyly, asked how "Mama Jane" was doing and when she was going to return to Grahamstown. He did none of those things.

He just talked--and helped me carry my bags.