Born a Crime_ Stories from a South African Childhood Trevor Noah

to the ground after getting shot in the ass. Then Abel came and stood over her and pointed his
gun at her head. She looked up and looked at him straight down the barrel of the gun. Then
she started to pray, and that’s when the gun misfired. Then it misfired again. Then it misfired
again, and again. She jumped up, shoved him away, and ran for the car. Andrew leapt in
beside her and she turned the ignition and then her memory went blank.

To this day, nobody can explain what happened. Even the police didn’t understand.
Because it wasn’t like the gun didn’t work. It fired, and then it didn’t fire, and then it fired
again for the final shot. Anyone who knows anything about firearms will tell you that a 9mm
handgun cannot misfire in the way that gun did. But at the crime scene the police had drawn
little chalk circles all over the driveway, all with spent shell casings from the shots Abel fired,
and then these four bullets, intact, from when he was standing over my mom—nobody knows
why.

My mom’s total hospital bill came to 50,000 rand. I paid it the day we left. For four days
we’d been in the hospital, family members visiting, talking and hanging out, laughing and
crying. As we packed up her things to leave, I was going on about how insane the whole week
had been.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” I told her. “I still can’t believe you didn’t have any health
insurance.”

“Oh but I do have insurance,” she said.

“You do?”

“Yes. Jesus.”

“Jesus?”

“Jesus.”

“Jesus is your health insurance?”

“If God is with me, who can be against me?”

“Okay, Mom.”

“Trevor, I prayed. I told you I prayed. I don’t pray for nothing.”

“You know,” I said, “for once I cannot argue with you. The gun, the bullets—I can’t explain
any of it. So I’ll give you that much.” Then I couldn’t resist teasing her with one last little jab.
“But where was your Jesus to pay your hospital bill, hmm? I know for a fact that He didn’t pay
that.”

She smiled and said, “You’re right. He didn’t. But He blessed me with the son who did.”

For my mother. My first fan. Thank you for making me a man.

For nurturing my career these past years and steering me down the road that led
to this book, I owe many thanks to Norm Aladjem, Derek Van Pelt, Sanaz Yamin,
Rachel Rusch, Matt Blake, Jeff Endlich, and Jill Fritzo.

For making this book deal happen and keeping it on track during a very tight
and hectic time, I would like to thank Peter McGuigan and his team at Foundry
Literary + Media, including Kirsten Neuhaus, Sara DeNobrega, and Claire Harris.
Also, many thanks to Tanner Colby for helping me put my story on the page.

For seeing the potential in this book and making it a reality, I would like to
thank everyone at Random House and Spiegel & Grau, including my editor Chris
Jackson, publishers Julie Grau and Cindy Spiegel, Tom Perry, Greg Mollica, Susan
Turner, Andrea DeWerd, Leigh Marchant, Barbara Fillon, Dhara Parikh, Rebecca
Berlant, Kelly Chian, Nicole Counts, and Gina Centrello.

For bringing this book home to South Africa and making sure it is published
with the utmost care, I would like to thank everyone at Pan Macmillan South
Africa, including Sean Fraser, Sandile Khumalo, Andrea Nattrass, Rhulani
Netshivhera, Sandile Nkosi, Nkateko Traore, Katlego Tapala, Wesley Thompson,
and Mia van Heerden.

For reading this manuscript in its early stages and sharing thoughts and ideas
to make it the finished product you hold in your hands, I owe my deepest gratitude
to Khaya Dlanga, David Kibuuka, Anele Mdoda, Ryan Harduth, Sizwe Dhlomo,
and Xolisa Dyeshana.

And, finally, for bringing me into this world and making me the man I am
today, I owe the greatest debt, a debt I can never repay, to my mother.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

TREVOR NOAH is a comedian from South Africa.
trevornoah.com

Facebook.com/​OfficialTrevorNoah
Twitter: @Trevornoah

Instagram: @trevornoah

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