One week after winning the Rugby World Cup what does one find?
Winning the trophy did not cure one case of AIDS in South Africa and neither did it make a dent in the crime statistics. Lucky Dube is still dead and children are still abused sexually in startling high numbers.
Politicians are still corrupt and the president himself still covers for these criminals by interfering in the judicial process. Judges still defeat justice and seem to get away with it.
The Daily Dispatch newspaper still can not get their Saturday edition online in time and their editorial staff still acts like spoilt brats about it i.e. They ignore the problem.
Race relations are at an all time low and investors are starting to have their doubts about South Africa.
Robert Mugabe is still a saint and no plans for an invasion to topple him from power are on the cards yet.
The government is still screwing with your screwing by not producing a trustworthy condom.
Eish!
Anyone having second thoughts about elevating Mbeki to hero status last weekend?
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Thursday, October 25, 2007
The South African Rubber Scandal
Only in South Africa, a place where one sometimes can believe as many as six impossible things before breakfast, or a place where Urban Legends are actually true!
Herewith a rough translation from a Swedish Newspaper article dated October 25th: (It is not known whether these things were reported in the South African media at the time.)
For the second time within an embarrassingly short space of time, the South African Ministry of Health has been forced to withdraw from the market no less than 5 million condoms. The rubber used was simply not up to standard and the weasel went “pop” on a regular basis. One can only imagine the anger, surprise and horror amongst those using these defect “safety measures.”
But to say that the condoms were withdrawn from “the market” is a bit of a misnomer. Most, if not all, were handed out for free at clinics, hospitals and places of employment in a somewhat futile exercise to prevent unwanted pregnancies and the spreading of HIV.
The previous incident where condoms proved to be of a much too poor quality to actually use occurred in August this year. A corrupt official at the South Africa control-board neglected the recommendations and rules as set up by the World Health Organisation and ISO. For an undisclosed fee this official turned a blind eye to all the control mechanisms and evidence of inferior quality. (No evidence of the prosecution of this individual or the manufacturer for premeditated mass-murder can be found either.)
The Government has placed an order with 8 different companies for 850 million condoms for the next two years. The deal is said to be worth some R180 million.
One can only hope that these somewhat mind-boggling series of events involving condoms won’t take us back to what happened in 1999. The Government distributed free condoms with a leaflet describing how to use them. Good thought, disastrous result. Why? For one simple reason; the condom had been stapled together with the leaflet, causing ready made holes in the condoms. It is rumoured that the Minister of Health was embarrassed over the fiasco.
She has all the reason in the world to continue being embarrassed as the Ministry of Health still can’t provide a reliable piece of rubber in a country that suffers 400 000 AIDS mortalities annually.
Herewith a rough translation from a Swedish Newspaper article dated October 25th: (It is not known whether these things were reported in the South African media at the time.)
For the second time within an embarrassingly short space of time, the South African Ministry of Health has been forced to withdraw from the market no less than 5 million condoms. The rubber used was simply not up to standard and the weasel went “pop” on a regular basis. One can only imagine the anger, surprise and horror amongst those using these defect “safety measures.”
But to say that the condoms were withdrawn from “the market” is a bit of a misnomer. Most, if not all, were handed out for free at clinics, hospitals and places of employment in a somewhat futile exercise to prevent unwanted pregnancies and the spreading of HIV.
The previous incident where condoms proved to be of a much too poor quality to actually use occurred in August this year. A corrupt official at the South Africa control-board neglected the recommendations and rules as set up by the World Health Organisation and ISO. For an undisclosed fee this official turned a blind eye to all the control mechanisms and evidence of inferior quality. (No evidence of the prosecution of this individual or the manufacturer for premeditated mass-murder can be found either.)
The Government has placed an order with 8 different companies for 850 million condoms for the next two years. The deal is said to be worth some R180 million.
