Tag Archives: Manchester United

A Note To Self: If You Don’t Feel Like Writing, Write Anyway.


I almost didn’t share anything on this space today. Almost being the operative word. I wish I could blame that on the traditional existential angst that often accompanies Mondays. No, this wasn’t a case of the Monday blues. I had a pretty chilled weekend and both Manchester United and Lewis Hamilton won over the weekend so unlike most Monday’s before I was in a good mood. The day itself started off positively and I set about to attack the day with much fanfare and vigour. But through all that positivity I hadn’t made a plan as to what I was going to write about today and when, as I have previously done. I thought I would just wing it. I was wrong, because halfway through the day I and managed to talk myself out of writing. Or so I thought.

Earlier when I had resigned myself to not writing for this blog it was mainly because I didn’t feel I had anything meaningful, informative or even insightful to share today. So I told myself I would put it off until tomorrow when hopefully I would have something more tangible to work with. But here I am writing. Why? Because the internal guilt of not writing today proved to be too much of a burden to bear than say writing about nothing in particular. And so here I am succumbing to my own guilt. If I had gone through with the decision to give myself an unscheduled ‘off day’ it would have been the first time in three weeks that I wouldn’t have shared anything on this blog on week day. Three weeks ago I set about on a journey to write as consistently as possible. The aim is to write every week day for six weeks. Only after six weeks would I reevaluate and set new goals for my writing. But here I was halfway through that journey patting myself on the back and haggling with myself. Prior to today I was doing OK. I was focused. I was motivated and I was following through almost effortlessly on my personal goals. I was comfortable in my routine and I never plan for days like today when that carefully crafted routine would be challenged. Even though I knew there would be days like this I never planned for that eventuality and I almost broke that routine.

When I was making the case to myself for taking the day off my reasoning was that I deserved it for the consistency that I have shown over the last three weeks, even though it was not part of the plan. Today being a Monday it would not have just been a day of though. It would have been my third consecutive day off taking into account my scheduled weekend off. It was the worst possible day to even consider taking off. It was a slippery slope that I was about to let myself go down. The more I thought about this the more I didn’t trust myself not to end up on some unintended sabbatical from this space. It’s not too long that ago that I remember struggling a great deal to get back into writing after I had let my pen fall asleep on the page for too long. It’s so easy to break the routine, but so much harder to start all over again. And it usually starts with rationalising that it’s just one day and before you know it a day turns into a week, and a week into months.

Whilst I am proud of and acknowledge the work and the progress I’ve made to get to three weeks I am not going to rest on my laurels just yet. I set a goal for myself to write consistently for at least six weeks and that is what I intend to do, even if on days like today its means writing about nothing. It is also a realisation that not all days are going to be the same and that days like this are the ones I allow myself to grow. It also means I am slowly mustering the willpower to do things I know I have to even though I might not always feel like it. And even though at times today it felt easier not, it always feels so much better to have written.

On the days you don’t feel like writing those are the days that it’s even more important to write. A luta continua. The struggle continues.


Posted by on March 31, 2014 in Uncategorized


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Most people who know me well will testify to my great love for football, and one team in particular Manchester United. Excluding the relationship I have had with my immediate family that has been the longest and most rewarding relationship I have had in my life. This relationship dates back to the early 90’s when the the irresistible panache of one particular Frenchman turned out to be the catalyst to a relationship that has lasted the better part of the last two decades. That Frenchman is non other than Eric “The King” Cantona. Cantona was an eclectic and enigmatic character both on and off the pitch. He was also Manchester United’s talisman when they began their dominance of the English game. A dominance that has spanned almost the entire period I have supported the club. Today I won’t bore you with the details of the genesis of that relationship and how it has evolved over the years. Besides I have already written about before HERE.

For many years Manchester United the team have been synonymous with a consistent culture of having a ‘never say die’ attitude , winning against the odds and conjuring up those late and most dramatic of comebacks. This culture has in no small part been due to the stewardship and influence of one manager who was at the helm for 26 years. This man is Sir Alex Ferguson. During his reign as manager of Manchester United football club , the club witness unprecedented levels of success. As a result most of us, the supporters of the club have been relatively spoiled, only having to fleetingly deal with disappointment. The rest of the time it was glory after glory every other season. As a result for most supporters their loyalty or commitment to the club was never tested. The closest were the emotional roller coasters that characterised most of Manchester United’s biggest matches. During the course of 90 minutes you would often find yourself cussing and biting your nails one moment and the next screaming in ecstasy. But even then they almost always won in the end, often leaving right to the very last kick of the game. It had all the hallmarks of those intense relationships that give us our greatest moments of joy as well as take us to our lowest ebbs. It was a tumultuous relationship in the most beautiful and gratifying way. Things always worked out in the end.

