Content warning: This post contains accounts of violence that may be distressing.
It was December, 1994, and 27-year-old Alison Botha had returned to her apartment after dropping her friend Kim home.
That day had been idyllic. She had spent the afternoon at the beach with friends in Port Elizabeth, one of the largest cities in South Africa. Afterwards, everyone had gone back to Alison’s apartment to eat pizza and play Balderdash.
The tall brunette had been head girl at her high school. She was confident and well spoken. After travelling for a number of years, Alison was working as an insurance broker, a job which she enjoyed.
That night, she had promised to drop Kim home afterwards, and now it was around 1am on Sunday morning.
Alison discovered she had lost her very convenient car spot right outside her apartment, and searched for another within walking distance.
Then, she found it. There was a space under a big tree; big enough to block the street lights on an already poorly lit road.
She was looking forward to getting into bed after a cool shower, and so pulled in and reached over to get her clean laundry out of the passenger seat to bring upstairs.
That’s when she felt a gust of warm air.
The car door had been flung open, and standing before her was a scrawny but tall young man with blonde hair.
Immediately, Alison spotted the knife.
“Move over or I’ll kill you,” the man said to her in a low, matter-of-fact voice. She did exactly what he said.