One can only hope that these somewhat mind-boggling series of events involving condoms won’t take us back to what happened in 1999. The Government distributed free condoms with a leaflet describing how to use them. Good thought, disastrous result. Why? For one simple reason; the condom had been stapled together with the leaflet, causing ready made holes in the condoms. It is rumoured that the Minister of Health was embarrassed over the fiasco.
She has all the reason in the world to continue being embarrassed as the Ministry of Health still can’t provide a reliable piece of rubber in a country that suffers 400 000 AIDS mortalities annually.
Screwing is More Important than Rugby
South African rugby fans might be horrified to learn that the only mention of South Africa this past week in Swedish media have been an article about the forced withdrawal of 5 million sub standard condoms by the Ministry for Health.
The articles continue to state that this is the second time that the Ministry for Health has been forced to take back condoms that do not meet the standards of the World Health Organisation and hint at corruption as a reason for the poor quality of the condoms. The previous condom-retraction was as recent as in August where a civil servant overlooked the poor quality, for a back-hand, thus making a nice addition to his normal income.
The South African Government has placed an order with 8 different companies for the manufacturing of 850 million condoms for the coming 2 years. (R180 million)
We live in fucking interesting times.
Trust the Swedes to put things into perspective.
Screwing is far more important than rugby.
The articles continue to state that this is the second time that the Ministry for Health has been forced to take back condoms that do not meet the standards of the World Health Organisation and hint at corruption as a reason for the poor quality of the condoms. The previous condom-retraction was as recent as in August where a civil servant overlooked the poor quality, for a back-hand, thus making a nice addition to his normal income.
The South African Government has placed an order with 8 different companies for the manufacturing of 850 million condoms for the coming 2 years. (R180 million)
We live in fucking interesting times.
Trust the Swedes to put things into perspective.
Screwing is far more important than rugby.
Monday, October 22, 2007
The World Cup and Human Senses
Let us get one thing straight from the outset. Commentators that do not know the rules of the game should not be allowed to spread propaganda to a nation and have everybody up in arms with “we’ve been done in.” The effort by Mark Cueto was not a try. His foot was clearly on the touchline long before the ball got grounded. End of story.
Scienctists now maintain that humans have more than five senses and I am all for it. I can think of a few more. We have movement detection as well as heat sensors and whether the critics want to admit it or not some people do have the ability to communicate with the dead. However, to state that rugby players have the ability to detect when it’s a try or not is pushing things a bit. Mark Cueto should go and preach that to the lost tribes in the Amazon who still worship toenail clippings. He could feel it was a try my arse.
A score of at least 19 to 3 would also be a more accurate reflection of the game. By all rights South Africa should have been awarded at least one penalty try and England should have played with 13 men. Two blatant offences worthy of red cards were obvious even to the totally uninitiated. When you run slap bang into the back of a member of the opposing team you should not get a penalty, and thus three points, either.
Stop whining. The English players had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that South Africa deserved to win. No surprises with the result and congratulations to South Africa. It makes me want to consider moving back to the hell-hole where I was born. A quick lie down and reflection on crime statistics rids me of that notion though.
And then we have the South Africans who in turn are up in arms because the English players “snubbed” Mbeki. (I actually thought it was a nice touch and it enhanced the intensity of the moment for me.) These are the very same people who will leave the room if Mbeki gets up to say a few words and they view him as a charlatan masquerading as political leader. Not one of these people is blind to his obvious shortcomings as leader of South Africa. They all believe that time has now come for him to step down.
Maybe this is why his outstretched hand was ignored and just passed over. It could also be due to the fact that he is a short shit and that most did not recognise him. Whatever the reason, it still left me with a tremendous respect for the English team. There and then the whole event was turned it into a super world cup.
Well done!
Politics and sport are things that do not go well together. I think it should be kept that way. For any politician trying to score brownie-points by a token appearance at a sporting event like this is a crying shame. This poor excuse of a political leader had no bloody right to be in that arena and should have been booed off the pitch. He tainted a glorious event with his presence.
