Becoming Amos

By Amos Godwin

Amos Godwin is a confused and angry young man who is raised in the confused, angry and unjust society of apartheid South Africa.

With the progression of time, society transforms while he slips further into chronic alcoholism. The picture on the cover (illustrated by the authors son) shows how Amos is constantly seeking answers by looking through the bars of his addiction at the confused and sad world he longs to be part of, yet he is unaware of the door behind him which is wide open and leads to redemption rather than readmission.

Add to this the actions of other men and women who make choices in their own lives, and the result is a recipe for disaster. These lives collide, becoming entangled and corrupt. The sins of the fathers impact directly on the lives of the sons.

Once healing begins, the web of abuse and deceit seems impossible to unravel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Apr 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524595555

Amos Godwin

Amos Godwin was born in a large mining town in South Africa during the height of apartheid. He describes himself as a redeemed addict. Amos was conscripted into the South African army after completing his matric. After this, he worked in the corporate world for many years while slowly slipping into drug abuse and chronic alcoholism ending in suicidal depression. During this time, he was a vociferous anti-apartheid activist. Today he is a spiritual leader, writer, teacher and counselor. He is a full-time staff member and social responsibility officer of a successful logistics firm, which exports goods to sub-Saharan Africa. He is an active member of his local church where he is currently training dozens of fellow members to lead addicts to redemption. Amos has also begun counselling and training at another local church in his community. He is involved daily in helping recovering addicts back into society. He is on the committee of a local kids’ home, which houses abandoned children. Amos is also a campaigner against domestic violence. Amos still resides in South Africa and married his wife, who is a born-again redeemed crack addict and a former victim of violence, early in 2017. He has two sons and a grandson.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

18h28 - Saturday December 14th 2002

Robert September’s parents had taught him the difference between right and wrong. Sadly, they had never taught him to discern good from evil.

His last memory a second before his brief existence was terminated exactly four hours from now would be one of pure, violent, unmitigated evil coming from a source he had failed to identify - his friends.

By the age of eighteen, Robert was the product of a comfortable, overprotective, religious, middle class upbringing in a good suburb of Johannesburg, South Africa. On the 27th of April 1994, when Robert was ten years old, Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela had become President elect of his country. This momentous change in the history of South Africa did not have a big impact on the September family. His father Donald was a hard-working man. He held down a good job as a factory manager and served as an elder in his church. Robert’s mother Mary was a full time nurse. Both were teetotalers, so alcohol had never even been an issue in their house. They were part of the population which the nationalist government had classified as ‘Coloreds’. They were neither ‘White’ nor ‘Black’ nor ‘Indian’; cruelly but accurately put - a non-race.

In the years running up to the first free and fair election, the nationalists had tried to paint apartheid acceptably by including the ‘Coloreds’ and ‘Indians’ in the Tri-cameral Parliament. They had also allowed them admission to previously ‘Whites only’ schools. So his parents had no interest in politics. They were on a good wicket. His father also knew about the mortal danger of insurrection.

In 1990, things had changed. Prompted by political expediency, crippling sanctions and the fall of communism, an enlightened President F W de Klerk had released Nelson Mandela unconditionally and unbanned all political parties. Then seventy five percent of white voters had put their cross next to the YES box in a referendum to ratify South Africa’s first democratic, one person one vote, election.

The landslide victory by the African National Congress and Nelson Mandela’s election as President in 1994 was preceded two days earlier - on the 25th of April - by a deadly bomb blast in the Johannesburg CBD, This prompted one of Mandela’s first (of many to come) great statesmanlike responses:

‘There is nothing THEY can do which will stop us from making the 27th of April an historic day in this country.’

Madiba had instantly sent the fanatical right wing into the wilderness and embraced every voter in the New South Africa in one sentence.

Pictures of millions of South Africans of all colors standing in kilometer long queues to cast their vote (almost eighty percent for the first time) were broadcast around the globe. Very few violent incidents occurred and the Independent Electoral Commission declared the election ‘free and fair’ within days.

