True Story: I Witnessed a Murder in Amsterdam


By Erickka Sy Savané

His eyes meet mine. They are the coldest, darkest eyes I have ever seen, and this I can tell from all the way across the street. What a life this person must have lived to have eyes that could damn near kill you. I force myself to look away. As does my friend Vanessa who is feeling, I’m sure, the exact same way. It is impossible to see what we see and not be affected. In silence, we turn our heads in front of us, pick up our pace and carry on to the club that is our destination. We don’t speak the entire way. There is this knowing that to even talk about it before we are somewhere safe is in some way putting ourselves in jeopardy. It is best to pretend that everything is fine. But when the doors to the club shut behind us we exhale for the first time in at least ten solid blocks.
“What the hell was that?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think we’re safe?”
“I don’t know,” says Vanessa.

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