This season has been the most challenging that Manchester United have had in a long time. At the end of last season Sir Alex Ferguson retired. At that point no one imagined the depths the club would sink to after he had vacated the manager’s position. The team is pale shadow of itself. It has lost more games than I care to remember and often in humiliating and humbling fashion. That “never say die” attitude seems to be a thing of the past. As a supporter this has proved tasking. It’s an unfamiliar position and there has definitely been a shift in the dynamic of the relationship. Manchester United is no longer just a source of unbridled joy and bragging rights come Monday morning. Of late it has only served to heighten the traditional existential angst of Monday.

Like is often the case when the is a shift in a relationship dynamic introspection has been necessary. And I have surprised even myself with the conclusions that have arisen from that. Like I mentioned earlier because of the success the team has enjoyed over the years it has been relatively easy for most supporters to continue investing their time and resources on all things Manchester United. So much so that other supporter’s of other teams have accused Manchester United supporters of being glory hunters. Whilst I agree that this season has been emotional taxing and disappointing there is one caveat. It has only served to remind me how much I love the team . They have been a source of so much joy over the years and now it’s time to stand by them even more now. There is no guarantee that things will get better, or that we will return to our former glory. But I do know this as in an serious and committed relationship we have in our lives you never walk away at the first sign of trouble. You stick through it. You never stop believing. And sometimes when you just need to clear your head and get some clarity you write about it.

It has been tempting to try and put on the blame on the new manager. And a case can be made against his ability to lead the team back to it’s form former glory but for me this has been purely about learning to love my team in difficult times something I haven’t always been able to always do in all my other relationships. It’s a necessary evil and hopefully I will be able to apply the lessons I am learning in other areas of my life.

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Posted by on March 17, 2014 in Uncategorized


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Who Needs Batman When You Have Got Robin Van Persie?

I am a life long Manchester United. Well, technically since 1992. That feels like a life time ago though. Last season when we lost the league to Manchester City with Aguero’s goal with the last kick in the last minute, and the last second of the season I was absolutely gutted and heartbroken. Not so much by the fact that we had been beaten to the title on goal difference. No. It was the manner in which we lost that title. For all of a minute, it looked like what had seemed improbable at the start of the day had become a reality. We believed we were champions once again. Then in the most dramatic fashion possible we lost. It was cruel. That Aguero goal and the celebration, in which he gleefully ran around swinging mine and millions of other United heart’s over his head has haunted me since. I also remember the spilt screen shot of delirious Man City fans celebrating juxtapositioned against an image of Sir Alex Ferguson and Phil Jones looking dejected.

Thankfully that memory was exorcised from my memory’s museum last night. All thanks to a sensational hat trick from Man United’s talisman this season Robin Van Persie. His second goal on his way to his 33min hat trick was a master class in the art of volleying a football. It was audaciously awesome. You are more likely to see that playing FIFA on Playstation than in real life. Last night Robin Van Persie toasted his first ever league title in his 12 seasons as a professional footballer with a stupendous goal in the Theatre Of Dreams … Poetic justice. Now that is a memory that will be displayed front and centre in my memory’s museum.

Manchester United winning the league again despite what many might suggest has nothing to do with luck. It was a display of the character that is required to be champions consistently over a period of 20 years. It also is classic example of how to comeback from a setback. Legend has it that after that game on the trip back to Manchester SAF gave a rallying cry on the team bus. He told his players to remember the pain of that loss. He vowed that he will never let it happen again. In that moment of defeat he was already looking plotting how to wrestle the title back from the noisy neighbours. Boy did they not only respond but they channeled that pain into an absolutely dominant premier league campaign. In the process turning around a loss on goal difference to winning the league with 4 games to spare and a healthy 16 point margin. That was the first step towards reclaiming the title from the noisy neighbours.