Even after these huge events, the September family’s status quo remained the same. They kept the same jobs, stayed in the same house and their only son went to the same school. The only major change in the lives of Robert’s parents was the disappearance of fear when it came to expressing their political points of view. But the nationalist regime had already brow-beaten them to such an extent that they rarely opened their mouths on any political issue.

Robert had attended the local Pioneer High School which, after 1994, had been non-racial and by 2002 accommodated a good cross section of what Archbishop Desmond Tutu had so aptly and beautifully called the ‘Rainbow Nation’.

Two weeks before, Robert had completed his matric. He knew he had passed. He was highly intelligent and hard working. Robert was also what people might call a good boy. He had never been in trouble with his teachers, fellow scholars, or the law; never been in a fight and never had an illness more serious than a cold. Even his dentist complained that he had never had a problem with his teeth. He had played first team soccer and was on the chess team.

So, at the age of eighteen, Robert September knew nothing about the dark side.

His father had given him ‘the talk’ at the age of fifteen. He had scared Robert off sex completely. Elder Donald had gone into absolutely no detail on the act itself. He had simply described the HIV-AIDS risk and the lingering death which this virus inflicted on some sufferers. He then described the process of abortion as a means to end an unwanted pregnancy in graphic detail. He finally explained that, as abortion was neither an option for Robert, nor his family nor his church, he would end up marrying an unloved teenage bride and living in squalor for the rest of his life. With these options available, Robert at age eighteen was a confirmed virgin.

Nobody had ever told Robert about the effects of drugs or alcohol, apart from the odd lecture at school. Hence; when his parents had agreed to his going on holiday with his friends during the Christmas break, nobody foresaw the dreadful turn of events, least of all Robert.

The holiday began in high spirits. His friends Jake Godwin and Sipho Mashaba arrived at his house for a sleepover on Friday the 6th with their backpacks neatly packed for them. Jake was seventeen years old and like his father (whom he hardly knew) had matriculated very young. Jake was a big lad for his age and passed for eighteen or nineteen with ease. Sipho, who was nineteen, was under the care of his grandmother. Both Sipho’s parents had succumbed to AIDS, a virus which had already brought the national average life expectancy for South Africans plummeting to around fifty years of age.

Jake’s mom Tammy had paid for the backpacker accommodation on the Wild Coast for all three of them and given him enough money to cover emergencies for three weeks.

Robert’s dad Donald had given him a debit card with which to buy all their meals and to cover his pocket money – with a stern warning to be reasonable, followed by the usual lecture about money not growing on trees; however to ‘have a good time within reason’.

Sipho’s Grandmother Gladys, who was not well off by any standards, had offered to pay the return bus fares. The other parents, in a gentle manner, had turned her down flat and shared that expense. This meant that she had been able to give Sipho the princely sum of twenty Rand (two Dollars) per day for pocket money.

So, early on the Saturday morning of the 7th of December 2002, the three young men had boarded the bus at Park Station in Johannesburg en route to the Wild Coast in South Africa’s Eastern Cape Province.

15h33 Wednesday June 16th 1976 – Soweto Day

Amos Godwin (Age 19) – the soldier - had looked forward to this day with relish. He had been counting down with many fellow soldiers from ‘Forty days’ ago – from the hit song by Cliff Richard – to today. It was the day he was to clear out of the South African Defence Force after two years of compulsory national service fighting ‘terrorism’. The entire Voortrekkerhoogte military brigade had been called to the parade ground in full kit, including steel helmets, webbing and weapons. Amos was thinking that this was a bit of overkill for a passing out parade. Amos was nineteen years old.

Donald September – the deacon - had heard the news of the riots on his portable radio at work, where he was in his fifth year as a Storeman. He was a deacon in his local church in the colored township. He wondered if they should hold a prayer meeting for the ‘few black people’ he heard had been ‘injured’ by the police who had, according to the State broadcaster, fired in self-defense. Donald was twenty three.

