Bless me Father

Chapter 1

5 Chapter 1 After 25 years as an advertising copywriter, and a few days from my 57th birthday, I was about to attempt a change in career and embark on a journey that would forever alter my life, my thinking, and the way I saw Africa and the world. Three years earlier I had met Matt O’Brian, a conflict journalist with many years’ experience covering wars, coups and other dangerous situations in almost every country on earth. He is half Irish, just like I am. I met him by chance on Biggsy’s, the dining car carriage on the Cape Town – Simon’s Town rail route. On the evening trip home, drinking a few beers, my friends and I were discussing a short story I had just had published, a satirical piece about an episode I experienced during a 4 month stint with the South African Defence Force in Angola in early 1976. Matt, standing in our company, was listening in. I had never seen him on the train. Before I could say hello he introduced himself and enquired if I was a journalist. No, an advertising copywriter, frustrated poet and short story writer, I replied. He told me a little about his background, and within ten minutes of our meeting, asked if I would be interested in joining him on an assignment in Burundi. Matt didn’t waste any time. I liked that. I was vaguely aware of what was happening in Burundi at the time. Hutus slaughtering Tutsis. Or was it the other way round? Yes, I said, I’d love to go. He gave me his phone number and suggested I call him to 6 meet and talk about it. A few days later, over coffee, he told me more about conflict journalism, the countries he had been to, his experiences, and about his late partner and friend, Shaun, who had been killed in a car bomb explosion in Haifa, Israel. Matt was with Shaun when he died. Matt himself had been wounded, waking up two days later in hospital, suffering from amnesia. The story did not deter me. I was 52, and in advertising. I was also tired of advertising. In fact, I was hanging from the cliff-face of my career by my finger tips. Remind me not to cut my nails, I joked with friends. Matt had arranged two seats on a South African National Defence Force plane to Burundi. We were going to write stories about South African soldiers serving as peacekeepers with the United Nations, he told me. Since Christmas was around the corner, stories such as these would be warmly received, he guaranteed. Matt and I went to Home Affairs to sort out our passports and visas. I put in for 2 weeks’ leave. We were ready to rock, until, a few days before our departure, we were informed that we had lost our seats on the military transport plane, to two generals. Anything for a Christmas break, Matt said sarcastically. Matt and I stayed in contact for a while, but eventually lost touch. Three years later I was working with my son, Paul, on our little freelance set-up in Hout Street, Cape Town. Paul and I had worked together, on and off, for 10 years. In October 2004, after we had both been retrenched by the ad agency we worked for – where Paul was my creative director – we formed our own business. One day, in early February 2006, Paul said to me, ‘Sit down dad. I need to talk to you.’ He broke the news about his decision to immigrate to New Zealand with his wife and two daughters. He was extremely concerned about me and what I would do. I had known something like this was going to happen. Paul, like me, is very impetuous and can change direction at the 7 drop of a hat. I took his news with composure and assured him that I would be ok, not to worry, and that he should go for it. ‘Follow your heart,’ I added. I always did. Things happened quickly from there. A few weeks earlier I had met Mike Bernardo, a South African ex-world Kick Box champion. We had discussed the idea of me helping him put his life story together, but I had no idea where to begin, no idea how to structure a biography. I just knew that, if I...