It all started so innocently. Just another brilliant autumn day, not too hot, not too cold, and I was spending the day with my family. We were in Oudtshoorn for the week, where I had a few shows at the KKNK. We were going to watch a play, then hang around the flea market, maybe grab some lunch before the evening’s concert.
It bothered me when I read the I Ching that morning, and received a puzzling admonition: “Horse and wagon part. Bloody tears flow.” I decided to drive carefully. But I soon forgot about the warning.
Just before we entered the foyer of the theatre, I received a phone call on my cell. It was a friend in the publishing industry, asking my permission to name a book by a young author after one of my songs. The book was to be called “Johnny is nie dood nie”. I gave my permission, and explained that there are no copyright on titles anyway.
The play was magnificent. It was called Hoedens, and it was mostly mime and acrobatics with quite a subtle story-line. Performed by Dutch actors, the production had a charming simplicity that even my children understood and enjoyed, though there were deeper levels and symbolism to think about. It spoke of death, bereavement, heartbreak, loss and artistic integrity. Halfway through the play, one of the actors hurt his arm during an acrobatic feat but he managed to stem the flow of blood with a rag and continued performing right to the end as if nothing had happened.
We walked out into the beautiful sunlight and got into our sponsored Kombi. The faces of my wife and ten-year-old son were tear-stained. The play had deeply moved them both. Even my daughter (8), normally the epitome of cynicism, was unusually quiet.
I drove away, slower than usual, allowing the pleasant mellowness of the late morning to saturate me. As far as arts festivals went, this one had, up to then, been one of the best ever. Though Oudtshoorn was not as crowded as usual, attendance figures of productions were high. My own production — the musical cabaret called Brooklyn Babalaas with Jak de Priester and his band — had attracted full auditoriums, a rave review and several mentions in the festival newspaper. It was one of the most enjoyable productions I had ever been involved in. I was thinking of this and of other things, crossing a green light to turn right into Voortrekker Road, when the truck hit us at full speed.
Both my wife and I were killed instantly. In fact, we never knew what hit us. My children were mangled and injured almost out of recognition. They survived the impact but would be confined to wheelchairs for the rest of their lives, stitched up and broken and traumatised and orphaned within the space of a split second. The Kombi was dragged along for more than a block, leaving a trail of blood on the tar, before the lorry managed to stop.
The next day, newspaper headlines screamed out the news. “AFRIKAANS SINGER KILLED IN HEAD-ON COLLISION.” There were pictures of the wreckage. RSG played Lisa se Klavier all day.
Reverse back.
I was crossing the green light to turn right into Voortrekker Road … when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a truck hurtling towards us at full speed.
I sprang on the brakes, bringing the Kombi to a sudden halt, throwing my kids off their seats and my wife against the dash-board. There were screams as, the next second, the truck flashed past, missing us and several other vehicles by a hair’s breadth.
Suddenly, everything was very quiet. Then, I fell on the hooter and let rip with a heart-rending blast. There was a police vehicle right behind the lorry. They had stopped at the red light, they were right behind the truck, they were witnesses. I opened my window and screamed at them. “Get that driver’s licence plate! Go arrest him!”
The police stared at me blankly. And did nothing.
Slowly, my fury dissipated and turned into shock. My heart was thumping in my chest. What simple twist of fate had caused me to glance towards the side at the precise moment as the lorry was approaching the red light? I was supposed to watch the oncoming traffic, not cars coming from the right or left. The dice could have fallen either way.
I looked at my wife. “We were supposed to die today,” I mumbled “and then, suddenly, we didn’t”.
“I know.” Her face was expressionless.
As I drove away, my hands still shaking on the wheel, I remembered what the I Ching had said that morning. “Horse and wagon part. Bloody tears flow.”
I decided to forgive everyone I hated. And to spend the rest of my days on this planet drinking only the best wines, eating out at only the finest restaurants and never to blame Graeme Smith for the state of our cricket ever again.
Life is too short for crap like that.
Author
A prince with dignity and determination
Prince Ngarambe’s goals are to become Rwanda’s first transgender model and to uplift the country’s youth
The EFF’s principles are unshakeable
Unlike the ANC, the core values of the freedom fighters do not change with each leader it elects
