Another one bites the dust!

 Do you remember the song Another One Bites the Dust? That was a classic hit from the '80s, a track that instantly transports me back in time whenever I hear it.

Back then, a night at the disco meant hearing that song on repeat, with teeny boppers dancing and grooving like there was no tomorrow. It was pure, unfiltered fun.

We were young, reckless, and newly married when we attended a friend's gig in Kroonstad. He was the DJ at a lively teeny bopper event, and the atmosphere was electric—girls dressed in shimmering outfits with big hair, boys rocking denim, leather jackets, long locks, and maybe an earring or two.

Alcohol was strictly off-limits for the partygoers since they were underage, but that didn’t stop my partner—who was, of course, much older—from indulging. He was never good at holding his liquor, yet stubbornly convinced himself otherwise. As expected, we ended up quarreling over who would drive. He hated giving up the car keys, and that night was no exception.

As we left the gig, we walked toward the car, passing a group of bikers revving their engines—loud and proud. One of them, a burly guy, was seated on the ground in front of his bike, spanner in hand, working on something. Frustrated, he let out a loud curse. My “cheerfully intoxicated” partner couldn’t resist responding with his own colorful expletives, setting off a chain of misunderstandings.

The biker didn’t take it lightly. He fired back with a tirade, turning it into a full-blown verbal showdown. It felt like one of those old-time duels—neither willing to back down. The next thing I knew, my partner stormed over, shoved the biker’s bike over, then bolted back toward our car. I was mortified.

Realizing the gravity of his impulsive act, he jumped into the driver’s seat just as the bikers realized one of their own had been wronged. Without hesitation, they hopped on their bikes and took off after us.

Not knowing the area made the chase all the more terrifying. I had never felt such fear in my life—my heart pounded as I imagined our demise over sheer stupidity.

We managed to pull ahead slightly and entered a nearby suburb. In desperation, we swerved into a side street, switched off the car lights, and slipped into a complex just as its gates were closing. Tailgating our way inside, we pulled into the first available parking spot, turned off the engine, and sat in utter silence—too afraid to move.

The rumbling engines outside sent chills down my spine. The bikers were searching, circling the streets. It was terrifying.

For a long time, we didn’t even speak. We simply stayed put, paralyzed by fear, until exhaustion overtook us. That night, we slept in the car.

At dawn, we cautiously left the parking lot. The streets were quiet—no sign of the bikers.

Without wasting a second, we hit the road, embarking on the four-hour drive home.

We never returned.