When I was about sixteen years old, I worked at a restaurant as a pianist. It was a nice semi-formal restaurant, not very trendy, but seen as a well established place where parents would take their graduating children and elderly couples would have date nights. White table cloths and fresh flowers on the table, it was a pretty popular place. It was a great gig (especially since I was quite young), and my parents would drop me off in the evenings twice a week (Friday and Saturday nights).

It was in an older part of town, the kind of place where you don't go walking at night (I live in South Africa though, so you pretty much never walk at night). We have car guards in most South African cities, and while they're sometimes dodgy guys trying to make some quick drug money because they found a reflective vest in the trash, my restaurant had a wonderful guy. His name was Daddie, and he was a huge dude from Zimbabwe. He'd always walk me up the path when my parents dropped me off, and come to tell me when my parents had arrived to pick me up.

Part of my pay was a free staff meal, and on this occasion my mother had decided to come in early with me, so we could eat together. As we walked in, the owner immediately saw me and dashed over to us, clearly bursting to tell me something.

Apparently, earlier that day, a man had come in and asked him if the pianist started at 8 tonight as usual. The owner (Paul) had confirmed yes, and asked if he'd wanted to book a table. He'd said no, and Paul (seeing he looked like he probably couldn't afford to eat there anyway) had asked why he'd inquired. The man informed him that he'd had a dream, and he was going to come in and marry the pianist. The pianist was his soul mate, and he wasn't going to miss out on this chance to let her know.

Quite bewildered at this information, and thinking maybe a friend from school was playing a joke, I'd asked what the guy looked like. I remember Paul trying to put it nicely:

"Well, he was sort of short. Thirtyish? Plump, long hair. He had a hat on."

I had no friends who matched this description, and at this stage I was the only female pianist at the establishment, so my mother and I were quite weirded out. We sat down on the closed-in balcony to order, right by a big window.

It was about quarter to eight, quite dark outside, and I was getting ready to leave the table to start playing, when a movement in the shrubs outside the window caught my eye. "Mom," I whispered, and she looked over to where I had jerked my head.

There, skulking outside the window and watching us was a short, very overweight guy. He was wearing all black, with a dirty black trenchcoat and a black fedora. He had long dark stringy hair and a large siver cross hanging around his neck.

It was a sinking, horrible feeling realising he was watching me. I don't know if it was mostly because I was pretty young and sheltered, but realising that this strange man knew who I was, what I looked like, thought about me, wanted to marry me, made me feel almost debilitated with fear.

My mom, however, quickly realised that while I was in the view of the window, she wasn't. She told me, "Stay here", and got up and left the table, staying out of view of the man.

She went to the manager, and got him to phone Daddie on his cellphone. We were sitting towards the back of the restaurant, and Daddie was on the street. After about a minute of me sitting there, pretending not to notice the beady eyed, sweaty-looking man outside, I saw the light of Daddie's torch bouncing off the hedges. Out the corner of my eye, I saw the man start to scuffle around, trying to work out which way to go. I took this opportunity to stand up and get away from the window. I sat in the back until Daddie came in to tell me it was okay to start playing.

They never told me whether he ran away or had to be removed, or what exactly happened; they wouldn't tell me any details, which sort of just made me more apprehensive. Daddie just said that he wouldn't ever let him back in. He told me that he drove a "rusty, red, small car". I'd later find out it was a really old Fiat Uno.

I found out because every two weeks or so, on one of the nights I was working, it'd be parked down the street. Far away enough from the restaurant that Daddie couldn't make him leave. Sometimes even around the corner, out of eyesight until we were driving home. I knew the sound of the car, the rattly old exhaust pipe, I knew the number plate.

Sometimes when we drove past, I could see a shadow of him in the drivers seat; sometimes I couldn't. I always wondered where he was then.

From then on, my parents had Daddie's number saved to their phones, and my Dad would come get me when it was dark. Sometimes when I was waiting to be picked up if we closed early, I started heading down the path to see if my parents were back. Daddie would see me from the gate. Sometimes he beckoned to me to come down and wait with him, and we'd hang out. Sometimes he shook his head, "Not yet sissie.". That's when the car would be down the street.

I never really saw the man again, so there was never really anything I could do about it. It was always in the back of my mind though. I continued to work there until my final year of high school, and I quit when Daddie moved back up to Zimbabwe.

So, Daddie, my friend and protector, thank you. And creepy black fedora stranger in the rusty red car; let's not meet...

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