“You’re nothing but a drug addict,” the psychiatrist said, his tone devoid of warmth. “This facility is for mental health treatment, not a rehab center.” “What?” I shot back, frustration boiling over. “There are three other addicts in the group therapy session you just pulled me from.” “They have actual mental health issues,” he retorted, his voice laced with contempt.

His words struck me like a physical blow, leaving my spirit bruised and battered. Memories of childhood and adolescence surged within me, a flood of pain I could no longer contain. “I’ve battled with mental health issues every single day of my life!” I screamed at him, my voice cracking with fury. He responded with an unfeeling chill in his voice, “You need to leave right now,” before turning away, unable to withstand the heat of my furious gaze.

The nurse gently took hold of my arm, her warm, understanding gaze soothing my racing heart. “You can’t change their minds,” she murmured softly, her voice a comforting balm. “It’s better if you just go before they decide to involve security.”

I inhaled sharply, bracing myself as I stepped into the downpour, the cold droplets soaking through my clothes. With no destination in mind, I pressed forward into the gray mist that swallowed the world around me.

As I approached the gate, the rain had finally let up, and rays of sunlight began to pierce through the clouds. A narrow road lined with tall fences ran beside the hospital, leading down to a broad stretch of green by the Liesbeek River. I felt drawn to that inviting grassy expanse and chose to settle there. Strolling along the riverbank, I reached the far corner where lush grass transitioned into dense thickets. With a sense of purpose, I snapped off a few sturdy branches from nearby trees and constructed a small boma that would serve as my refuge.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the landscape, my stomach growled in protest. I leaned against the rough branches of my boma, straining to catch a sound that broke the evening’s stillness. A voice floated through the air, calling softly from beyond the hospital fence. Curiosity piqued, I parted the leaves and peered out into the fading light. There stood a patient from the nearby ward, his silhouette framed by twilight. When our eyes met, he waved me over with an inviting gesture.

I approached cautiously, and as I reached him, he beamed at me and offered his supper—an unassuming bundle wrapped in a crumpled paper napkin. His smile was infectious, radiating warmth that pierced through my own hunger pangs. That moment etched itself into my memory—the kindness of a stranger illuminating the encroaching darkness around us. As he melted back into the shadows of dusk, I returned to my humble shelter, clutching the meal tightly and feeling tears well up as I prepared to savor this unexpected gift of compassion.

Each morning, I would rise early and make my way to the suburb of Observatory. There, in the sun-drenched parking lot of a modest shopping center, I would scrub cars to earn my keep, while also making regular stops at the local pharmacies for my daily supply of medications. As expected, much like my experiences in other regions of South Africa, the pharmacists at the two local drugstores casually passed over bottles of Codeine and Ephedrine cough syrups. They showed no hesitation in dispensing these highly addictive substances to someone clad in tattered clothing and reeking of neglect, a clear sign of dependency etched into his demeanor.

I frequently pondered the moral failure by doctors and pharmacists—those who had sworn to do no harm, who were bound by laws that forbade them from dispensing perilous, addictive substances to individuals already ensnared in their grip. This contemplation led me to believe that the psychiatrist was keen to discharge me from his care; after all, the very drugs i had been addicted to for more than fifteen years came from licensed professionals. My candid discussions about this troubling reality during therapy sessions likely made him uneasy.

I often strolled through the quaint suburb of Rondebosch, my footsteps echoing against the pavement. Pausing at the towering, walled estates, I would press the button on the gate’s intercom. A woman’s voice typically greeted me with a soft “hello,” and I’d reply in a sing-song tone, “Hi there! Just wandering round and round Rondebosch, hoping to find a car that needs a wash!” My cheerful invitation was usually met with polite declines— “No thanks, sorry”—but occasionally, someone would open the gate and welcome me in to scrub their vehicle.

About two weeks later, I found myself lounging by the riverbank, the smoke of a joint curling into the air. A black man approached me; his expression was clouded with distress. His eyes glimmered with unshed tears. I gestured for him to sit beside me and handed him the joint. He introduced himself as a Zulu man who had come to Cape Town where most of the black folk were Xhosa people. He recounted the frantic escape from Gugulethu, where he had fled for his life, abandoning all his possessions and even his identity document in the chaos. With dreams of a liberated South Africa dancing in his mind, he journeyed to Cape Town, only to be greeted by a chilling apathy that starkly contrasted the warm reception he had long imagined.