His second and most inspired decision was snapping up the attacking talents of Robin Van Persie. This was in line with Sir Alex’s declaration that he would never lose the title again on goal difference. He said “The one thing I said to them at the start of the season was: ‘Make sure you do not lose on goal difference again’. Last season was the first time we’ve ever lost on goal difference. We’ve always had a superior goal difference to all our opponents. That was the point where I realised that was the challenge: our goal difference must be better than theirs across the road.” That plus the resolve to reclaim the title propelled United to a record 20th title in the English league. This was Sir Alex Ferguson 28th trophy as coach of Manchester United.Dethroned as champions six times in his Old Trafford rule, he has now brought the title straight back on five occasions. No wonder he has a whole stand in Old Trafford named after him as well as a statue erected outside the stadium. Legend.  Also a player who has been with him since his first triumph is 39 year old Ryan Giggs  who now has 13 Premier league titles the same number as Arsenal (Robin Van Persie’s former club)  have won in their entire 127 year history. Giggs was also the architect of two of Van Persie’s goals on the night.

On winning the tittle last night Sir Alex had this to say

“The players’ focus was fantastic this season. “They didn’t get themselves annoyed by what happened last season. A lot of teams – most teams in the country – would have melted. But not this bunch.

“They went on and did what Manchester United expects of them and raised the bar. You could go on and on and on about losing a title, and we’ve had to do that in my time. I think our consistency for the last 20 years has been unbelievable. It’s been a marvellous performance. We’ve got 84 points with four games left – fantastic.”

Now to the man of the moment Robin Van Persie.

"Fergies new Van" ... Robin Van Persie and Sir Alex Furgeson

Rob Van Persie and Sir Alex Ferguson

He has been a professional footballer for 12 seasons (8 of which he was starved of success at Arsenal). His time at Arsenal became untenable last season when he was the standout player of the league, winning the Player of the season award and the Golden Boot award for the top goal scorer in the league. That was only enough to single handedly lift Arsenal into 3rd place. Unfortunately that was not in line with his ambitions. Subsequently he made bold decisions to take his match winning talents to Manchester.  As in the movie Matrix, when Keanu Reeves’s Neo had the choice between the “red pill” and the “blue pill”, Robin Van Persie chose the former to become “The One”. He reportedly rejected a £300 000/week salary from Manchester City to “Listen to the little boy inside him. “A decision that didn’t go to well in the blue half of Manchester but one that was vindicated when he won his first ever  title  with the red half of Manchester. To Manchester United’s credit they did not hesitate in forking out £24 million for his services. With 34 league games played already this season Van Persie has been the only player to feature in all those games. In the process his goals have earned Manchester United 20 points on the way to their record 20th English title. In the immortal words of the legend that is Charlie Sheen “Winning!”

Robin has been no side kick. Robin Van Persie has been  “The One”. Who needs Batman when you have got Robin Van Persie?

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Posted by on April 23, 2013 in Uncategorized


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I Decided

The irresistible panache. The upturned collar. The artistry. The Kung fu fighting. That incongruous mix of shock value and brilliance. I remember it all like it was just yesterday. He was elegant, enigmatic, eccentric, eclectic, explosive or as my French friend would put it “Man you cannot eee-magine”. Ladies and Gentleman … Eric Cantona. The creme de la creme. The big enchilada. The King. One of the greatest footballers to ever grace the Theatre of Dreams.

Playing Jean-Toussaint Arrighi de Casanova to Sir Alex Ferguson’s Napoleon Bonaparte Cantona inspired the Red Devils to 4 league titles, including 2 doubles(1992-1997). He was Manchester United’s talisman, eliciting during his time at Old Trafford some of the most boisterous renditions of Glory Glory Man United.  For me as a budding football fan it was the genesis of an inexplicable love affair with a football club, that would last the better part of the next 20 years. A relationship that was signed, sealed and delivered by the time the 1999 Treble winning team’s exploits had many a United fan delirious with glory. Although by 1999 Cantona had since hung up his boots, he had been the perfect wing-man. I decided on United.

Decisions. Decisions. Decisions.

As a pseudo intellectual, I do occasionally, in my private moments acknowledge that I don’t know everything and revert to helpful aides to explain things to me. so not wanting to make any mistakes for this piece, I reached for the dictionary gathering dust on the top of my over stacked , under read bookshelf to look up a word I think I know the meaning of.

Ultimatumnoun: a final, uncompromising demand or set of terms issued by a party to a dispute, the rejection of which may lead to a severance of relations or to the use of force.