Bennett Mashaba was in the middle of the mayhem. He was home because he was unemployed. He lived in Soweto, (an abbreviation for South Western Township) which was burning down around him. He had seen tiny bodies quiver as live ammunition ripped through them. The children had taken up stones and petrol bombs against the armored cars and guns of the oppressor. Bennett was ashamed and afraid… ashamed because he was hiding, afraid because he might be caught hiding. He was also a little worried about his mother Gladys. Bennett was twenty one.

Sergeant Johnnie Treurnicht – the fascist - was on duty in the charge office at John Vorster Square in central Johannesburg. He was hyped up and hyperactive. He wanted to get to Soweto to be part of the action. His father had warned him since childhood that the black man would revolt unless he was kept beneath and away from the ‘chosen race’. He had been involved for the past few years in rooting out the dissidents in the black community - literally. Johnnie was twenty nine.

Aaron Cele – the goat herd - was blissfully unaware of the situation unfolding. He was a goat herd in the Transkei tribal state (a ‘native reserve’ since 1913) of South Africa. Despite his youth, he was as strong as any man, both physically and mentally. His job as the eldest son was clearly defined. Cut and carry firewood, mend the mud huts, tend to the livestock and protect his family and womenfolk against all comers. Aaron’s father Petros had gone to Rustenburg in the Northern Transvaal to earn money as a mineworker. Petros was both illiterate and innumerate, yet every month without fail, four fifths of his wages would be paid into the bank account of Aaron’s mother. This she made use of to purchase mielie meal, blankets, soap, cloth for sewing clothes, and some luxuries such as sugar. Nobody was too fazed about literacy, except Aaron himself. He had a few schoolbooks which he had kept from his five years of schooling under ‘Bantu education’ scattered around the grazing paddocks. When the herd was safely focused on grazing he would settle down and study with relish. He had already grasped the English alphabet and could now read well enough to understand when a new word popped up and how to read his treasured dictionary, a gift from a visiting pastor, to research it. He had also taught himself to add, subtract, divide and multiply. Aaron was fourteen.

Wednesday July 23rd 2003

Amos Godwin (Age 46) – the dead loss

Amos Godwin had arrived successfully at the bottom of the dung heap, where the maggots live.

It was close to midnight. He was hanging by the neck with his own belt around it, ready to kick the case out from under his feet which would end it all. He had been sleeping on a train in the freezing cold, windy, wet weather which is familiar to those who have lived in South Africa’s Southern Cape in mid-winter. He was alone. He was heart-broken, hungry, homeless, penniless and drunk. As is the case with any chronic alcoholic, there was always a way to get booze. Every fiber of his being was in agony; his heart was in excruciating physical pain which extended to every nerve ending in his body, his soul was in unbearable torment, what was left of his conscience was overwhelmed by guilt and his body was bleeding internally and externally from weeks of starvation and alcohol poisoning. He had even prayed to a god whom he no longer believed existed. Already a chronic alcoholic, he had come to the end of a three week alcoholic suicide mission, during which he had tried to drink himself to death, and failed.

Before he kicked the case out from under his feet and entered (he thought) the only cure for his condition, oblivion, he said a quick sorry to those he knew would be hurt by this extreme act. One of these was his eldest son Jake whom he had deserted along with his younger son. He had not seen either of his children for years. Amos ‘saw’ and ‘heard’ his eldest son Jake looking at him in his tortured, drunken mind’s eye, saying ‘Are you going to do this to me as well now?’

At this stage of his life, Amos Godwin had become so far removed from family, friends and society that he did not know that his eldest son Jake was actually in trouble - big trouble.

Gladys Mashaba (Age 70) – granny dearest

Unlike Amos, Gladys Mashaba was totally involved in her grandson Sipho’s situation. As she could not afford bail, she had decided to rather visit him in prison during his trial. She had reasoned that the little money she could spare from her State pension and meager savings should be spent on buying Sipho’s medication, necessities and cigarettes rather than buying him temporary freedom.

