I seem to have the luck of the Gods when it comes to robberies—a strange, recurring pattern where I lose everything, only for the universe to hand it back before the day is out.
In the early 90s, while living in Cape Town, I returned from university to find my house had been cleaned out. My TV, DVD player, and an assortment of other belongings had vanished. Burglary was common enough in Cape Town that I felt a weary sense of resignation as I called the police. When they arrived, I walked to the front gate to greet them. As I stood there, I noticed something odd poking out from behind a large bush in my garden. I investigated and, voila, there was all my stolen gear, neatly stashed behind the shrubbery. The robbers had clearly hidden it there for a quick pickup later, and my arrival had spooked them just in time.
Fast forward to 2010. I was asleep in bed when my dog, Mack, started barking. Half-asleep, I told him to hush and drifted back off. When I finally woke up, I was met with horror: my laptop was gone, along with a Tupperware container full of coins.
I was devastated. It wasn't just the hardware; I had spent many hours on an assignment for my English teaching course, and my entire collection of digital photos was on that machine. I felt that cold, hollow pit in my stomach that comes with losing irreplaceable history.
But then, I spotted a small black shape sticking out from under the desk.
The burglars—likely teenagers looking for quick cash—had unceremoniously yanked the cables and discarded my external hard drive. To them, it was just a plastic box; to me, it was my entire life’s work and every memory I’d captured. I had lost the shell, but the "soul" of my data had been left behind.
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