If you think I’m too harsh, just check up on his recent antics and also calculate how many people he allowed to die because of lack of proper health care, a staggering crime rate and the judicial system falling to pieces. He is the political leader of a country with one of the highest child abuse figures in the world and he does absolutely nothing about it. In my book it is hard to show respect for any political leader who let things like that happen to his country and to his fellow countrymen. Respect is earned, not something that automatically comes with the title “president”. Some parts of the population in South Africa conveniently enough, do not make that distinction.
And come to think of it, is there any reason at all why Mbeki should be recognised by English rugby players? Only South African politicians labour under the delusion that they govern a first world country and that the rest of the world takes them serious. It might surprise them to learn that they are very seldom mentioned in the international media. But I guess megalomania can do strange things to people. Just look at Robert Mugabe as example.
Would any sane person complain if it had been Mugabe who was at the receiving end of the alleged snubbing and not Mbeki. Exactly what is the difference between the two “leaders”? Both seem to do an excellent job of leading their countries back to the dark ages. Isn’t it rather a sign of sanity when disapproval against self-proclaimed omnipotent leaders is shown?
Credit to the English players for that.
Scienctists now maintain that humans have more than five senses and I am all for it. I can think of a few more. We have movement detection as well as heat sensors and whether the critics want to admit it or not some people do have the ability to communicate with the dead. However, to state that rugby players have the ability to detect when it’s a try or not is pushing things a bit. Mark Cueto should go and preach that to the lost tribes in the Amazon who still worship toenail clippings. He could feel it was a try my arse.
A score of at least 19 to 3 would also be a more accurate reflection of the game. By all rights South Africa should have been awarded at least one penalty try and England should have played with 13 men. Two blatant offences worthy of red cards were obvious even to the totally uninitiated. When you run slap bang into the back of a member of the opposing team you should not get a penalty, and thus three points, either.
Stop whining. The English players had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that South Africa deserved to win. No surprises with the result and congratulations to South Africa. It makes me want to consider moving back to the hell-hole where I was born. A quick lie down and reflection on crime statistics rids me of that notion though.
And then we have the South Africans who in turn are up in arms because the English players “snubbed” Mbeki. (I actually thought it was a nice touch and it enhanced the intensity of the moment for me.) These are the very same people who will leave the room if Mbeki gets up to say a few words and they view him as a charlatan masquerading as political leader. Not one of these people is blind to his obvious shortcomings as leader of South Africa. They all believe that time has now come for him to step down.
Maybe this is why his outstretched hand was ignored and just passed over. It could also be due to the fact that he is a short shit and that most did not recognise him. Whatever the reason, it still left me with a tremendous respect for the English team. There and then the whole event was turned it into a super world cup.
Well done!
Politics and sport are things that do not go well together. I think it should be kept that way. For any politician trying to score brownie-points by a token appearance at a sporting event like this is a crying shame. This poor excuse of a political leader had no bloody right to be in that arena and should have been booed off the pitch. He tainted a glorious event with his presence.
If you think I’m too harsh, just check up on his recent antics and also calculate how many people he allowed to die because of lack of proper health care, a staggering crime rate and the judicial system falling to pieces. He is the political leader of a country with one of the highest child abuse figures in the world and he does absolutely nothing about it. In my book it is hard to show respect for any political leader who let things like that happen to his country and to his fellow countrymen. Respect is earned, not something that automatically comes with the title “president”. Some parts of the population in South Africa conveniently enough, do not make that distinction.
And come to think of it, is there any reason at all why Mbeki should be recognised by English rugby players? Only South African politicians labour under the delusion that they govern a first world country and that the rest of the world takes them serious. It might surprise them to learn that they are very seldom mentioned in the international media. But I guess megalomania can do strange things to people. Just look at Robert Mugabe as example.
Would any sane person complain if it had been Mugabe who was at the receiving end of the alleged snubbing and not Mbeki. Exactly what is the difference between the two “leaders”? Both seem to do an excellent job of leading their countries back to the dark ages. Isn’t it rather a sign of sanity when disapproval against self-proclaimed omnipotent leaders is shown?
Credit to the English players for that.