Now, as far as the dictionary definition of this term can be applied to my scant experience of relationships, I think I have been on the end of some final uncompromising demands, the rejection of which or in my case the reticence  to deal with , while not leading to the use of force, have definitely led to the severing of relations.

Sometimes I have been naive enough to ignore an ultimatum expressed in no uncertain terms. Other times I have only become aware of the ultimatum after the severing of relations when I was told how my girlfriend had given me the ultimatum in her mind and then watched as I failed to deliver,leading to scenes of tears, shouting and wheel spinning departures into the mist of the lonely winter nights.

These ultimatums usually involve a demand that I change my loyalties ( i.e. not seize every opportunity to accept friendly invitations to go crazy  and instead devote my attention to the needs of the loved one), my habits ( i.e. passionately indulging myself in all things Manchester United), or my outlook ( i.e going all Forrest Gump and responding , “Mama always said life is a box of chocolate” to a serous question about feelings, life, the universe and everything).

Though not always expressed in the kindest or most rational manner, these ultimatums are not without merit. In past I have always acknowledged those merits only once the horse has bolted far beyond the bounds of my stable. ( It’s a metaphor, I swear I am not saying you are a horse.)

The problem is that I have an inherent and sometimes irrational tendency to try and keep everyone happy and not hurt anyone’s feeling, which is impossible at the best of times and unforgivable in the face of an ultimatum. Its probably the former altar boy in me, the inheritor of thousand of years of neurotic Catholic guilt that sends me into a whiny, pacing hand wringing dance of indecision and self doubt. Something  that highlights my ability to make excuses rather than decisions. Deciding not to decide, that’s usually my decision. Which is also why I am not much of an ultimatum deliverer myself, preferring instead to cower, glare and mumble to myself that the reason I own too much Manchester United memorabilia and books is that at least they don’t make demands. Ultimatums, however, have always had the stamp of authority and I have had a problem with authority for at least the last 15 years of my life.

There are women I have waited for to tell me to marry them or else, who are now married, have left me or just don’t want don’t want to hear it anymore, and all I can here is the spirits of my departed objects of desire laughing at me and singing “You turned out to be the best thing I never had … Sucks to be you right now“.

This is not to say that ultimatums should be accepted but in the case of an often indecisive schmuck like me, you need to recognize the ones that count and then do the right thing. Otherwise you will be lying awake alone at night telling yourself that next time you wont make the same mistake and that you mean it this time, as you ignore the book on the bedside table and the record that reached its conclusion hours ago, hissing incessantly as it waits for you to change it.

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Posted by on August 20, 2012 in Uncategorized


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Pain Heals. Chicks Dig Scars. Glory Lasts Forever.

Its just after 2am on a September night in Melbourne. I find myself at my local sports bar in Toorak, watching the Manchester derby with fellow fanatics. We are united in our passion for the game,undeterred by the difference in time zones. A time difference , the consequence of which means we are huddled up in this sports bar at this ungodly hour on a Sunday. Even though the match is being played on a Sunday afternoon across the pond. Tonight, more than any other night though it has been worth it. The match has reached an unbelievable climax. Its a remarkable conclusion to an enthralling Manchester derby. Manchester City had looked to have snatched an unlikely point after coming from behind for the third time to level only seconds before the end of the 90 minutes. The board goes up, 4 minutes of injury time( popularly known amongst United’s detractors as “Fergie time”). Needless to say Michael Owen latches onto a sumptuous through ball from the evergreen Ryan Giggs and scores with was it to be last kick of the match. In the 6th minuteoif injury time. Pure Bliss.

The scene both on screen and in the bar is one of pure euphoria.The resulting hysteria is nothing short of intoxicating. This is embodied by Sir Alex Ferguson celebration. He sets off on an impromptu wild dance along the touchline. I mirror his celebration by partaking in an impromptu little jig and fist pumping of my own in the bar before joining the rest of the fanatics in a rendition of “Glory Glory Man United”. Shortly after I leave the sports bar, deciding to walk home which is 5 min away. In my state of euphoria as I often do I retreat to my own little world. Glory. I am preoccupied with updating my facebook status. I am keen to share my smugness , which is more pronounced than usual tonight given the manner in which we have won. Glory.

