Tales from the Tangled Trail

Tag: story-time

  • My Accidental Escape from a Marriage Proposal – Episode 3

    The Dinner Before the Disaster

    Duncan had gotten dressed and said he’d meet me down at the hotel’s fancy restaurant. Now, ordinarily, I’d be thrilled—because I love food. Especially good food. But this time? I took my sweet time getting ready. Not because I wanted to impress Duncan, but because I was still fuming over the “oops, only one suite left” situation.

    I wasn’t exactly leaping at the chance to head downstairs. Something in my gut told me this evening was going to be weird—and not the fun, spontaneous kind of weird. More like the “I’m about to be emotionally ambushed” kind. If I could’ve buried my head in the minibar like an ostrich and pretended none of this was happening, I would’ve.

    But instead, I took my time getting dressed—part stalling tactic, part emotional armor. I wasn’t going to waltz in all sunshine and sparkles like I hadn’t just been wedged into a suite-sharing situation I never signed up for. No way. I decided to go with a look I like to call disengaged but dazzling. Think: hostage chic, but with lip gloss.

    By the time I floated into the restaurant, I was composed—at least on the outside. On the inside? Still rage-simmering with a hint of “how-do-I-escape-this-trip-with-my-sanity?”

    We had just ordered our first course when I decided—against all better judgment—to have a glass of wine. Maybe it would help smooth over my mood. Maybe it would just help me sit through another night of Duncan talking about wood grain finishes.

    But then—just as I took that first hesitant sip—he leaned in.

    “I’ve really loved our time together,” he said, eyes soft and serious.
    “I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you since you worked for me.
    This trip… was so I could finally tell you.
    I want to marry you.”

    Cue internal collapse.
    My heart froze. My jaw didn’t drop (I have some dignity), but my stomach absolutely did a backflip.

    Why was it always the men I had zero interest in who insisted on loving me with Olympic-level intensity?

    Then—as if this couldn’t get worse—he pulled out a little black velvet box.

    Oh, sweet mercy.

    He didn’t even get down on one knee. Just handed it over. Like a contract. Or an unsolicited invoice for emotional damage.

    Inside? A diamond. A very large, very sparkly, very innocent-looking diamond.
    Too bad it was giving me a full-body anxiety rash.

    Panic!

    I was speechless. Not in the happy, teary-eyed, “oh my word this is the best day of my life” kind of way. More like the stunned, wide-eyed, “I might faint into this bread roll” kind of way. And I could only pray Duncan wasn’t mistaking my silence for the romantic kind of overwhelmed.

    His lips were still moving—definitely still talking. Something about love… forever… destiny, maybe? I honestly couldn’t tell. All I could focus on was the twinkling diamond glaring at me from inside its velvet cell like a sparkly little accomplice to this crime of confusion.

    Then came the question:
    “Are you going to say something?”

    Oh, Duncan. I wish I had.

    To this day, I have no memory of my actual response. I think it was something weak and non-committal like, “Wow… I’m so honored you feel this way.” Which, let’s be real, is the international code for: “Absolutely not, but I’m too polite to say it yet.”

    That’s when full-blown panic took over. I began listing every possible reason why I would make a terrible wife. Surely, surely, logic would win the day.

    I was too emotionally unavailable.
    I didn’t know what I wanted in life.
    I still had commitment issues… with gym memberships, let alone marriage.

    But Duncan? Unfazed.

    He had a counter for every excuse I gave—calm, confident, relentless. It suddenly made perfect sense why he was such a successful lawyer. I was basically presenting Exhibit A for “This Is Not Going to Happen,” and he was expertly cross-examining it into oblivion.

    Meanwhile, I was spiraling.

    How on earth was I going to turn this down without nuking my future business prospects… and possibly a shot at international travel and financial salvation?

    Then the food arrived.

    But while Duncan tucked in with the joy of a man who’d just proposed and assumed it went well, I could barely chew. Every bite felt like it came with a side of anxiety. I washed it all down with more wine—hoping it might give me either the courage to be honest, or a nap I wouldn’t wake up from until we were back in Durban.

    He, of course, misread my wine consumption as a celebration.
    Me? I was mourning my exit strategy.

    Couch Couture and Midnight Madness

    Eventually, sometime between the cheesecake and my third glass of liquid denial, Duncan asked the inevitable:
    “So… do you have an answer?”

    Panic.
    I stalled. “I’ll need some time to think about it,” I said, in the most non-committal, conflict-avoiding tone I could manage.

    A flicker of disappointment passed over his face—followed, interestingly, by what looked like relief. I hadn’t said yes (praise be), but I hadn’t said no either. Just… a diplomatic holding pattern. He could still hope, and I could still breathe.

    But then came the real challenge: returning to the suite.

    It was still too early to turn in, but Duncan announced cheerfully that he was calling it a night.
    “Oh, okay! Good night!” I chirped—maybe just a bit too brightly—as I made a dramatic beeline for the miniature couch like it was a perfectly reasonable sleeping arrangement and not a glorified footstool.