Friday, October 19, 2007
The Fever Called Rugby
Hmmm…Even I now have the rugby world cup fever here in Sweden. What a lovely fever it is! The only cure seems to be the intake of copious amounts of cold beer. I have already told my wife and kids to do all their talking to me now and get it over and done with because none will be allowed tomorrow night. I really am looking forward to this clash.
With all this excitement my mind started wandering and soon it took me back to the times of isolation of South Africa. The days when the Curry Cup final was the biggest event on the sporting calendar and provincialism was second only to religion. Hell, relationships failed during this time of the year because she/he supported the wrong province.
In the early 70’s the Free State Stadium, in Bloemfontein, was not the glowing monument to King Rugby as it is today. Even though the size of it was impressively huge one got reminded of the fact that it was still a simple affair. Its temporary stands brought you closer to your Maker during a strong wind as this scaffolding swayed and groaned alarmingly under the combined weight and strain of bloodthirsty, inebriated fans.
Right next to the stadium one found the caravan park. This was a very convenient arrangement as a lot of farmers would make a weekend outing to Bloemfontein when a big match was scheduled for the Saturday. Even some of the locals would go and pitch a tent as to get away from their wives for the weekend. Logically this caravan park was the venue of the biggest continuous party in Bloemfontein for that weekend and attracted quite a few “visitors” for a quick braai and a few brandies and coke.
Being a Western Province supporter, I was not really interested in the final between Free State and Northern Transvaal that particular year. A girlfriend however, got hold of some tickets for Saturday’s game and we were fortunate to sit in the very same corner where the Blue Bull winger, Pierre Spies, scored a magnificent try in the final seconds of the match and obliterated Free State’s hope of winning the trophy that year. It was brilliant rugby. It was an excellent match and we decided to stay put in our seats until most of the crowd has left the stadium as not to get caught up in the rush. We had a few oranges injected with vodka left so the wait was quite enjoyable.
When we eventually made our way through the caravan park towards my car most of the crowd were well on their way home and the braai fires were going full blast. The party to drown all sorrows had started. We passed a FIAT 128 and saw the feet of a sleeping man protruding from the back passenger side window. He was snoring nicely and one could detect that the previous Friday night party ensured that he never made it to the match. As we passed the car we heard the heart rendering shouts of another man looking for a friend called Maans. The pleading calls first emerged from inside the tent pitched next to the FIAT and the desperate, totally blotto, man was soon staggering all over the camp looking for Maans. My girlfriend, Margaret, caught up with him and worriedly enquired why he was looking for Maans. She got a very slurry response:
“I have to find Maans! Please help me find Maans! He’s got our tickets and we can not be late for the match.”
Hopefully I’ll keep my beer intake under control until kick-off tomorrow night.
With all this excitement my mind started wandering and soon it took me back to the times of isolation of South Africa. The days when the Curry Cup final was the biggest event on the sporting calendar and provincialism was second only to religion. Hell, relationships failed during this time of the year because she/he supported the wrong province.
In the early 70’s the Free State Stadium, in Bloemfontein, was not the glowing monument to King Rugby as it is today. Even though the size of it was impressively huge one got reminded of the fact that it was still a simple affair. Its temporary stands brought you closer to your Maker during a strong wind as this scaffolding swayed and groaned alarmingly under the combined weight and strain of bloodthirsty, inebriated fans.
Right next to the stadium one found the caravan park. This was a very convenient arrangement as a lot of farmers would make a weekend outing to Bloemfontein when a big match was scheduled for the Saturday. Even some of the locals would go and pitch a tent as to get away from their wives for the weekend. Logically this caravan park was the venue of the biggest continuous party in Bloemfontein for that weekend and attracted quite a few “visitors” for a quick braai and a few brandies and coke.
Being a Western Province supporter, I was not really interested in the final between Free State and Northern Transvaal that particular year. A girlfriend however, got hold of some tickets for Saturday’s game and we were fortunate to sit in the very same corner where the Blue Bull winger, Pierre Spies, scored a magnificent try in the final seconds of the match and obliterated Free State’s hope of winning the trophy that year. It was brilliant rugby. It was an excellent match and we decided to stay put in our seats until most of the crowd has left the stadium as not to get caught up in the rush. We had a few oranges injected with vodka left so the wait was quite enjoyable.