Tammy Godwin (Age 38) – the exhausted resource

Jake Godwin’s mother Tammy had managed to raise a loan and pay fifty thousand Rand bail for her son. However, after he got drunk on his first night at home brought on by a bout of self-pity (as opposed to remorse) and failed to report to the local police station, he had been breathalyzed by his parole officer at her house later that night and re-arrested. His bail was forfeited and he was detained awaiting trial. Tammy’s resources and reserves were exhausted in every way, so she was forced to make use of the State’s obligation to provide a defense attorney. This attorney was representing both Jake and Sipho.

08h55 Monday the 18th of June 2012

Jake Godwin (Age 27) and Sipho Mashaba (Age 29) – the applicants

Jake Godwin and Sipho Mashaba sat huddled together in the dock of the Johannesburg High Court. It was a typically cold midwinter day on the Highveld and prisoners felt the cold more than most. Jake and Sipho both wore the bright orange prison garb of maximum security prisoners. They were both restricted by the handcuffs and leg irons fitted to dangerous inmates when they were escorted from correctional facilities to court for trial, sentencing, re-trials or appeals. Although both in their late twenties, no-one would have said either of the friends was a day under forty.

Today their new attorney was to present opening arguments on their re-trial. Over the years, Jake had both heard and been confounded by so much legalese that he had long since given up any thought of becoming a ‘jailhouse lawyer’ and fighting his own case. He left this to the experts. As far as Sipho was concerned; he did not really know or care about his innocence or guilt at all.

Both these men could only focus on one thing right now; the fact that they were very cold.

PART ONE

DEATH AND EVIL

‘Today saw the disappearance of the last mention of apartheid’ (in South African Legislation) - Riaan Cruywagen – 17th of June 1990 - SA Broadcasting Corporation.

CHAPTER 1

Monday the 18th of June 2012

Moses Cele (Age 33) – the enigma

The man in the robe representing Jake and Sipho today was something of an enigma. His name was Moses Cele, a man who had risen from obscurity through the ranks to become one of the most successful Black legal practitioners in the New South Africa. One of the most amazing things about Moses was that he was legally blind. Although he could read large script using his partially sighted left eye and a monocle, Moses Cele relied mainly on his retentive memory and his ability to prepare and present his cases fluently in four of South Africa’s eleven official languages. Moses had requested the Department of Justice for permission to step down as Senior Counsel and to act pro bono as defense Advocate for a re-trial in the matter of ‘State versus Godwin and Mashaba’. His request had set the cat amongst the owls on the Bench and the pigeons in decision making positions within the Department of Justice; Cele was asking for a role reversal as well as leave from his office which was already groaning under the weight of his case load. The South African Courts were literally swamped with cases involving major crimes such as hi-jacking, murder, rape and the ever present large scale corruption cases. His job was to gather information on these cases and to present the facts to the Magistrates and Judges in a quick yet thorough manner. He hardly ever wasted the Court’s time. Deadlines were his life.

One of Cele’s favorite pastimes was to invite a member of his wide circle of friends to visit him for dinner and then read crime and forensic novels to him. This was a nice deal for both parties, as he was an accomplished home chef and could negotiate his way around his modern kitchen with ease, while his guests had the gift of good eyesight. He loved books on forensic pathology with a passion. He had actually modified two lines from one of his favorite books and put them up on a wall of the Public Prosecutor’s general office in large letters for all to see and hopefully follow:

1) We do not believe in malicious prosecution.

2) We do not construct cases out of a flawed process or from evidence extracted improperly.

3) We will not resort to unjustifiable and unreasonable litigation.

He had been granted his request four months previously, in the February, but had managed to maintain his work rate whilst gathering all the information he needed for the case beginning today, the day his official leave of absence began.

Moses Cele was ready.

Johnnie Treurnicht (Age 65) – the bad cop

On a snowy August day in 2012, twenty accused were hearing their fate in the North High Court in Pretoria. This was the first time in recorded history that snow had been recorded in all of South Africa’s nine provinces. The twenty men had been charged with treason nine years before and had all been out on bail for this length of time. The longest running trial (and one of the most costly) in South African history was drawing to a close. The Judge had been handing down his judgment over the past weeks and had already found the first twelve accused guilty. The reality was starting to sink in for retired police Colonel Johnnie Treurnicht. His male bloodline was about to lose its freedom. His wife Sannie sat next to him sobbing almost silently. Her husband and sons were going to be taken from her, probably for the rest of her life.