    Now, let’s remember—this was the 1990s in South Africa. We didn’t have cable or streaming or anything remotely entertaining past 10 p.m. What we did have was SABC, our one sad little channel. On Saturday nights, the movie would end promptly at 10, followed by a string of solemn religious programming (think: pipe organs and softly spoken sermons), and then—if you were still awake—the grand finale: a test pattern and the national anthem. That was it. Entertainment closed for the night like a tuck shop on a public holiday.

    Midnight hit.
    Exhaustion hit harder.

    And that couch? It had all the comfort of a shoebox lined with regret.

    I weighed my options. Cling to this glorified bench and wake up with spinal trauma? Or admit defeat and slide silently into the enormous king-sized bed?

    I chose survival.

    So, I layered every item of clothing in my suitcase like a human onion, crept across the room, and eased into the very far edge of the mattress—as in, one accidental roll and I’d be on the floor. Mission: do not touch Duncan.

    I must’ve passed out instantly.

    Because the next thing I knew, I was under attack.

    Snore Wars : The Final Deterrent

    I jolted awake to find Duncan looming over me, wielding a pillow like a weapon and hissing:
    “Carol! Will you STOP SNORING?!”

    Apparently, the allergies I’d been ignoring all day had blossomed into a full-blown, symphonic, soul-shaking snore-fest.
    Duncan was livid.

    Whether it was the noise, or the shock of seeing me lying there—bundled like a human burrito in every item of clothing I owned—it clearly spelled out what I hadn’t managed to say over dinner: this was never going to be a love story.

    He stormed off without a word, stomped onto the balcony, lit a cigarette, and glared at the horizon like it had personally offended him. Bare-chested. Sleep shorts. Smouldering with betrayal.

    I did feel bad.
    Sort of.
    But mostly? Immensely relieved.
    I no longer needed a carefully crafted “it’s not you, it’s me” monologue. My nasal passages had done the heavy lifting. My snoring had spoken the unspoken.

    Needless to say, the pot of gold I thought Duncan represented turned out to be an old rusted tin can with holes in the bottom.

    The drive home? Painfully silent. So silent, you could hear my regret shifting awkwardly in the back seat.

    What was I supposed to say?
    “Sorry my nasal passages betrayed you”?

    And the more the kilometres rolled by, the more irritated I became.
    Had this whole “business venture” just been a romantic ruse? A bait-and-switch wrapped in handcrafted wooden bowls?

    I hadn’t seen his kindness as anything but… well, kindness. And sure, maybe I’d laughed at his jokes or smiled politely over dinner—but that’s not a binding contract. It’s basic social grace.

    By the time we pulled up to my car in Umkomaas, I couldn’t decide if I felt more guilty for not feeling guilty, or just mad that the whole awkward circus had even happened.

    Either way, the fairy tale was over.
    Not with a glass slipper, but with a snort and a slam of a car door.

    On Reflection….

    I never heard from Duncan again.

    And honestly, I didn’t expect to. He was a good man—kind, respectful, and genuine—and while I did miss him, I couldn’t bring myself to reach out. I didn’t want to give him false hope or rub salt into what was likely still a pretty raw wound.

    The whole episode didn’t leave me feeling triumphant. Quite the opposite, actually. It chipped away at my already-fragile self-esteem. I’d hurt someone who didn’t deserve it—however unintentionally—and that truth stuck with me. What stung even more was the uncomfortable realization that I had been this close to a better future. Stability. Travel. A solid, kind-hearted man. But I let it all go… because, if I’m being brutally honest, he didn’t look like Brad Pitt. Turns out, I was that shallow.

    The whole Duncan chapter became one of those cringe-worthy “what was I thinking” moments I often take to God in prayer. Thankfully, in His endless grace, He has led me into a spacious place—a life where He truly has turned all things for good (Romans 8:28). The shame, the regret, the bad choices? He’s repurposed it all.

    And while I still have a suitcase full of questionable decisions and terrifying detours to share, I tell these stories not to glamorize the mess—but to hopefully make you laugh, and more importantly, to warn younger girls: Get healed. Get whole. Don’t waste years wandering down dead-end roads like I did.

  • Stranded, Scared, and Saved: My Night on the Concrete Highway

    One of my previous posts was about another angelic encounter that helped me in a dire situation. This is another account of what can only be described as angelic intervention.

    Stranded on the Highway With a Broken Fuel Gauge and a Barefoot Stranger

    Buying my first car felt like winning a mini lottery—okay, more like finding a crumpled R50 note in your jeans. It was secondhand, scratched, and smelled vaguely like old sandwiches, but it was mine. No more relying on my boyfriend for rides like I was his clingy little co-pilot. I could go where I wanted, when I wanted. Independence never looked so… slightly dented.