When we eventually made our way through the caravan park towards my car most of the crowd were well on their way home and the braai fires were going full blast. The party to drown all sorrows had started. We passed a FIAT 128 and saw the feet of a sleeping man protruding from the back passenger side window. He was snoring nicely and one could detect that the previous Friday night party ensured that he never made it to the match. As we passed the car we heard the heart rendering shouts of another man looking for a friend called Maans. The pleading calls first emerged from inside the tent pitched next to the FIAT and the desperate, totally blotto, man was soon staggering all over the camp looking for Maans. My girlfriend, Margaret, caught up with him and worriedly enquired why he was looking for Maans. She got a very slurry response:
“I have to find Maans! Please help me find Maans! He’s got our tickets and we can not be late for the match.”
Hopefully I’ll keep my beer intake under control until kick-off tomorrow night.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Dit Raak Weer Winter
Note: This post is for all my friends in South Africa so don’t even bother to try and read it if you do not understand “the code” called Afrikaans.
Dit raak weer winter in hierdie plek so vêr van die huis af.
Ek gee nie juis om nie en pas goed aan veral met die Sweedse winter voorplantings rituele. Laat dit dan maar minus 25 grade celsius word. Ek klim glad nie uit die bed uit nie.
Laas winter besluit ek toe mos om die tieners ʼn ding of twee te wys. As hulle kan “snowboard” dan kan ek ook.
Fok die feit dat ek reeds 52 winters agter my naam het. Snowboard sal ek ry!
So gesê, so gedaan. Ons vertrek toe mos na die “slope” in Stockholm waar almal hulle Viking agtergrond uitlewe. Kinderjies wat skaars kan loop, ski jou uit die grond uit as jy nie goed oplet nie.
Ons vat toe die “ski-lift” op die “advanced slope” want vir wat wil ʼn boer nou sukkel met beginners se kak.
Bo gekom, “strap” ek toe hierdie gedoente aan my voete vas en met ʼn ”honderd meter se moer” begin ek my aftog.
Hou goed my balans en begin net die trippie geniet toe die gewaarwording my tref: ”Ek weet nie n fok hoe om te stop nie.” Heelaas te laat want ek was reeds halfpad af en het ʼn goeie snelheid bereik.
Al my geskreeu en raas in Afrikaans word geïgnoreer en in die proses is ek bo-oor ʼn mannetjie van so 9 jaar oud wat nie te vinnig was nie. Hy was neus eerste in die sneeu in en ek hou nog my balans en vaart.
Byna onder besef ek dat ek iets sal moet doen om nie moord te pleeg in die niksvermoedende skare wat wag op die ”ski-lift” nie.
Uit desperaatheid werp ek toe myself teen die grond neer en na so 15 meter se geploeg kom ek teen ʼn vriesende stop. Voor fok mense daai witgoed is hard!
Afgestof gaan drink ek toe ʼn bier en eers later bevind die doktor dat my sleutelbeen uit lid uit is.
Dit is derhalwe my weldeurdagte, goed nagevorste, slotsom dat sneeu iets is wat ʼn mens deur ʼn toe venster, voor ʼn magtige kaggelvuur, met ʼn goeie glas anti-vries in jou hand moet beskou.’
“Snowboard” se moer.
Dit raak weer winter in hierdie plek so vêr van die huis af.
Ek gee nie juis om nie en pas goed aan veral met die Sweedse winter voorplantings rituele. Laat dit dan maar minus 25 grade celsius word. Ek klim glad nie uit die bed uit nie.
Laas winter besluit ek toe mos om die tieners ʼn ding of twee te wys. As hulle kan “snowboard” dan kan ek ook.
Fok die feit dat ek reeds 52 winters agter my naam het. Snowboard sal ek ry!
