The Ugly American: Memoir of a General

By I Baredien

In jail, behind bars, this author writes of a life gone wrong. It is a story familiar to many: It is a sad Cape Flats reality. His formative years were etched with domestic violence, abuse, and despair. A gifted child, he joined the ranks of the gang at the age of nine, and before his 15th birthday, he had already committed his first murder. And so we follow the author in this eye-opening portrayal of the lived experiences of many children born in the gang-invested suburbs of Cape Town, South Africa. We travel into the belly of the gang, but more so into the hearts and the minds of these young people and what informs their choices as they navigate their way through hopelessness and the likelihood of either dying young or ending up in prison. But, I guess, there's always redemption...

• Language: English
• Publisher: I Baredien
• Release date: Apr 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9780620930116

I Baredien

My name is Ismail Baredien. I was born near Cape Town in South Africa. I love reading and chess. Writing is my passion.

Book preview

The Ugly American - Memoir of a General

by I. Baredien

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owners.

Copyright © 2021 I. Baredien

First published 2021 by Gavin Joachims Publishing (Pty) Ltd.

ISBN: 978-0-620-93011-6

Ebook published 2021 by Smashwords

Editing: Gavin Joachims

Cover design: Gavin Joachims

Table of Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Foreword

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Dedication

To my late grandmother and father who was there for me in all my difficult times. My grandmother always spoiled me rotten and always chose me over everything and everyone.

To my mother who passed on recently, you have always been hard on me, but I now see that you did it to teach me responsibility, ethics, and to always be the best that I can be. I miss not having you around. You have left an irreplaceable void. I love you more than I knew.

To my daughters, Ghouwah and Nooriyah, you are my inspiration. The first time I held you in my arms are moments I will never forget. Many would say that I was a hard man, but you know that around you I was the best father I could be.

To the families who have lost loved ones in the ongoing gang wars on the streets of the Cape Flats, I sincerely extend my heartfelt condolences and hope that this book deters others who are still thinking of getting involved in this lifestyle.

Acknowledgements

I thank my Creator for handing me the wisdom, knowledge, and ability to pen this book.

I thank the Department of Correctional Services and its employees for their commitment to assist inmates who want to make a change and a difference in their own lives.

I thank Ms. M.J. Neethling, an employee at Drakenstein Maximum Education, for her unwavering assistance and encouragement which coaxed me to render this work.

I thank the following people who work at Voorberg Medium B prison for their support, whether it was to get my book to the National Library of South Africa, to make phone calls, send correspondence, or to discuss the way forward. Thank you for making yourself available: Mr. N. Ndikinda, Mr. N.S. Ngwane, Ms. G.C. Loubser and Mr. A.J. Kotze.

I thank Mr. Gavin Joachims, my publisher, for embarking on this journey with me.

Thank You All!

Foreword

I have known the author all his life. His mother was my friend. As a child, he was an intelligent and well-mannered boy. He was outspoken and could hold his own on any topic. He excelled at school and sports. It seemed as though everything was effortless for him.

It came as a surprise, and shock, when we found out that he had joined a gang. And true to his nature, he even excelled at that. We tried to intervene but realised that he was the type of person who would follow his mind, at all times.

When he eventually left that life behind, he was still our boy and it came as no surprise to learn that he wrote this book. I am certain that it will do well and that there are many lessons to learn from it.

The way I know the author, I do not doubt that this will be the first of many books.

Faldila Fredericks (Family friend)

Prologue

This is a place of darkness where men love men and each dog hustles for his own bone.

Lying here with thirty-five people sharing the same room, I wonder what their dreams and ambitions were. I wonder what went wrong in their lives, for them to end up here in this concrete hell. I have been here for a good many years. Still, it is impossible to get used to the idea that I have been banished from society. I knew it would happen sooner or later but expecting something to happen and the reality when it happens are two different prospects.

Being in a room with thirty-five people who we might call the bottom of the barrel when it comes to social skills, ethics, and principles - words most of these people do not even know exists. Sharing two basins, two toilet bowls, and two showers and on top of that being caged up for twenty-three hours. This is a recipe for pandemonium.

My name is Michael. I am a thirty-year-old good-for-nothing as most people are quick to label me, and others like me. To be honest, that is exactly how I saw myself for quite some time. Being part of the gang world was not an option I had. It was my means to survive the streets of the Cape Flats. Now I am locked up in this place, known as prison.