CHAPTER 2

December 7th to 14th 2002

Robert September (Age 18) – the inexperienced

Robert’s friends, Jake and Sipho, had started the ball rolling as soon as they arrived at the backpacker guest farm on the Wild Coast exactly a week ago. Robert had wanted to explore the farm. He had never experienced anything so beautiful in his life; acres of lush green fields overlooking mile upon mile of plantations, the sea on the opposite horizon, a ten minute walk to a private beach, a river running through a sugar cane plantation into a lagoon bustling with tiny fish and crabs and the lagoon running into a pristine sea free of the garbage and oil he had grown used to on his holidays in Durban. A beach with no crowds, no vendors, not even lifeguards. The sun in exactly the right place too, directly over the southern tropic, drenching the countryside in sunshine.

There was a small village within walking distance of the cottage on the farm on which they were living. Jake and Sipho had insisted that this be their first port of call, the owners of the farm having told them that the bottle store closed at 6pm. Robert was essential company as he carried the debit card with which to buy their supplies. So off they went.

On arrival at the liquor store, Jake and Sipho had agreed that the three of them should each buy a liter of cane spirits and a two-liter Coke, as the store was closed the next day, being a Sunday. Robert had agreed and paid for the liquor with his debit card. The bill was triple the amount that he had estimated for the purchase of food daily. The friends then went to the spaza shop (general dealer and grocer) next door and bought some coffee, six bread rolls, margarine, milk, cheese, sugar and a big box of breakfast cereal. Another day’s estimate came off the debit card. Day one; and Robert was three hundred percent over budget.

They walked happily back to the farm with their supplies. The three had then set out their supper on the stoep of their cottage. Supper consisted of two cheese rolls each and a skinful of alcohol. Robert had neither been drunk nor partaken of alcoholic spirits in his life before. Jake was also a total amateur, although he had seen quite a few drunken people in his life, not least of these his own father. Sipho had been a legal drinker for quite a while, so he knew the ins and outs. He showed them how to pour a double tot, and then add four parts Coke; ‘because you have to taste the cane’ he said, and ice - which was the only item in the bar fridge in their cottage.

After an hour, all three were feeling warm and fuzzy inside and hot outside, with the evening temperature hovering above twenty degrees at ninety percent humidity.

After two hours, Robert and Jake noticed that Sipho was speaking very loudly and dominating the whole conversation, almost as if he was having an argument with himself.

By the time three hours and well over half a liter each of cane had passed, Robert and Jake could not stand up. Sipho offered to shoulder prop them to bed, but soon discovered that he could not even lift them, partly due to their inertia and partly due to his own center of gravity being somewhere ‘on his ear’. The two of them passed out in their chairs on the stoep of their cottage while Sipho staggered to his bed and passed out on top of the covers clothed in his shorts and T shirt.

They awoke one by one between nine and ten the next morning to what most people would call glorious sunshine, but they saw as a blinding, seething mass of light, heat and pain. Sipho was ill, Robert was afraid he might die and Jake was afraid he might not die. To add to their misery, the mosquitoes had spent the night feasting on the blood of the three inanimate objects which had made themselves available for a feeding frenzy.

As Sipho was the only one capable of anything representing normal function, he was delegated the job of making coffee and serving cereal, sugar and milk. An hour (and three cups of coffee each) later, the flies were enjoying a breakfast of warm, sweet milk. The three human stomachs were incapable of digesting solids and the heads were in too much pain to think about removing and washing the breakfast dishes. Anyway, they agreed, the dishes kept most of the flies away from their sweating bodies trying to recover in the sweltering heat and humidity. If they had known the meaning of the word torpor, they could have used this to describe their collective condition perfectly.

