The chicken chase inside a moving train by grubby addicts has proven their will to survive no matter what.

It seems the expression “you suffer for beauty” has morphed into something of a horror.

With hair being at the crown of a woman’s beauty, the weave now comes with an inherent risk of being snatched off your head in the middle of a busy city street in broad daylight.

This is the reality of many ladies whose beauty complements the urban jungles of the Zululand. They have become a point of interest for the perpetually sedated nyaope addicts, also known as amaPhara along the east coast.

We all should know that nowadays the wig is the order of the day, but you’ll be forgiven if you can’t tell Peruvian and Malaysian locks from an oxtail whisk.

Generous men will attest to the prices for 18 inches of good Indian hair – not from Chatsworth – being nothing less than R2500.

So, on any given day on West Street, Durban, amaPhara stare and marvel at thousands of rands’ worth of bouncy curls, only attached to the ladies’ heads by clips or adhesive tape, just waiting to be snatched.

I doubt it took much mathematics for the nyaope boys to figure out that a resale of these wigs would keep them high for a good few days.

I am not much of a city dweller, nor am I big on hair extensions. However, I am concerned for the safety of many women who are compelled to be around the parts of the city where weave snatching is rife.

Every time I think of the possibility of being accosted by amaPhara I cringe.

I do not wish anyone the misfortune of being handled by a high, heartless scoundrel with nothing to lose.

I once encountered amaPhara who had just pulled a hit at a township home. I was in a train to work, in a coach with many other commuters, including a sleepy security guard who tightly clutched a lunch box.

Three youngsters were transiting across the coaches. The youngest, carrying a torn backpack. They left a stench of weed, petrol and sewage behind them before they came to a halt near the train door. An argument ensued around the contents of the backpack.

Something to do with selling the “package”. The younger negated all talks of sale, insisting he was hungry.

A scuffle erupted and out of the bag flew a live chicken. It flew across the train, to the screams and scatter of bags and lunch boxes.

I swear, one of the boys ran on our laps in pursuit.

A paste of chicken sh*t on some heads and I was left holding on to someone else’s handbag.

Also, you best believe grown men are afraid of chickens too. Fortunately, the train soon reached a station and stopped, and the chicken flew out the window.

The security guy managed to restrain the oldest boy and slapped him, probably for letting a chicken loose while his meatless phuthu and beans scattered on the floor.

That gave the younger boy an opportunity to alight and give chase, yet again.

That chicken ran for her life across the train station, at times even running sideways and spreading its wings in failed attempts to fly.

It must have lost half its feathers, only reducing the work of unplucking them when preparing it for cooking I guess. He had said he was hungry, and he finally caught it, and ran away with it into the dark of the bushes. I could only stare in awe as the train moved slowly.

Ladies, amaPhara will go to any lengths to feed, be it their addiction or hunger. I am not sure if any of us can run faster than a chicken marked for a pot of soup. Please keep safe. I’m very afraid!