So gesê, so gedaan. Ons vertrek toe mos na die “slope” in Stockholm waar almal hulle Viking agtergrond uitlewe. Kinderjies wat skaars kan loop, ski jou uit die grond uit as jy nie goed oplet nie.
Ons vat toe die “ski-lift” op die “advanced slope” want vir wat wil ʼn boer nou sukkel met beginners se kak.
Bo gekom, “strap” ek toe hierdie gedoente aan my voete vas en met ʼn ”honderd meter se moer” begin ek my aftog.
Hou goed my balans en begin net die trippie geniet toe die gewaarwording my tref: ”Ek weet nie n fok hoe om te stop nie.” Heelaas te laat want ek was reeds halfpad af en het ʼn goeie snelheid bereik.
Al my geskreeu en raas in Afrikaans word geïgnoreer en in die proses is ek bo-oor ʼn mannetjie van so 9 jaar oud wat nie te vinnig was nie. Hy was neus eerste in die sneeu in en ek hou nog my balans en vaart.
Byna onder besef ek dat ek iets sal moet doen om nie moord te pleeg in die niksvermoedende skare wat wag op die ”ski-lift” nie.
Uit desperaatheid werp ek toe myself teen die grond neer en na so 15 meter se geploeg kom ek teen ʼn vriesende stop. Voor fok mense daai witgoed is hard!
Afgestof gaan drink ek toe ʼn bier en eers later bevind die doktor dat my sleutelbeen uit lid uit is.
Dit is derhalwe my weldeurdagte, goed nagevorste, slotsom dat sneeu iets is wat ʼn mens deur ʼn toe venster, voor ʼn magtige kaggelvuur, met ʼn goeie glas anti-vries in jou hand moet beskou.’
“Snowboard” se moer.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Raising Your Hands to Your Father (1978)
Excerpt no 6 : Africa Will Always Break Your Heart
One Friday night returning from the pub I found my brother and a girlfriend visiting my folks. They had driven from Pretoria as Bloemfontein University had no medical faculty at the time and Pretoria was the closest. I was in a dark mood because of a situation at work and needed the support of my family.
“Evening all. Boy, did I have a rough day.”
I must have interrupted my brother in mid-sentence. He brushed me off:
“Shut up. We’re busy talking.”
“Go and fuck yourself!”
I retaliated.
I went to the backroom to collect a few belongings before leaving to spend the weekend with a few girlfriends. I was disgusted and hurt as nobody recognised that I needed a patient ear and shoulder to cry on.
My father followed me and started pushing me about.
“You will now explain this conflict between your brother and yourself! You will do it now!”
He shouted at me, acting as if he was not aware that he was largely to blame for the sibling rivalry that existed between us.
I shouted back at him:
“Go and ask your first-born and favourite and fucking leave me alone!”
There was always alcohol in our house and my dad had clearly put quite a lot of it under his belt as my mom was in the middle of yet another affair. She had later left home for a few weeks to be with her lover, and he needed to ease the pain a bit.
“Explain yourself!”
He pushed me in the chest with a stiff finger.
“Don’t do that. It hurts, it’s degrading and I do outrank you.”
I said.
He continued pushing me. I threatened:
“I will fuck you up! Please stop it!”
“Try me!”
He repeatedly responded.
No amount of begging and threatening could make him stop. In his hurt he was clearly looking for a fight, and I was the chosen one to take his hurt out on. Had I known that he was hurt just as badly as I was, things might have turned out differently. He pushed me one time too many before I’d had enough. I lashed out and hit him.
Into that blow went all my pent up longing and frustration accumulated over the years of trying to get his love and attention. He managed to duck in time and I landed a glancing blow on his cheek, splitting the skin and rolling it up all the way to his left ear. He bounced off the wall and charged at me, the white of his jawbone showing. I was ready and hit him with my left hand breaking his jaw in two places.
That took the fight out of him. I was mortified, and when my rage died down I tried to convey my remorse.
“I’m sorry dad! You were looking for it! Please forgive me! I truly am fucking sorry.”
