A few years ago, I stumbled into a situation I never saw coming. I was driving home late at night, somewhere between tired and wired, when a guy on a motorbike tried to block me at a red light. Nothing happened—thank God—but my hands were shaking for hours afterward. It was the first time I felt truly vulnerable in a place I called home. And every time I hear a story like the one out of Kasoa recently, that same chill creeps back in.
If you haven’t heard, an officer from the National Intelligence Bureau (NIB) and his wife were robbed at gunpoint right in Kasoa—broad daylight, middle of town, just like that. Two guys on a motorbike (why is it always a motorbike?) pulled up, waved a gun, and made off with their belongings. No one was hurt, but the damage goes way beyond stolen items.
I keep thinking: if an intelligence officer—someone trained in security, probably hyper-aware of his surroundings—can be caught off guard like that, what chance do the rest of us have?
There’s something surreal about how normal this kind of news has become. You’re scrolling through your phone, checking WhatsApp messages, liking someone’s wedding photos—and boom, another robbery headline. We frown, maybe shake our heads, drop a “smh” in the group chat, and then move on with our day. But inside, something shifts. Another small notch in the belt of fear.
Kasoa isn’t some remote corner of the world. It’s busy, alive, full of people just trying to make ends meet. Street vendors, students, parents doing school runs—it could’ve been anyone. And I think that’s what hits the hardest. It is anyone. This kind of violence doesn’t ask for permission or check your title. It just shows up.
Honestly, I’m not even sure what the solution is anymore. Better policing? Sure. Community watch groups? Maybe. But sometimes I wonder if we’ve become so used to living in fear that we don’t even realize how tense we are all the time. I know folks who don’t carry bags in public anymore, just in case. Others who won’t step out after 7 p.m. unless absolutely necessary. That’s not normal… right?
In my experience, the aftermath of events like this lingers longer than we admit. You get more cautious. Maybe a little more paranoid. You start noticing every passing bike, every odd glance. That invisible weight just sits on your shoulders—and you carry it, whether you talk about it or not.
What’s scarier is the feeling that nowhere is safe anymore. And when even the “watchmen” are getting robbed, who’s really watching out for the rest of us?
I don’t know. Maybe this is just another reminder of how far we’ve drifted from the kind of security we all dream about. But I keep thinking—what would it take to actually feel safe again? Not just pretend-safe, but real, deep-down-in-your-gut safe?
And more importantly… are we already too numb to even try?
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