    The dream, however, came with one tiny, catastrophic flaw: the petrol gauge didn’t work.

    Since I couldn’t afford to fix it (or really fix anything), I adopted the “human calculator” approach. I tracked my mileage like my life depended on it—because, apparently, it did. I’d drive until I thought it was time to refuel, then top up just before things got dicey. It wasn’t ideal, but hey, it worked.

    Until it didn’t.

    Enter: A Wednesday Night Disaster

    It started with dinner at my boyfriend’s mom’s house—classic midweek visit that began fashionably late because he just had to hit the gym after work. I left around 10 p.m., cruising onto Joburg’s shiny new “concrete highway,” which, back in the 90s, was still novel and exciting. Fast lanes. Fewer robots. What could go wrong?

    As I headed uphill, the car gave a little judder. Then another. And then it started coughing like it had swallowed a spoon. My stomach dropped. I had forgotten to check the mileage.

    I was out of petrol.

    I somehow managed to steer into the emergency lane, pulling off like a Formula 1 driver who just realized they were out of fuel—and also had no pit crew. The engine died. The lights dimmed. And just like that, I was alone. On the side of one of Joburg’s most notorious roads. At night.

    This particular stretch had a reputation: carjackings, assaults, fake “help” lures that ended in horror. I knew the stories. Everyone did. My heart pounded so loudly I could hear it over the passing traffic.

    Fight, Flight, or… Wave Pathetically?

    I had three options, none good:

    1. Stay in the car and hope no one bothered me. (Unlikely.)
    2. Walk home. (Alone. In the dark. Nope.)
    3. Flag someone down and pray they weren’t a serial killer.

    I chose option 3, mostly because it didn’t involve movement. I got out and stood next to my car, arms folded like I was waiting for a taxi that would never come. Cars flew past, their headlights slicing through the night, not even slowing down. Twenty minutes went by. Nothing.

    Eventually, I raised my arms and started waving like one of those inflatable things outside a used car dealership. Another 15 minutes. Still nothing. My arms went limp. I was tired, scared, and dangerously close to tears.

    So I did what any desperate 90s Joburg girl might do in that moment: I whispered a prayer.

    “Please, God. Help me.”

    To be honest, I wasn’t even sure He was still taking my calls. But before I could spiral further into self-doubt, something happened.

    A white VW Jetta pulled up.

    The Barefoot Miracle

    A young man stepped out, dressed entirely in white—shorts and a shirt—and, bizarrely, no shoes. He looked calm, relaxed, like a guy who mistook a highway emergency for a beach stroll.

    “Are you alright? Can I help you?” he asked.

    “Yes! Please!” I blurted, explaining my fuel faux pas. Midway through my rambling confession, I realized I had no money on me. None. Not even a crumpled R2.

    He frowned a little. “Oh dear,” he said, like we’d just run out of biscuits at teatime. “I don’t have money on me either.”

    Then he casually walked to his car, dug into the ashtray, and emerged with a handful of copper coins. Maybe enough to buy half a loaf of bread—on special. “Let’s see what we can do,” he said. “I’ll take you to the petrol station.”

    I got into his car without hesitation. Normally, my self-preservation instincts would’ve kicked in. But in that moment, I felt totally safe. He was shorter than me, which for some strange reason reassured me. No weird vibes. No ulterior motives. Just… calm.

    Faith, Fumes, and a Jerry Can

    At the petrol station, the attendants scrambled to find a container small enough to justify the pocket change. Eventually, we filled up with whatever fuel we could afford and headed back.

    On the drive, we talked. Not small talk—real talk. He asked about my life. I found myself opening up to him, like he was an old friend I just hadn’t met yet.

    When we got back to my car, we poured in the fuel. I turned the key, hoping for a miracle.

    Nothing.

    The car didn’t even cough.

    I felt my whole body sag. But he wasn’t fazed.

    “Alright,” he said gently, “let me take you home. You can sort it all out in the morning.”

    Grace in a White Jetta

    I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t even think about the fact that I was letting a barefoot stranger drive me home in the middle of the night. That’s how safe he made me feel.

    On the way, I nervously joked about my car being stolen or stripped. He just smiled. “It won’t be,” he said, like he knew something I didn’t.

    He dropped me off, wished me well, and drove off into the night. No numbers exchanged. No dramatic farewell. Just gone.

    Looking Back

    It took me a while to process what happened that night. But the more I reflect, the more I believe that man wasn’t just some helpful stranger. The odds of a barefoot guy in white pulling over, having just enough coins, and making me feel totally safe?

    That’s not luck.

    That’s grace.

    In a city as wild and unpredictable as Johannesburg, on a night that could’ve gone horribly wrong, I was protected. Delivered. Helped by someone who showed up out of nowhere, with nothing, and gave me everything I needed in that moment.

    “For He will command His angels in regard to you, to protect and defend and guard you in all your ways.” – Psalm 91:11