There arrived a whole bunch of ‘new meat’ today as we call them. Some of them have been through these doors numerous times before, but most of these guys are here for the first time. I can see the tension slowly building towards its climax as time passes and it is nearing the time for the lights to go out. There are some among us who have forgotten what it is like to be human. They are slowly studying their prey and I just keep my distance because I will not be responsible for someone else. As the saying goes, ‘the less you know the less answerable you will be’.

There goes the dreaded bell, and all fall silent as everybody turns towards their beds. The room is dark now and all I can do now is pray to whichever God to watch over these wretches. I pray for a quick end to this night as I know with certainty that someone will get beaten, someone might end up dead, but someone will definitely end up being raped. To try and stop these inhumane practices will lead to war in this place. I will lie in my bed and try my best to drown out all sounds and pretend that I am immune to what is happening.

We pray every day but if men can be so evil, is there any truth to the gospel of any religion? I have made an oath to myself that I will not allow this place to turn me into another monster as I have proven to myself that you can choose whatever path you want to follow. I had time to think about my past, but now I am creating my future. Someone is crying and moaning softly while somebody else is groaning and I feel a part of myself dying slowly as I know that once again evil has prevailed.

There is a saying in prison that is true but also gives you an idea of what type of mentality you need to have to survive in here.

This is a place of darkness where men love men and each dog hustles for his own bone.

Who am I? I ask myself.

Most social psychotherapists want people to believe that scum comes from broken homes. That is a good story to tell a judge. But what the fuck do they really know.

In sharing my story, I will start at the beginning.

Chapter 1

"They expected I would one day amount to ‘something’.

Fucking right they were…"

I grew up in a small, pleasant household. Having one sibling was okay by me. The two of us were treated equally. We were five people in our household, living there in Atlantis - a place about one hundred and fifty kilometers outside Cape Town. We were living in one of those council duplex houses, and everything was fine. I was about four and my sister, Michelle, was one. We shared the council house with my grandmother, my father, and my mother.

We were a normal family, and many children envied our normality. Divorce was not a common term in our community. Some children just did not know who their fathers were. Other children grew up with their grandparents, aunties, or relatives. We, on the other hand, were a family. I had a father who went to work every day, and our mother took care of us during the day.

Back then, molestation was not that common. Children were always in the care of parents or grandparents or aunties. Everyone took care of the children, I guess. And maybe the radical evolution of the family system and the eroding of the social fabric have brought evil into existence. We also have to conceive that as a species we will evolve, but to what extent?...

I was always the one with bright ideas, even when I was just a child. I just had that natural confidence and self-belief. I was everybody’s favourite child and was welcomed everywhere I went.

My grandma spoilt me rotten. She made the most delicious dishes and whenever I was in the kitchen with her the only words you would hear were: Thank you momma. Yes, I constantly tasted her treats. My grandma also had what people called, ‘green fingers’. Our garden could rival any botanical garden. My grandma and I went everywhere together. I helped her with everything, except tending to her garden simply because I did not like to get my hands dirty. My grandmother was my confidant. I could tell her anything and she was always interested in whatever I had to say. I believe that she is the one who encouraged my confidence when I was still young.

My biological father was the one person I never got to know because he left for unknown reasons when I was still too young to remember. I grew up with a stepfather and he was there but also not. My father - as I knew him - would get up early in the morning to leave for work and when he returned, he took a bath, had his supper, and got into bed early. We never had a father-son moment, but it did not bother me. I thought that was how fathers were. My father was like a ghost in the house and only cared about whether we were taken care of. Whatever he had was ours and that made him happy, I guess. As a child, it was difficult to grasp the concept of parenting, because we were always demanding.

My sister was the rebel in the house. She feared nothing. She had fights with everybody, no matter how big they were. She loved me to bits and fought all my battles for me.

Then there was my mother. She was the pillar of our household. She was the entrepreneur, the glue, the alfa and omega, but she had her own way of loving, which is difficult to explain. She loved, but you had to search quite deep into her soul, and then you had to decipher whether you were loved or if the love was superficial. In hindsight, I am glad that people were not so eager, back then, to get social services involved, because my sister and I would have ended up in the system for sure. And, who knows what would have happened to us. Yes, my mother had an extremely mean streak! I guess this is an understatement. The only person who was not afraid of my mother was my sister. I always perceived my father as a coward for not standing up to my mother. My sister, on the other hand, stood her ground no matter what my mother hurled at her. To understand what we experienced, allow me to relate a couple of incidences and then you be the judge.