To raise your hands against your father was totally unheard of. He has never forgiven me for this and I have not forgiven myself either. I never can as it’s too deep-rooted a belief.
I took him to the military hospital where we concocted a story about a car accident. They clearly did not believe us as we were reeking of alcohol, my eyes were red from crying and no car accident could have inflicted the type of injuries he had. He got hospitalised for a week and underwent surgery to wire up his jaw.
Even though we lived and worked in the same city I did not visit my parents’ house for over three months after this incident. Notes were left by my father under the windscreen-wipers of my car urging me to meet with him at the golf club for a drink. I ignored them all until he one day confronted me in person, smartly saluted me and officially invited me for a drink.
“Lieutenant, would you do me the honour of joining me for a drink tonight?”
“It will be my pleasure. I will meet you after work.”
I responded.
That night I went to meet with him, and we got drunk together as two adversaries correctly would once the dust had settled.
One Friday night returning from the pub I found my brother and a girlfriend visiting my folks. They had driven from Pretoria as Bloemfontein University had no medical faculty at the time and Pretoria was the closest. I was in a dark mood because of a situation at work and needed the support of my family.
“Evening all. Boy, did I have a rough day.”
I must have interrupted my brother in mid-sentence. He brushed me off:
“Shut up. We’re busy talking.”
“Go and fuck yourself!”
I retaliated.
I went to the backroom to collect a few belongings before leaving to spend the weekend with a few girlfriends. I was disgusted and hurt as nobody recognised that I needed a patient ear and shoulder to cry on.
My father followed me and started pushing me about.
“You will now explain this conflict between your brother and yourself! You will do it now!”
He shouted at me, acting as if he was not aware that he was largely to blame for the sibling rivalry that existed between us.
I shouted back at him:
“Go and ask your first-born and favourite and fucking leave me alone!”
There was always alcohol in our house and my dad had clearly put quite a lot of it under his belt as my mom was in the middle of yet another affair. She had later left home for a few weeks to be with her lover, and he needed to ease the pain a bit.
“Explain yourself!”
He pushed me in the chest with a stiff finger.
“Don’t do that. It hurts, it’s degrading and I do outrank you.”
I said.
He continued pushing me. I threatened:
“I will fuck you up! Please stop it!”
“Try me!”
He repeatedly responded.
No amount of begging and threatening could make him stop. In his hurt he was clearly looking for a fight, and I was the chosen one to take his hurt out on. Had I known that he was hurt just as badly as I was, things might have turned out differently. He pushed me one time too many before I’d had enough. I lashed out and hit him.
Into that blow went all my pent up longing and frustration accumulated over the years of trying to get his love and attention. He managed to duck in time and I landed a glancing blow on his cheek, splitting the skin and rolling it up all the way to his left ear. He bounced off the wall and charged at me, the white of his jawbone showing. I was ready and hit him with my left hand breaking his jaw in two places.
That took the fight out of him. I was mortified, and when my rage died down I tried to convey my remorse.
“I’m sorry dad! You were looking for it! Please forgive me! I truly am fucking sorry.”
To raise your hands against your father was totally unheard of. He has never forgiven me for this and I have not forgiven myself either. I never can as it’s too deep-rooted a belief.
I took him to the military hospital where we concocted a story about a car accident. They clearly did not believe us as we were reeking of alcohol, my eyes were red from crying and no car accident could have inflicted the type of injuries he had. He got hospitalised for a week and underwent surgery to wire up his jaw.
Even though we lived and worked in the same city I did not visit my parents’ house for over three months after this incident. Notes were left by my father under the windscreen-wipers of my car urging me to meet with him at the golf club for a drink. I ignored them all until he one day confronted me in person, smartly saluted me and officially invited me for a drink.
“Lieutenant, would you do me the honour of joining me for a drink tonight?”
“It will be my pleasure. I will meet you after work.”
I responded.
That night I went to meet with him, and we got drunk together as two adversaries correctly would once the dust had settled.
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