At this time, Sipho decided that ‘the hair of the dog that bit them’ was the most likely solution to their problem. As it was before noon, he informed them that single tots were in order. Only alcoholics drank doubles before the sun was over the yard arm. The ritual of the previous night began to repeat itself at a slower pace: single cane, coke, ice. They all battled to swallow the first mouthful, and then managed to sip the drinks down. The third drinks were poured after twelve, so doubles were fine. By three o’clock, they all felt great. They considered and quickly dismissed the idea of a walk to the spaza to buy food. So they polished off the rest of their cane and coke on empty stomachs and went to bed around five pm. Robert had still not explored the area.

On Monday morning the 9th of December 2002, a spirit of restlessness settled on the little cottage on the farm on the Wild Coast of South Africa. Heads were once again sore, but not as bad as the previous day. Tempers were frayed. The furthest thing from Robert September’s mind was that he had missed church for the first Sunday in many years. Jake did not notice that he did not miss his mother at all. Sipho needed a drink. Love had left the building.

On Monday the 9th of December at nine o’clock sharp, three young men were waiting outside the bottle store when the manager opened the front door. His trained eye recognized them; he saw that they still wore the same clothes they had been wearing on Saturday afternoon and that they were all suffering from the dreaded ‘babelaas’, local dialect for hangover. The same trained eye saw that they posed no threat. Due to the isolated location of his shop, he had been the victim of several armed robberies over the years. He had installed video cameras inside and outside his shop. He subscribed to a remote panic button which he kept in his trouser pocket and which was connected to his security company’s control room. He had purchased a 9mm pistol which he kept loaded and fitted under the cash drawer in a special slide-out holster which was permanently unclipped for easy use. The young men purchased three bottles of one-liter cane spirits and three by two liter bottles of Coca Cola on Robert’s debit card.

Sipho, Jake and Robert then went to the spaza shop. They bought enough boerewors (minced beef sausage), rump steak, tinned bake beans and bread rolls for two days. Once these items were paid for on his card, Robert had spent ten days budget in less than two days. He kept quiet.

The three young men headed back to the farm. Immediately on arrival, they took turns in pouring drinks, as they were all now adept in the science. Nobody noticed or cared that the pre-noon ‘single tots only’ rule had already been abandoned. They enjoyed a braai of meat prepared over a fire made with the local dead wood. This Robert served with rolls and baked beans. By now they had all but run out of conversation topics, so they sat in the hot afternoon sun in almost total silence, ate their food, finished over half a liter of cane each, and went to bed before the sun had set.

Tuesday arrived more comfortably. The guys were already becoming immune to the violent reaction alcohol abuse causes in new recruits. By ten o’clock they could face cereal and milk. They had enough rations for the day, so a trip to the village was unnecessary. After breakfast, the bottles of cane were once again arranged on the table on the stoep. No-one thought about eating again.

At six o’clock they had their first major confrontation.

Sipho had run out of cane spirits. The bottle store was closed. He helped himself to a double tot from Jake’s bottle, then one from Robert’s bottle. When he reached out for a third round, both of them stopped him. Sipho’s anger was terrifying to behold. He smashed his empty bottle on the concrete floor of the stoep, screamed at them that they were not his friends or they would give him some of their booze, and stormed off into the evening sunshine on very unsteady legs.

Robert and Jake stayed awake as long as the liquor would allow them to. By eight o’clock it was dark and Sipho had not returned. They went to bed, leaving the front door unlocked. Around midnight, they were awakened from their semi-comatose state by a red-eyed but much calmer Sipho. He told them happily that he had found a Shebeen which sold beer. He had also managed to score some dagga, which they both knew was marijuana. Sipho had omitted to tell them that he had spent almost half of his holiday money in one night. Everyone went back to sleep.

