Vincent Oldendaal

The streets of Johannesburg, South Africa, breathe an energy you won’t find anywhere else. I know most corners and alleys; each sound tells a story, from distant laughter to the sudden, nerve-tingling crack of gunfire. It’s been that way my whole life, this pulse of tension and familiarity. Working as a police officer here is like trying to hold back an ocean, the tide strong and unforgiving. I’m 34, and I’ve watched friends fall in this job—colleagues who became family, their names now etched into walls and memories.

Recently, an armored car heist turned into a bloodbath. Nine lives gone, including four officers, and the aftermath plays on repeat in my mind. I lie awake some nights, dissecting every move, thinking, *If only I’d done something different…*. But that’s part of this job, carrying the weight of what ifs.

My girlfriend wants us to think about a family, and we’ve talked about me leaving the force for something safer, maybe a desk job. The thought of coming home without the residue of gunpowder or fear clinging to me? It sounds like a fantasy, but the longer I stay, the further it drifts out of reach.

A trip to Europe last year stirred something in both of us. Walking through cities where buildings stand without fortress-like walls or barbed wire felt like breathing in a different reality. There was ease in that life, something I’d almost forgotten could exist. Here, every wall, every barricade, speaks of survival, of a city hardened against itself. And while it’s the only home I know, there’s a part of me that wonders what life could be like—if I ever stopped holding back the tide.