I was in grade one. We played games at school, climbed trees, and jungled over fences. That was mostly what fun was about. I do not know if it was wear-and-tear or if it happened when I peeled off my socks during play. Somehow, I got a tiny hole in the heel of my sock. I was not aware of it. When I got home, I dutifully dropped my socks in the washing basket as I was instructed by my mother. Wash day came. I had just returned from school and was summoned by my mom. One did not waste time when she called. There was always a threat and urgency in her tone. I ran to where she was. I was asked about the tiny hole in my sock. I was dumbstruck and could not provide a satisfactory explanation. I was directed to my room. I waited. The minutes ticked by. I was overcome by fear. In my aloneness, I prayed that this would blow over or that she would forget about me and the tiny hole in my sock. I heard her moving about in the house. Then I heard her slow deliberate footsteps as she marched to my room. My fear now suffocated my room. When she opened the door my first reaction was to search her hands. She always came bearing equipment for punishment and pain. What I saw sent chills through my body. She took her time and purposefully cut a good measure from the garden hose. Her eyes were dancing demonically as she flexed that piece of hose. She started lashing at me with all her weight. I wanted to die. She beat me to the point where I could not cry anymore. That did not deter her. I nearly lost consciousness. I later learned that some of the neighbours heard my shouts and pleas. They had to wrestle my mother from me. This was the first time that I experienced hate. I hated my mother at that moment. I willed her to die as I huddled there with my body covered in black and purple bruises. I was unable to attend school. It was not so much the pain or the hate or the hurt that bothered me. I realised that above all, I was scared shitless of this woman.

On a Sunday - a couple of months later - my mom had some friends over. Her ‘Cookies and Tea Afternoons’. My sister and I were confined to my mother’s room. We had instructions not to switch on the television, during the visit. My sister, who was four years old at the time, wanted to watch her favourite programme. She told me that she was going to turn the television on. I begged her not to. I knew how my mom would react if we did. But Michelle did not care. She had made up her mind and switched the television on. One of my mother’s friends entered the room. The volume of the television was turned down low. When my mom’s friend left the room, I felt a quiver running through my body. I told Michelle that trouble was heading our way. Michelle told me that she was not scared and continued watching her show. When the programme finished, I jumped up and switched off the television. We remained in my mom’s room, quietly listening to the ladies chattering in the dining room. Then out of the blue, our names were called. Michelle got up and took me by the hand. I resisted, shaking my head. The second calling was fierce. We left the room and found my mom waiting for us in the kitchen. She asked if we had switched on the television. Before I could respond, Michelle confirmed that we did. The air went cold. My mother’s crazy eyes seemed to bulge right out of her skull. Being the eldest meant that I always got punished first. Most of my mom’s anger was spent on me. She grabbed my hand and laid it on the spiral plates of the stove, which soon turned red hot. The pain was excruciating. I twisted and wriggled and turned, but my mother had a heavy grip on me. I eventually broke free, smothering the cries of agony and pain so that the ladies having cookies and tea would not hear. My mom reached for my four-year-old baby sister. By now the spiral plates looked aflame. The look on Michelle’s face was that of utter confusion. Her gaze moved from me to my mom, and then to where her hand was being dragged. My eyes now became fixed on the hot plate as if it had cast a spell on me. When Michelle’s small hand was forced onto the heat, I literally wet my pants. I heard my baby sister scream desperately before she collapsed. My mom’s friends ran into the kitchen, and seeing what had happened, they ran to the door to distance themselves from my mom, Michelle, and me.

I got to my feet after what seemed like an eternity. When I saw my sister’s hand, I wanted to murder my mother! Michelle’s eyes fluttered open. She looked at me beggingly, murmuring ‘help’. She had no tears. I cried for her part. I was emotionally wrecked and felt ashamed that I could not do anything for my little sister. An ambulance was called, and my mom went with Michelle to the hospital. I was unable to sleep that night. My mom and Michelle did not return from the hospital that night, at least not until the next day. My mom seemed dazed and distant, almost zombie-like, as though what had happened affected her somehow, which in my mom’s case was not plausible.

