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:
- Stay in the car and hope no one bothered me. (Unlikely.)
- Walk home. (Alone. In the dark. Nope.)
- 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
Tales from the Tangled Trail 