Lives Between Walls

There’s a little-known revelation I’d like to share with you — something that’s been gnawing at me lately.
First off, do you realise there are about 7.7 billion people in the world? Probably more now, counting the ones who’ve slipped under the census radar. And yet, somehow, out of all those billions, you’re sitting next to whoever you’re sitting next to right now. What are the odds? One in seven billion that you and they exist in the same room, breathing the same recycled air.

Or maybe you’re at a petrol station, and the attendant wipes your windscreen with the enthusiasm of someone auditioning for a car wash commercial. What are the odds that you would meet him today, in this exact moment? And then, the more unsettling thought — what are the odds of meeting someone entirely by chance, only for them to become your friend… or your life partner? One in seven billion.
If that doesn’t make you believe in divine choreography, nothing will. Because I’m starting to think these things aren’t coincidences — they’re assignments. Carefully scheduled collisions.

See, I believe there’s a law — an invisible system — that governs who we’re allowed to interact with. You could be the most extroverted chatterbox on earth, but there are people you will never speak to. And some you’ll meet, but the interaction will stay skin-deep — polite, predictable, nothing more. It’s like the universe has issued limited-access passes to our lives. Some get front-row seats. Others get turned away at the door.

And the terrifying part? These people shape who we become — they can elevate you or end you. Think about it. How many serial killers have we unknowingly walked past at the mall? How many reckless drivers barely missed your bumper? How many narcissists smiled at you today, waiting for your world to open just wide enough for them to crawl in?
Most of them never get access. Thank God. But sometimes, a few slip through.

---

A black and white dog barked at me once — scared the daylights out of me — while I was jogging along the sidewalk. It lunged at the fence like it had a personal vendetta against my kneecaps. Its teeth looked like they’d been forged in hell — all dagger and drool.
I froze for a moment, heart hammering, before realising that thin strip of metal between us was the only thing saving me from reconstructive surgery. I hate dogs. Never been bitten — don’t plan to start. But as much as I hated the way it made me jump, that fence gave me comfort. The beast could bark all it wanted, but it wasn’t crossing into my world.

“Haven’t You surrounded him with a fence on all sides — around his house, and around all that he owns?”
— Job 1:10

That verse came to mind later. Because life works like that fence. Sometimes we see destruction — through the news, through scandal, through a friend’s misfortune — and it shakes us. It whispers, That could’ve been you.
A near accident, a robbery, a hijacking we barely missed because we lingered at home an extra minute making the bed. We panic because it proves destruction exists — that it’s real. But what if those moments are just us peeking through the fence? Seeing into someone else’s world, not ours.

---

So, I keep jogging. The dog’s barks fade behind me, and the street opens up. The day is perfect — cloudy enough to keep the sun humble, a nice cool breeze. I’m thinking about fate and fences and how people cross into each other’s worlds when I spot a group of guys ahead. Blue overalls. Blue VW Caravelle. Construction vibes.
Immediately my stomach tightens. The “law of worlds” flashes in my head like a neon sign. I mean, how do I know who they are? Could be normal guys. Could be psychos. Could be both.

And of course, it’s one of those quiet neighbourhood mornings when everyone’s at work. Brilliant. Just me, my sweat, and five strange men.
I tell myself not to be dramatic. But the brain doesn’t care. It goes straight to the worst-case Netflix special: Young woman goes jogging, disappears near blue van.
I can’t even cross the road now; it would look weird. So I do what all women do when danger might be watching — act casual, look down, and pray the world stays intact.

“Hey, missy,” one of them calls out in a raspy voice. Another whistles, because apparently, we’re in a 90s rap video.
“What say you leave us with your number, eh?”

I keep jogging, pretending my AirPods are louder than my fear. Then one of them breaks away and jogs beside me.
“Mind if I jog home with you, sweetness?”
I shake my head, try to smile without showing teeth. “Maybe next time.”

He laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s heard all week and hands me a business card. “Let me know when.”
His friends cheer like he just scored a date with Beyoncé.
By the time I turn the corner, I realise I haven’t breathed in a full minute. I stop, bend over, hands on trembling knees, heart still sprinting. I swear I can still hear the dog barking somewhere in the distance.

---

A few months later, the news hits: police arrest two men tied to a human trafficking ring. Blue VW Caravelle. Two women found dead.
My heart stops. The mugshots flash across the screen — one of them is the man who gave me that business card.

I break down. Lungi’s with me on the carpet, holding me like she’s trying to keep me from falling through the floor.
“That could’ve been me,” I cry. “That could have been me that day! How did I get so lucky? Why did those girls have to die?”

“It’s okay, Jamie,” she says, soft, logical, detached in that Lungi way. “It’s just life, okay? Everything happens by chance. You just need to be thankful it wasn’t you.”

I pull away, look her dead in the eye. “No, Lungi. Nothing happens by chance.”

She sighs, already annoyed. “There you go again, Jamie, with your existentialist mumbo jumbo.”

I wipe my face, half laughing through the tears. “You can call it mumbo jumbo, but I call it a fence. Some people live behind strong ones. Others, flimsy ones. People worry about building empires, collecting followers, getting rich. I just want a solid damn fence.”

Lungi rolls her eyes — that’s her way of saying “end of discussion.”

But I keep thinking about it, long after she leaves.
Maybe the real miracle isn’t that I survived.
Maybe it’s that my fence held that day — and I got to keep living behind these walls a little longer.