As the first light of a new democracy broke over the horizon, I felt a heavy weight in my chest—a mix of sorrow and fury. It was disheartening to witness the lingering shadows of hatred and fear still gripping the hearts of our people. In that moment, I spotted a Zulu man, standing out like a solitary fish floundering amidst a throng of Xhosa men, his discomfort palpable in the tense atmosphere surrounding him. My mind drifted back to the turbulent ’80s, when I found myself, a white man, navigating the gritty streets of Pietermaritzburg, a city rife with political unrest. Without a roof over my head, I sought refuge in parks and dense patches of greenery scattered throughout the town. Frequently, I would stumble upon groups of Zulu men gathered nearby. They would call out to me, offering their meager meals and inviting me to sleep close by, promising to watch over me through the night. Often, we would sit together under the stars, sharing puffs of dagga as laughter mingled with music. I’d start singing “Homeless,” that haunting tune by Paul Simon and Ladysmith Black Mambazo. Their faces would light up with smiles as they joined in, our voices rising together in harmony amidst shared hardship.

I invited the man to rest at my camp, and he lingered for a week. One morning, he announced his intention to search for his ID at the last place he had stayed. But he never returned. A heavy dread settled in my chest, whispering that perhaps he had slipped into the silence that claims us all.

As December descended, the atmosphere thickened with warmth and a sticky humidity enveloped the streets, while the tantalizing aroma of sizzling braais drifted through the neighborhood, mingling with laughter and chatter from backyards. Two figures stepped out from the hospital, their outlines stark against the vibrant summer sky, the sun casting long shadows on the ground.

Owen, a man in his late fifties whose once-illustrious literary career had been eclipsed by relentless battles with alcohol. His majestic beard flowed like dark waves to his chest, while round spectacles rested on the bridge of his nose. As he spoke, his voice resonated with a timeless eloquence, each syllable infused with the polished cadence of a refined Queen’s English accent. Beside him shuffled Paul, a fragile spirit plagued by schizophrenia, his eyes flitting anxiously like butterflies in a storm, seldom landing on another’s face. The weight of his quietness lingered in the warm summer air, a sharp counterpoint to Owen’s flowing words that danced effortlessly around them.

We expanded the boma, and both of them settled in. During the holidays, we all gathered to wash cars, our hands soapy and our spirits high. The Christmas cheer brought out an unexpected generosity; even those who had no intention of getting their vehicles cleaned slipped us a few coins or crumpled bills with warm smiles. We divided the labor evenly, each of us pitching in as much as we could, and at day’s end, we pooled our earnings together. Each evening, we found our way to a local restaurant that generously offered us discarded meals—plates piled high with leftovers that would have otherwise gone to waste. Laughter filled the air as we feasted on hearty dishes while Owen indulged in his share of alcohol, I tucked away my stash of pharmaceuticals, and Paul—blissfully oblivious to any consequences—devoured sweets like a child at a carnival. The season wrapped around us like a cozy blanket, keeping us jolly and well-fed amidst the festivities.

Christmas Day arrived shrouded in gloom. Our meager income had vanished just before the holiday, leaving us destitute and our stomachs empty. As I wandered the streets of Observatory, my footsteps echoed against the pavement, each step heavy with despair. The tantalizing scents of roasted meats and spiced pastries wafted from the homes I passed, a cruel reminder of what we lacked. When night finally fell, we crawled into our makeshift beds, hunger gnawing at us like a relentless beast. The following days stretched on like an endless drought; they were among the most grueling I had ever faced as a homeless wanderer. Surrounded by feasts that filled every corner of this festive world, we felt ourselves fading away. Fortune seemed to mock us—no one offered a helping hand, and even the restaurants turned their backs on our desperate pleas for scraps.

