Memories of a Hostage Drama back at the 'News

I don’t know what just reminded me of the hostage drama that I was a victim of while working for Independent Newspapers in 2007. 

Here goes:

I never knew that so many people cared about me. I didn’t know I had so many friends. My phone was ringing non-stop, I’m surprised my battery didn’t fail me, as if it knew what was going on.

It seemed like a prank at first when someone shouted that there was a man holding a gun in the building. “We are used to this”, I thought, “people come in here all the time and tune us shit”, and I continued with my work.

The noise gained momentum and there was commotion in the office but as I looked at my colleague who was a lot calmer.  I convinced myself that this was going to end in no time. There was a gunman in our building, the Pretoria news on Vermeulen street, Pretoria CBD! He was holding the lady from the Advertising Unit – on the first floor – hostage. I was on the second floor, in Editorial, just a few steps from where all the hard- core drama unfolded.

Someone called the police. I heard the sirens. Everyone was on their cellphones. Then we lined up on the window to see what was happening down there. The crowds on the streets were increasing. They were gesturing up at us. Then I started to get really scared. I wanted to call my mom but I stopped myself because I didn’t want to worry her.

I shortly changed my mind. I called. My little sister answered, and my eyes just filled with tears. My voice trembled. She didn’t say much but I could hear that she was taking me seriously and she feared for me. Time seemed to pass by so slowly, more and more police vans came through. The gunman was still in our building. We heard a loud bang.

Then he fired a shot. “That is a gun. He definitely fired,” a male colleague said. He firstly shot at the ceiling; then he shot a policeman on the leg.

Drama! We were all petrified but still one guy managed to ask “How’s the cricket score going”. You see, a journalist must never leave his/her sense of humour behind.) Australia was playing against South Africa.

Radios stations started calling in. ,Phones rang off the hook. The fear grew bigger and stronger. I thought “God I don’t want to die like this”. The gunman released a pregnant woman, then the second two followed, then the rest.

A policeman came to our floor and said we could also evacuate the building. Damn finally, I grabbed everything on my desk and ran. Flip, my keys fell. Something told me to forget them and run for my life, then I wondered how I would get into my flat. I ran back, grabbed them and followed the rest of the staffers down the stairs.

Outside, on-lookers were all over the place. It felt like in the movies. People were crying. I just wanted to go home and forget about it all.

This man was apparently angry about the crime.  It seemed he had been a victim of crime numerous times and he was just fed up. Apparently he said that he came to our offices knowing that we would listen. He said he wanted to make us feel how it felt like to be a victim of crime, as if crime is the fault of the media. We simply report of the matter. We are not responsible for it. We are as concerned as him. He asked what the Government would do if he cracked.

We were all out, but the man was still roaming around in the building. As I left, I kept on looking back, just in case a bomb exploded. I felt relieve overwhelm me. I could not believe I was walking away from all of it.

I was scared to go to my flat, afraid of being by myself, incase the whole drama re-played itself in my head. So I went to a reliable music warehouse store, I wanted an Enya CD to calm my nerves. They didn’t have it. I didn’t want to leave the store without any CD, so I bought the Skwatta Kamp’s latest offering at the time.

Then I got home. My phone ringing off the hook. One call after the other. The news made headlines. Every station was talking about us.

The following morning, a day after the ordeal, as I was looking out the window, everything was back to normal. It was business as usual. No one would really believe that that was the place that was crowded with police vans and people the previous day. All was just well. Indeed, Life goes on!  

  

Sin Sushi & Survival

A memoir by Erla-Mari Deidericks

If Sin, sushi and survival was a film, the age restriction would definitely be  18 years and above. I feel that even the book should have a little notice somewhere on the bottom -corner of the cover, just to warn sensitive readers: vulgar language, nudity, sex, more sex, violence and suicide by a gun – in no specific order.

If you can read past all that…  

This lady’s true-life story will either inspire, owe or make you feel better about your own life’s mess.

Erla-Mari Deidericks finally finds the guts to leave her husband after years of abuse.  She has to find a place for her son and herself to stay.

Dating again after years of marriage can’s be easy – she tries internet dating, which makes her end up with the most interesting and dodgy characters.

As if her life is not-so-kosher enough, her best friend, make that her only friend, dies. She shoots herself. I’m not sure if I should mention that she was lesbian.

A journalist by profession, Erla-Mari is not new to the written word, and it shows in her writing. She has it all right, the flow, pace and structure.  She brings her unique voice and style to the party. Her unique voice and style come through. She knows when to make you read faster and when to relax, -- vividly “seeing” all the details and graphics.

Most female readers will definitely relate and identify with the writer, who just likes most of us, is not perfect, but tries to make perfect sense of her own confusion by starting over.

She survived.

Bottom line? Life goes on. And all that matters is what you make of it.

This memoir will make for a great film, I reckon.  The pages turn as Erla-Mari she “cuts” from scene to scene – I don’t know if that’s a good thing for a novel though.

A definite must read.

 Adults only. 

Inspire someone. Tell your real story, in your own language.

Refilwe Thobega asks Who are you?

ka Setswana ba re O mang?