Next thing I know my back is against the wall. I am wearing a arrogant but slightly bemused smirk on my face. These two young Italian punks are demanding I hand over my wallet. The absurdity of the scene disarms me more than their demands. Who would have thought, me an African man, being robbed by two younger males of Italian descent. All this on a Sunday night in what is supposed of the safest suburbs in Melbourne. My brain races. My initial thoughts are, I can probably make a break for it.They would never catch me. They either read my mind or are peeved by my apparent lack of fear.That’s when I felt a warm fuzzy feeling in my inner thigh. In the camouflage of darkness I had not noticed the knife.The bastard had stabbed me dangerously close to my groin area. Shock settles in, wiping the smirk of my face. They steal my wallet. They try to grab my phone, I swing a punch in their direction rather feebly, before collapsing in a heap on the ground.They bolt. I resign myself to my fate. I am lying alone in the middle of the street , not a soul in sight.Could I be dying? I have never contemplated dying before. If I am really dying, how could it happen like this? Here. Now. On the pavement – in Toorak. I engage a fleeting image of my parents thought of my parents which is just as quickly  interrupted by thoughts of how stupid it would all be for my life to end this way.This is it. Things start becoming fuzzy, I m losing consciousness.I am gasping for air.A futile exercise.

The next thing I recall. My eyes are being assaulted by a bright light.The pearly gates perhaps? I try and recall the last time I saw the inside of a church. The memory is too distant. Before I can reach it, I am interrupted by a booming voice which promptly brings me back to earth. “How you going mate?. “Are you OK ?”. At that moment I recognise the source of the light. Its the policeman flashlight. I am lying on the side of the road drowning in a pool of my own blood. Blood is gushing out of my leg as if from a burst fire hydrant. My entire right leg is completely drenched in blood. Am I OK? Do I look OK? I think to myself. Before I get the chance to respond an Ambulance arrives on the scene and Paramedics rush to my aid. In between what look like exaggerated attempts to catch my breath I manage to draw on the little reserve of energy that I have. “I need morphine please, I am in pain” , I plead. No sooner have they hauled me onto the stretcher a taxi arrives on the scene.

To this day I can only imagine how my then girlfriend at the time felt. Oh what was going through her mind being confronted by that scene. The flashing lights.The blood. I can only imagine she was looking scared as hell as she made her way towards the Ambulance.In that moment it came back to me. How I had casually rang her and nonchalantly told her I had been robbed.Why I didn’t think to call 000 myself remains a mystery even to to this day. She later confided that when she arrived on the scene. She was pretty sure I was dead. Fortunately for me she had been more alert and rung emergency services. Who in turn rang me and managed to keep me conscious till their arrival. A quick instinctive chain of events that saved my life. For that I will eternally be indebted to her. She saved my life. Thank you. This was in 2009.

The present day
Last week I attended a reading for a book entitled , My Father, My Monster, by McIntosh Polela at the Centre of the book in Cape Town. My Father, My Monster is a memoir that The Sunday Independent newspaper referred to as being so painful it bleeds of the page. Now, to be honest I wasn’t particularity drawn to this book.In fact I had never even heard of the book prior to the reading.It just happened to be on the agenda for this particular Soirée. How did I come to be at the Centre of the book? Well since my protracted return from the writing wilderness, something I wrote about in my very first blog, I had started attending these Soiree’s. All in a concerted effort to surround myself with fellow writers as well as convince myself I was one of them. Ironically,as I was soon to discover it is during these soirées that I always find myself feeling less of a writer than I usually do when I m punching away at my laptop. I always feel like an amateur.(Well in truth I am), like everybody else there is better than me. Paranoia teases me relentlessly. As a result I m usually preoccupied with this nagging suspicion that someone will eventually find me out, and call me out on my little charade. In the process bringing attention to the fact that I am the literary equivalent of a vagrant painting on the side of a wall with a piece of calcified excrement. But I digress.

Let me get back to this particular Soirée. I am clearly no book reviewer or critic , no do wish to be one. There is a purpose in me sharing my literary excursions to the Centre of the Book. On this particularly day I was particularly moved by the author. His story struck a chord on a very intimate and personal level . The reading of excerpts from the book and the subsequent discussions that followed had stirred emotions that had been idle for a long time. Most significant if which was when the author detailed the effect that the process of writing the story had had.