Wednesday, December 29, 1993, is etched in my memory for two distinct reasons. First, a stranger handed me R 200 after I scrubbed his car clean in the bustling shopping center parking lot. With that unexpected windfall, we had just enough to stock up on food, drinks, and treats for Paul. That night, as darkness enveloped us, we settled into our usual spots—Owen by the entrance of the boma, Paul nestled in the middle, and I tucked away at the far end where it was quiet.

The second reason A creeping discomfort settled over us, thickening the air with an unsettling weight as we fell into an uneasy sleep.

The sharp timbre of Owen’s voice pierced through the haze of my sleep. I rolled over, squinting into the dim light filtering through the dried leaves of the boma. A tall, muscular black man loomed over Owen, his silhouette framed by the flickering streetlamps. He wore a heavy military-style greatcoat that hung loosely on his broad shoulders. In his grip was a sleek pistol, its muzzle aimed directly at Owen’s forehead as he gazed down with an unsettling calmness. He knelt down next to Owen, the barrel resting lightly on his forehead. Owen’s words tumbled out in a frantic whisper, choked by terror as he struggled to make sense of the nightmare unfolding before him.

I eased myself into a sitting position, the rough ground biting into my skin. He shifted slightly; his gaze fixed on me while still looming menacingly over Owen. I spoke to him in a gentle tone, though my heart pounded like a drum in my chest. I explained that we were just homeless wanderers with only a few meager possessions, and he was welcome to anything we had. His eyes bored into mine, unblinking and cold, an empty mask of indifference. Time felt suspended; it was as if we were all caught in a tableau of dread. Owen’s eyes were shut tight; the muzzle of the gun pressed against his pale forehead. My mind raced with frantic thoughts—wMy mind raced through countless possibilities, but each one slipped away like sand through my fingers. No words or actions surfaced that could ease the tension hanging thick in the air. Paul sat motionless beside me, trapped in a daze that seemed to swallow him whole, lost in a reality too harsh for his fragile mind to bear. The man and I locked eyes, an unspoken standoff between us. Words failed me; there was nothing left to say as silence hung heavily in the air between us.

In the mid-’80s, during Pietermaritzburg’s tumultuous reign as South Africa’s epicenter of political violence, I encountered numerous Zulu men—warriors steeped in the struggle against an oppressive regime. Their faces radiated passion, eyes blazing with defiance. But this man before me wore a mask of despair; his expression was void, as if his spirit had been snuffed out long ago. He bore an eerie resemblance to the unyielding statue of Cecil John Rhodes nearby, its granite gaze fixed coldly upon the world he governed without compassion. In that moment, I understood: this man was beyond mere hatred. To him, we were insignificant pests, easily crushed and dismissed without a second thought.

He sprang to his feet, the sharp click of the pistol’s hammer echoing in the stillness as he tucked it away beneath his coat. With a final piercing glance in my direction, he melted into the shadows of the night. Owen propped himself up, his whispers turning into a torrent of dark thoughts as rage began to replace his initial fear. Paul slowly emerged from his stupor, silence enveloping him like a shroud, as was his way. Sleep eluded us for the remainder of the night. Our once tranquil refuge along the grassy banks of the Liesbeek River had morphed into a haunting ground of unease.

As dawn broke, we finally caught some much-needed sleep before diving back into the rhythm of washing cars. It was as if the residents of Obs had shaken off their Christmas stupor, rediscovering their innate generosity. With New Year’s Eve just around the corner, we had a lot of work ahead to ensure this celebration outshone the one we had just experienced.

As we returned to the camp, an uneasy tension settled among us, each of us glancing at the darkening trees that surrounded our makeshift shelter. The prospect of another unexpected visit from whatever lurked in the shadows gnawed at my mind. We quickly agreed to take turns on watch, but I couldn’t shake off my doubts. Owen had a knack for dodging responsibility, and I could already picture Paul’s heavy eyelids fluttering shut as soon as he settled into his spot, blissfully unaware of his promise to stay alert.

Gunshots erupted in the distance, echoing through Observatory for a minute or two before plunging us into an eerie silence. Then, like a storm breaking, the wailing sirens pierced the night air, their shrill cries converging from every direction. Police vehicles sped towards the heart of Obs while others sped away, tires screeching against the asphalt. One van barreled down the road beside the hospital fence and slammed to a halt as its headlights swept across our makeshift shelter. The officers inside trained their flashlights on us, assessing our ragged appearances. They inquired if anyone had passed this way, but we could only shake our heads. With barely a word of thanks, they spun around and raced back towards the suburbs, leaving us with questions hanging in the night air. Sleep eluded us entirely as we lay awake, hearts racing with uncertainty.