Then there was the ‘secret’ my mother thought I kept from her. When I say that I know I have a brilliant mind, it is not a matter of boasting or ego, or conceit. It is something that I understand about who I am. My mother was always proud of my academic achievements. She loved to boast about my accolades to her friends and our family. I did not mind because it meant that I was in her ‘good books’ for however fleeting the moment was. The only time I received a beating for being smart was when I was four going on five. Around this time, my mom and I went to town by bus one day. I sat next to a nice lady. She had a newspaper and while I was chatting with her my mom admonished me not to disturb the lady. The lady told my mom that I was not a bother at all. In fact, she was impressed that I could read the newspaper. She asked my mother how old I was. My mom told her that I was almost five. This impressed the lady even more. My mother, on the other hand, was in total disbelief. She told the lady that it cannot be possible. She told the lady that she had never heard me read before. I cannot remember if anyone taught me to read. To this day, it almost seemed as if it just happened. I read a few more lines aloud so that my mother could hear them. The lady was beaming with excitement on my behalf. I was quite pleased with myself. Albeit, when we got home, I received what I would call a ‘mild’ beating because it left no scars. My mother was angry, not because I could read, but in my mother’s twisted mind she believed that I had kept this ‘secret’ from her.

Apart from all the punishments, the hurt, and the scars, some moments were nursing. These moments almost felt unbalanced or out of character.

I cried on my first day of school. I was embarrassed because I had never been away from my mother. But when I discovered what school was about, I did not want to go home. I wanted to read everything, and I was amazed at how one added and subtracted numbers. Every Saturday I cried because I wanted to be at school. The school became my haven. The nights were too long. I could not wait for the morning to arrive so that I could go to school. I was like a sponge thrown into a pale of water, and yet there was not enough water for me to absorb. It soon became apparent that the teachers favoured me. I grasped new subjects and content easily. When learners in higher grades struggled with their work, I was called to assist them and explain the concepts and subject matter to them. This resulted in some learners and peers taking a dislike to me.

One day, a teacher asked me if I had been to a library. I told her that I usually passed the library on my way home, but that I had never set foot in one. She advised that I go and check it out. She added jokingly that she was tired of carrying magazines to school for me to read.

On my way home from school that day, I defied my mother. Instead of walking straight home, I stopped by the library. I just wanted to take a peek inside, but the librarian saw me and waved at me to come inside. I was awestruck by the number of books that were on those shelves. I was shocked when she informed me that I could take the books home for free if I became a member of the library. I asked her whether I could read something in the interim. She laughed and told me that even though I was not yet a member, I was still allowed to sit and read. I told myself that I was just going to page through one book. Then one became two and two became three and before I knew it, I was lost in words and time. Much later, the librarian came to tell me that the library was about to close. When I got outside it was already dusk. Fear flooded my veins. I realised what was waiting for me at home.

When I got home, my mother was crying. She was happy and relieved to see me. I told her where I spent the afternoon, and her reply astounded me. She told me that she knew that there would come a day when I would enter ‘that place’. She even arranged with one of her friends to pick me up after school the next day, to help me with my library membership application. At that moment I really felt loved. I hugged my mother because she opened the doors to heaven for me.

My mom’s home business was a type of self-service where one could buy everything. Shops closed early and were not close to where we lived. That gave my mom the idea to open her shop. We stayed open till late, and the late shift was mostly my responsibility. I did not complain because I made good cash in tips. At a young age, I realised that money is power no matter what people tried to tell me. It was during one of my late shifts that I also experienced real violence.

I had just locked up the shop when I heard a commotion. People were running and shouting outside. I was terrified. I could hear the anguish in a nearby voice. I quickly ran to my room. From the safety of my room, I saw seven guys in the street. They were surrounding another guy who was lying on the ground. The seven voices were angered, and the guys were now kicking the man on the ground. Then they pelted the guy on the ground with bricks. I wanted to turn from the window, but it was as though my body had turned to granite. I was transfixed by the scene playing out in front of me. I could see the pain and suffering on the man’s face as he tried to cover himself in vain. Then another man walked up to the men. He had a sledgehammer attached to a pick-axe handle. He did not say anything. He calmly raised the assault weapon above his head. The screams coming from the man on the ground will probably haunt me for the rest of my life. When the hammer connected with his skull his screams ended immediately. They continued to pound his head and it was as though I could not process what I was witnessing. I heard someone calling me. When I turned, I saw my grandma moving towards me and pulling me to the floor with her. We laid on the floor while the anger persisted in the street. Not able to take any more, my grandmother got up. She shouted at the guys to stop the evil. Seconds later, glass shattered all around us as the thugs hurled projectiles through our windows. Luckily, we had burglar bars to keep the men out. I am certain that they would have killed us too if they were able to enter our house because my grandmother and I had witnessed everything.

Is this what human beings are capable of? The next day I heard that the person who got killed was a known gangster and the community expected, for a long time, that this would happen to him. It was strange to me that people condoned and expected this behaviour from gangsters. I learned that these