She was minutes away from becoming another name on a heartbreaking list. But thanks to a stranger named Mandla, Andrussa Goliath’s story became one of survival instead of sorrow.
Johannesburg, South Africa (30 May 2025) – South Africa is grieving again this week. Another name. Another heartbreak. Another reminder that gender-based violence isn’t some abstract issue sitting quietly on the outskirts of society.
It’s here. It’s real. It’s breaking us.
Olorato Mongale’s story has shaken us to our core. A young woman. Bright. Loved. Full of potential. Her life ended in the most senseless way. And while the country reels in shock and rage and sorrow, something else is happening too. Women are speaking. Not for attention. Not for pity. But because silence, they know, is not safety.
One of those voices belongs to Andrussa Goliath.
She shared a story she had never told before. Not to gain anything. Not to go viral. But because she survived. And she survived, she says, because one man, a stranger, chose to be kind. Chose to care. Chose to act. Her post, shared this week, starts with a pounding heart and a decision to speak up in honour of those who didn’t make it. And it ends as a powerful call to action for every South African man to step up. To be the reason someone gets home safe. To be the one who interrupts the harm.
To be like Mandla.
It was 2020. Lockdown. The world had gone quiet but loneliness got loud. Like many of us, Andrussa turned to her phone for some kind of connection. She downloaded Tinder and met a guy named Peter.
“Peter seemed normal. His pictures looked legitimate, he was clearly of African descent, and he reached out almost immediately after we matched, asking to move the conversation to WhatsApp. It felt a bit rushed, but I agreed. He was polite, asked about my work, and seemed interested in my life. When he found out I worked from home, he offered to bring me lunch,” she explained.
In hindsight, she says, it was all too fast. But isn’t that how these stories always begin?
A few days later, Peter invited her to a party in Benoni. She hesitated but something pushed her to say yes. Her best friend begged her not to go.
“You don’t even know him,” she warned.
That warning could’ve been the last words anyone ever heard from Andrussa.
She let Peter order the Uber. She calls this “her next mistake”.
The driver who arrived was a soft-spoken, attentive man named Mandla. He didn’t pry but he asked enough. Asked where she was going. If she knew Benoni. If she’d been there before. There was a gentleness in how he asked but a firmness in his concern.
As they got closer, the scenery changed. She describes it as industrial, deserted, not the setting for any kind of party.
Mandla turned to her again: “Are you sure this is where you’re going?”
She explained everything about Peter, about the party.
He frowned. “It’s far too quiet,” he said.
Peter sent a message telling her to get out of the car. That he was watching her. That he was “coming out.” Mandla didn’t budge.
“I’m not leaving you here,” he said.
Peter insisted someone was on their way. A friend. From behind a camera. It was all so calculated. But Mandla stood between her and whatever waited beyond that gate.
He lit a cigarette, passed her one, and said, “If no one comes by the time we’re done, we’re leaving.”
No one came. No one texted. Peter had blocked her. Then, a black BMW X3 rolled slowly out of the gate. Pitch-black windows. Idling. Watching. Waiting.
Mandla’s tone changed: “Get in the car. Now.”
As they drove off, another car began to follow them. It became a chase. She begged Mandla not to stop. She thought it might be a setup. Her voice cracked. Her whole body shook. Then, like something out of a film, they passed Metro Police. Mandla flashed his lights. The BMW vanished.
But he didn’t just drop her off. He drove her all the way back to her flat. Walked her to her door. Waited. Made sure she was safe. And before he left, he told her something that stuck.
“I’m the only boy in my family. I have sisters. I could never let something happen to someone else’s sister.”
That’s the moment Andrussa breaks in her post. Because that was it. That was the difference. Not luck. Not timing. A choice. One man’s choice to care. To question. To stay. To act.
And as she says so powerfully, “I am alive today not because of chance. But because a man chose to protect me instead of harm me. That choice saved my life.”
The post struck a chord. Hard.
Thousands of South Africans responded. Many in tears. Many shaken. And many thanking her for the courage to speak.
One commenter wrote, “This story gave me chills. I’m glad you’re safe. Thank you for speaking out.”
Another added, “Mandla is a true hero. We need more men like him in this world.”
And perhaps the most resonant of all: “I’m so sorry you had to go through this. Thank you for sharing your story. It’s a wake-up call for all of us.”
Andrussa didn’t just survive. She chose to speak. She chose to use her voice to honour the women who didn’t make it and to challenge the men who still might. This isn’t just about Olorato. It’s about all of us. About what we allow. About what we ignore. About the choices we make. Because this could’ve been a very different article. One written after the fact. One about a woman who vanished. Whose phone went silent. Whose story ended in heartbreak.
But it isn’t.
And that’s because of Mandla.
So, to every man reading this: Be a Mandla.
Be the reason someone gets home. Be the reason someone feels safe. Ask the question. Do the right thing. Because one day, it might be your sister. Your daughter. Your friend. And she’ll be praying someone like Mandla is nearby.
We are tired of heartbreak. But we are not without hope.
And sometimes, that hope arrives quietly, in the form of a stranger who simply says,“Are you sure?”
*Andrussa Goliath gave us permission to publish her story. She hopes it reaches Mandla someday and gives some sense of hope to other people out there.
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