The day before the old year, as we call the last day of the year, I was called by my son the photographer. He was at the scene where someone was badly injured, most likely as the result of an attack.
I said I was ready to receive his photo's and publish them on the online paper, but he wanted me to come. It was in the street behind our house.
So I took the jacket I always wear when being a journalist, asked my security guard-son to come as well, and went there.
It was midnight, the police had arrived and secured the scene.
My son was behind the lines photographing.
The press officer of the police was expected, they said, but he never arrived.
The lack of information resulting in a few young people to pannick. They were on their way to a friend after a party, and thought that maybe that friend was murdered on his arrival at home.
I usually give no information at all, that's up to the police, but in this case emotions went so high, I saw it fit to tell that the person was not of "white origin".
Immediately the girl stopped crying. "Oh thanks, thanks, thanks.... then it can't be our friend. Oh thank you so very much."
She immediately called her mother who told her to come home. They were not allowed to go to their friend's house anyway.
One of my sons told the police there was a small dark path between the gardens right opposite the injured man. Maybe someone had used it to fled from the scene.
My other son had seen strange people in the playground near our house. He'd never seen them. I told the police officier. It's only about 300 metres away from the scene. Maybe they had seen or heard something.
The police officier didn't bother to write it down.