Face to face in the dead of night, he shot my Dedda at point-blank range. The cold, dark, Pretoria air made way for the sound of a gunshot, and Dedda fell to the ground. I reached my father, and got the shock of my life. It was not the leaking hole in his chest, or the wailing fashion in which he called my name, but the fact that I realised that he was only human. This being, who had battered and beaten us, who had called us names and attempted to murder our minds, bodies, and spirits – this person, my Dedda, was but a man. A man who could bleed. A man who could possibly die . . . “Jenksy, I’m cold.” “Dedda, it’s okay, Dedda, I’ll get a…