The following day, news spread like wildfire: the Helderberg Tavern had been assaulted. Four lives were extinguished, and many more bore wounds—both seen and unseen. A heavy pall of shock hung over the neighborhood; anguished shouts echoed through the streets, mingling with the sound of hands thrown up in surrender to despair. As night fell in Obs, the New Year’s celebrations felt muted and hollow; the once-bustling roads lay eerily quiet, as everyone had retreated into their homes or fled to safer havens. The restaurant that typically offered us leftover morsels stood eerily empty that night, its tables untouched and chairs pushed in. In an unexpected turn, they filled our plates to the brim with steaming dishes, a vibrant feast against the backdrop of a heavy silence that hung over the birth of a new democratic age.

Yet, this tale is far from over, and there’s a deeper layer to the unfolding narrative than what appears on the surface. On Wednesday night, January 5, 1994, something terrible happened that I know I’ll carry with me forever. The events of that evening are etched in my memory, vivid and precise as if they unfolded mere moments ago. We crawled into bed early that night, the lingering heaviness of our experiences still troubling our minds.

I jolted awake to Owen’s voice slicing through the night, “Hey, stop hitting me!” Adrenaline surged through me like a fist to the stomach, and everything unfolded in a surreal blend of rapid chaos and agonizing slowness, as if time had decided to stretch. Propping myself up, I squinted into the dim glow of the streetlight and spotted a short black man gripping a Knob Kerrie, its dark wood glinting ominously as he jabbed it into Owen’s chest. As our eyes met, his expression shifted; recognition flickered across his features before morphing into a fierce scowl. His body tensed from relaxed readiness to a coiled spring, embodying the stillness of a predator poised to strike.

I stumbled to my feet, adrenaline surging through me when my head felt like it would explode. The blow, powerful yet misaligned as I rose quickly, glanced off rather than landing squarely. Dazed, I staggered back against the rough bark of the boma’s corner tree, my hand instinctively flying to my head only to come away slick and crimson. As my vision sharpened, I locked eyes with the man before me; his stick drawn back for another strike. A gleam of victory danced in his gaze, and his scowl had morphed into a twisted smirk—an expression of primal hunger that only a predator possesses moments before claiming its prey.

My knees quaked, and my legs threatened to buckle beneath me. I understood that remaining still meant inviting death with the next strike. Just as his weapon swung toward me, an unexpected surge of adrenaline propelled me behind a sturdy tree. The sharp crack of the Knob Kerrie striking the trunk reverberated in my ears. I darted through the underbrush, heart racing, until I burst onto the road illuminated by a flickering streetlight beside another towering tree.

I pivoted on my heel, catching sight of him advancing slowly, the glow from the nearby streetlamp casting sharp shadows across his face. The nearest hospital ward loomed about twenty meters past the chain-link fence, a distant sanctuary. His expression twisted into a mask of fury, the kind that simmered in a predator thwarted just before the strike. I absurdly attempted to snap off a thick branch from the tree beside me but abandoned that idea almost immediately. Instead, I stumbled backward, heart racing as I edged closer to the safety of the fence.

An overwhelming fatigue washed over me, a bone-deep weariness that seeped into every corner of my existence. I was exhausted by the weight of my life—a series of hollow days strung together like beads on a broken necklace. Memories of drug-fueled nights, empty pockets, and cold sidewalks rushed in like a tidal wave, dragging me under. The ache of solitude wrapped around my heart like barbed wire, cutting deeper with each passing moment. After years spent battling demons only to find myself here—on this desolate road outside the psychiatric hospital that had cast me aside just weeks ago—I felt the crushing despair settle in. Just days before, four others had met their end at the hands of madness; now it seemed fate had orchestrated my own tragic finale at the hands of another twisted soul.