My Father, My Monster is a story about how his mother was murdered by his father when he was just five years old, apparently because she had charged his father for sexual assault and had tried to flee. How even though he was found guilty of the murder , he served a suspended sentence and only spent a few weeks in jail.The author discusses how he dealt with the trauma. He initially entertains thoughts of revenge, allowing himself to get lost in fantasies about killing his father. He keeps a brightly polished gun, nursing his anger for the day he meets his father. When he does confront his father as an adult about his mother’s brutal death. He is in for a shock. He finds himself dealing with the worst predicament a son can ever have. How can he possibly forgive, when his father remains a remorseless, brutal and heartless murderer? During the Soirée he discusses how the lack of remorse affected him.”He would not say he was sorry”.“There was no closure.”His father refused to take responsibility.So instead he decided to write about it.The whole writing process ended up being cathartic and therapeutic and by his own admission was the catalyst in him subsequently healing and gaining closure.

The author emphasised that “Writing the book was not about wallowing in grief – it was about confronting my pain, it was about putting my pain into chapters.” Polela went on to detail how the path to forgiveness was not an easy one. In fact it was riddled with land mines. How he procrastinated a reconciliation and confrontation with his father for years. He wasn’t ready to forgive his father. Scared to test his forgiveness. In his mind he still handed reached that place were he could summon grace. For forgiveness must come with a costly grace. He felt his father had no entitlement to that grace. I knew this story.I had lived my own variation of this. In that moment I realised I had unwittingly walked into an emotional ambush.I would have to confront my own demons.

The story brought up certain issues for me that at different stages I have tried to camouflage in the bushes of normality. As I attempted to detail at the start , I had my own flirtation with death, a fling that was to change the course of my life forever.To quote Kanye West in his break out single Through the wire, ” Good dude, Bad night, Right place, Wrong time In the blink of an eye his whole life changed “. The scars I carry from that encounter both physical and emotional have been indelible.

I have since long recovered from the physical injury and for close to a year after underwent counselling to help me deal with the emotional trauma. I was fortunate that all this happened in a environment that was very supportive , from my family and friends to the counsellor. One thing thing though that I have constantly struggled with has been the fact that the morons who stabbed me where never brought to justice. That they were out there oblivious of the severity of the injuries that they inflicted on me.They have no way of knowing whether I survived or not. They have not been made accountable for their actions.The hardest thing during this whole post stabbing period has been summoning the grace to completely forgive and let go. This is compounded by what my counsellor referred to as “Survivor’s guilt”. Which basically for me was about this.

That had the ambulance been 10 minutes late, I would have bled to death.That though I have lost the use of a vein in my leg I am fortunate that they only scratched an artery , any further damage would have been fatal. That I lost so much blood , I needed eighteen satchets of blood ( 500ml each) , during a 5 hour long surgery.That I had to spend a week in intensive care on life support and a further month in hospital immobile and bedridden . Unable to eat,relieve myself ,walk. But I recovered fully and eventually the garish hole in my inner thigh, which had started out the size of a tennis ball eventually morphed into a beautiful scar . A permanent tattoo that always serves as a reminder if only to myself of my brief dalliance with that bastard death. In essence that given that I overcame all these obstacles it seems petty & maybe ungrateful to hold on to that. The guilt had its foundation in that despite all that I couldn’t summon the grace to forgive them. Though it is something I have never shared openly that I often entertained thoughts of revenge.A process that in manifested itself in self loathing because deep down I knew I was incapable of going through with any act of revenge.

This for me is where My Father , My Monster drew parallels with my own experience. Clearly no life was lost in my case but the resulting trauma was just as real. During the Soirée , the author detailed the injustice he felt at his fathers sentence. How that threatened to derail humans put his life of course.What was more important though is that he managed to turn his life around. He turned his tragedy into triumph. He is currently the national spokesman of the Hawks , a special branch of the South African security forces as well as a best selling author.

This is the hardest thing I think I have written. In fact I feel like I have only begun to scratch the surface in laying to rest some of the demons that I still wrestle with. That attack which in all reality lasted not more than 5 minutes has had everlasting impact on my life. It was a life changing experience. One that brings with it a story with many different trajectories , most of which are still playing themselves out. So in that regard I m grateful that I was at that reading . Because it sparked something in me. Writing this as difficult and lonely an experience as it been has been therapeutic and cathartic. Who knows maybe one day I will write my own book. In the meantime let me ensure that my story is one worth telling.

“Forgiveness has nothing to do with absolving a criminal of his crime. It has everything to do with relieving oneself of the burden of being a victim—letting go of the pain and transforming oneself from victim to survivor.”

Written by Tafadzwa Tichawangana


Posted by on March 11, 2012 in HIS-story


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