Wednesday morning arrived with a bang. Sipho was full of beans. Robert and Jake felt surprisingly good too. They ignored the previous night’s events completely. The bang came at eight that morning when the owner of the farm arrived and read them the riot act. He was furious. He and his wife had heard the screaming and smashing from their homestead thirty meters from the cottage. Other guests had complained. The smashed bottle was in shards of glass right across the stoep floor. They were to calm down immediately and clean up the mess or he would phone Jake’s mother, who had assured him when she made the booking that they were good boys. The only reason he was not evicting them, he explained, was that they were kids who were seven hundred kilometers from home.

By nine o’clock they had cleaned up the mess and made the walk to the bottle store. They decided to buy four liters of cane, as the extra bottle could be kept as a reserve to prevent any future problems. Three two liter bottles of Coke would be more than enough. They still had meat, as they had not eaten after breakfast the previous day, so they bought only fresh bread rolls from the spaza. Robert calculated that they had now spent fourteen days budget in four days.

As they had not eaten breakfast, they decided to light a fire and cook their meat immediately upon their return to the cottage. They made sure that they kept their voices down, which was silly as normal conversation could not be heard from the farmhouse. Brunch was enjoyed washed down with ever stronger mixes of cane and Coke. They all grabbed a compulsory siesta at three in the afternoon, as the combination of heat and alcohol had hit them hard. At six that evening, Sipho and Jake introduced Robert to his first ‘joint’ of dagga. They all smoked one, but Robert was disappointed; his two mates were laughing at the most stupid things. All the dagga had done for him was to lessen the effect of the booze and make him terribly thirsty. So he drank more while they talked more. Then something happened which he had not expected; although he was still quite lucid when he decided to get up and go to bed, he could not move a muscle in his body. He was sure he was having a stroke. His mates thought this hilarious. They were laughing so much that they could hardly breathe and had to cross their legs to prevent themselves from soiling themselves. They explained between giggles and hiccups that he was ‘paralytic’ and had nothing to worry about. The two of them eventually straightened out enough to carry Robert to his bed, where they unceremoniously dumped him on top of the covers and went back to the stoep.

On Thursday morning, Robert could not wake up. His friends decided to leave him to sleep it off while they went to buy some more meat. But first, they needed the pin number and the debit card. As he felt anesthetized he really had no choice. He was sure he could trust them, so he gave them the card and pin.

Once the two friends had bought another two days’ supply of meat, bread and baked beans at the spaza, Sipho suggested they pop into the Shebeen for a couple of beers on the way home. He needed to score some more dagga as well. Six hours later, they had enjoyed a festive lunch with some of the locals and lost count of how many beers they had drunk and bought. Sipho had also scored some dagga, of which they had smoked half.

They had spent the remainder of the holiday budget on the Shebeens debit card machine.

The friendly barman had promised that if they came by on Saturday night, the area’s drug dealer would be there to organize them some rock cocaine, which Sipho loved. Meantime, back at the farm, Robert was drinking cane and Coke to suppress his worry, fear and anger – in that order. Immediately he laid eyes on his two drunken friends stumbling down the driveway to the cottage, his worry and fear dissipated, leaving only anger. He erupted in a torrent of foul language and stood facing them down, but quickly realized that they were non compos mentis. They both looked a little shamefaced, but could not really understand why he was so cross. They went straight to bed, leaving Robert to finish his own bottle of cane and make a dent in the reserve bottle before passing out himself.

Friday morning brought chaos. Everyone woke up after ten. Sipho and Jake had ‘lost’ the slip from the Shebeen (they had actually thrown it away on their way home the previous day so that Robert wouldn’t ‘have a wobbly’). They had woken up during the night and polished off the rest of the cane and Coke. To add insult to injury, they had forgotten to bring home the food which they had bought. But in the sober light of day, Robert realized that he was one on two. He simply became very quiet and ‘sulked’, as Sipho and Jake light heartedly put it.

By now the call of the liquor was much stronger than the worries about overspending on the debit card. Robert knew that his dad would have put in more than the budget they had set. He conveniently erased from his mind the fact that they still had fifteen days of their holiday to go. They agreed to go back and buy another four liters of cane, three Cokes and two days’ supply of meat and bread. The cereal was also finished and they needed milk. To Robert’s relief, the debit card authorization for