I halted my retreat, my shoulders sagging under the weight of defeat. The throbbing pain from the blow to my head and the warm trickle of blood coursing down my cheek were sapping my strength. The killer sensed my shift, his posture tightening as a gleeful grin spread across his face, readying himself for one last strike.

I muttered quietly, “Oh God, this is it.” A gentle voice floated from behind me, urging, “Shout for help!” I gasped out the word “Help!” but it emerged as a choked cry.

The killer loomed just four feet away, his stick clutched tightly in both hands, poised menacingly above him. But as my voice pierced the air, a dramatic shift flickered across his face—fury melted into pure panic. His complexion drained to a ghostly white, and his eyes bulged as if they might pop from their sockets as his focus shifted to something behind me. With a piercing shriek, he spun on his heel and bolted down the road, his cries echoing in frantic bursts behind him.

I stood there, swaying on my feet, utterly bewildered, as if I had stepped into a surreal dream. My fingers brushed against the warm, sticky blood trickling from the gash in my skull—a grim reminder of reality. Stumbling back toward the boma, I caught Owen and Paul’s wide-eyed expressions of disbelief. I collapsed onto the ground, tremors coursing through my body like electric shocks. A wave of dizziness crashed over me; the grass loomed closer as I succumbed to the pull of unconsciousness. Just before darkness enveloped me completely, a haunting thought crossed my mind: how strange it was to escape death only to face it again so soon.

I regained awareness in the faint light just before dawn. Owen and Paul lay sprawled nearby, lost in sleep. With a deep breath, I gathered what little I had left—my belongings feeling heavier than ever—and fashioned a makeshift bandage from an old t-shirt to wrap around my head. The journey to Groote Schuur hospital stretched ahead of me like an endless road of agony. Though not far in distance, each step felt monumental; I paused often to lean against trees and catch my breath as exhaustion clawed at my limbs.

As the dawn broke, the streets buzzed with the hum of taxis, buses, and cars weaving through the city. Not a single driver slowed down to offer assistance, nor did I hold out hope for any kindness. Arriving at the emergency room, I was greeted by a team of sharp-eyed staff who moved with purpose. The nurses gently but firmly settled me into a wheelchair, their efficiency reassuring amid my chaos. I recounted my story as they swiftly attached a “Nil Per Mouth” sign to the chair and hurried me toward the doctor. He examined my injury, meticulously cleaning it before inserting an IV into my arm. With deft hands, he shaved away hair around the wound and began stitching while peppering me with questions about how it all happened. Once satisfied with his work, he sent me off for a CT scan to check for any internal bleeding from the fractured skull.

Upon my return with the scan results, a furrow formed on his brow. A sizable round dent marked my skull, stretching over a 10cm fracture, yet miraculously, no bleeding into the brain was evident. He decided to admit me for a full day of observation. I spent most of that time lost in sleep.

The following day, a Friday, they released me from the hospital. A stranger had slipped me some cash, and I felt a strong aversion to returning to the boma. Instead, I hailed a taxi that whisked me away to Wynberg, where I found myself standing in front of the police station. I recounted my ordeal to the officer on duty, who listened intently and allowed me to spend the weekend in an open cell, providing me with meals during my stay.

I never returned to the Boma. Instead, I found refuge in Observatory, curling up on a weathered porch under a tattered blanket. Whispers reached me that Paul had been readmitted to Valkenberg hospital, but Owen’s fate remained a mystery. As days turned into weeks, the shadows of both men faded from my life, leaving no trace behind.

In the weeks that passed, I found myself immersed in contemplation, sifting through the fragments of that chaotic night. Each memory felt like a piece of a larger puzzle, and an unsettling certainty nagged at me: everything was interconnected.

Years later, as the Truth and Reconciliation Commission delved into the Helderberg Tavern Massacre, clarity washed over me like a tide. The assailants, while mapping out their escape paths before the assault, stumbled upon us in their search. One of them, a towering figure, leaned in to scrutinize our faces. I had locked eyes with him, memorizing every detail of his expression—an act that would seal my fate. After the chaos erupted, they deemed me a liability and dispatched an accomplice to silence me. But fortune smiled upon me; a guardian angel appeared just in time to thwart the attempt on my life.

I have no other explanation!