When a house is alarmed, it becomes explosive. It must be armed and disarmed several times a day. When it is armed, by the touching of keys upon a pad, it emits a whine that sends the occupants rushing out, banging the door behind them. There are no leisurely departures: there is no time for second thoughts, for taking a scarf from the hook behind the door, for checking that the answering machine is on, for a final look in the mirror on the way through the hallway. There are no savoured homecomings either: you do not unwind in such a house kicking off your shoes, breathing the familiar air. Every departure is precipitate, every arrival is scraping-in. In an alarmed house, you wake in the small hours to find the room unnaturally light. The keys on the touch pad are aglow with a luminous, clinical green, like a night light for a child who’s afraid of the dark.

~ Ivan Vladislavic, “Joburg,” “The View From Africa,” Granta Magazine of New Writing, 92, p. 129