My grandfather was born in 24 January 1919, five months after Nelson mandela's birthday: July 1918. He, my oupa, was a Chief at a small farm-village in die Noord Kaap -- Kikahela. He was recently hit by a stroke. He lives. His half-sister, Oumama Rabeka, is the current Kgosana.

Abraham Mochware had many children. About 12 or more, but less than 15. He had one wife, Mitjie Motshidisi Os. I am one of his grand-children (he also has dikokomana) -- I am the first daughter of Olaotse Virginia (Mochware) Thobega and Kagiso Alban Thobega.

My father’s father, Abel Thobega, just like my mother’s father was a moruti at his church (Anglican). My oupa was a mogogi at his church (London Missionary Society, later called UCCSA [United Congregational Church of Southern Africa]). I hear that Abel Thobega, was about to be given the chieftaincy by his forefathers (Boo rra Thobega ko Mmankgodi) when he decided to “rather” be a priest. So I hear he fled to a nearby village called Molepolole – a village I once stayed at, as well as Maung, Lobatse and Gaborone.

Owai! It was too late for monna mogolo... Royalty was already in his blood. You can’t run away from what you already are old man.

Mind you, these two men (both my oupatjies) were not friends. They did not even know each other, let alone, like each other. And one thing for sure, my mother’s marriage to my father was not initially blessed by either one of them. That’s why it made it difficult for us to leave Botswana (my father’s home) and come to South Africa (my mother’s home) in 1989. 

So my mother sent me to SA first. I stayed with my late aunty, Onkaetse Mochware (mother of Mpho Akinleye and Ontibetse Mochware). She is one of the strong black women who raised me at a time when my mother was mourning the murder and death of her husband, while at the same time fighting for her bed, sofas, fridge and TV.  So mmangwane Onkaetse became my mother for about 18 months. I was five or six years old. I was ready for preschool – a Roman Catholic pre-school at Batlharos Village (Kuruman). My sister, Botshelo Thobega, who was two-years-old at the time, remained in Botswana with my mother while she, with the help of her father, Abraham Mochware, fought for her belongings.

I think Abraham was more brave. My mother’s father. He took the throne. I think although he was too modest and a coward to accept what was rightfully his, my father’s father was powerful! His sperm created my father and my father’s sperm was one of the ingredients that led to my birth. One oupa was brave, another was powerful. Guess what I am: A cocktail. I’m cosmopolitan. I also love the taste of it! I make a killer cosmo.

My name is Refilwe Thobega, born in 25 December 1983. I have a long story ... so, I will cut it off here. Let’s wait for my memoir.

I know who I am and where I came from. I challenge you to do the same. Find yourself and tell us who you are. Connect the dots. I did.  Inspire someone, tell your story. In your own language!

"Being Afrikan" by Mandivamba Rukuni

Being Afrikan is a must read for all Africans and anybody who is proud of what and who they are. Back to roots. My take: the sun rises in Africa baby. We are such a loved nation.

I made myself a promise a long time ago – that I will be a fair critic – they are rare. I think people are so full of low-self esteem that they believe that giving true credit where and when it is due is a sign of weakness.

Not me.

Being Afrikan by Mandivamba Rukuni is the most inspiring, enlightening, educating piece of information I have ever read in a long time.

The blurb says: this “is a book that will change your view of what of what it is going to take for us to co-create the Afrika we want. It will take a higher level of consciousness in individual human beings to achieve transformation at family, community and national levels. This higher level of consciousness will take us beyond independence to the celebration of our interdependence as human beings. I am, because we are!”

The author is of African origin – a Zimbabwean who has lived all over the world. Google him. In his latest offering, he tells you what he has seen and heard all over the world. He acknowledges the uniqueness of different cultures, traditions, races, religions, practises, believes names, places and origins. His motto is: if you are an African, do not westernise, but, modernise. I am making this my mantra.

He encourages people, to stay true to who they are, irrespective of modern society expectations, all that jazz and drama that comes with every-day-living. At the end of the day, we all worship the same “higher-power” ­­-- whatever that means for you --  who cares? He specifically encourages children of the African soil to remain true to the dust, herbs and “powers” that saw their ancestors through turmoil.

I share the same worry as him, Europeans and others, come here and “expect” Africans to change into certain things that they are not. He advices “us” to borrow from the Indians (meditation), Chinese (technology), Europeans (English language) and others, only to better what we already are (soil; flora and fauna; African healing; uBuntu, and the list is endless). Let us not lose ourselves. Great Africans, among many others, such as: Credo Mutwa, Alemseged Tesfai, Barolong Sebon (he is one of my "forefathers" -- google him), Bessie Head and Nelson Mandela, have paved the way. Let’s follow.  

A much chopped-up version of this review is also published in The Citizen and http://www.facebook.com/thebluestockingreview on Facebook

In true Ubuntu-style, we give birth to our children. All of them. In true Afrikanism, there are no orphans. Vicky and David Beckham just had an extra child. Salute!

I've just read on Yahoo news that Victoria and her husband, David Beckham, have just welcomed their latest bundle of joy. A girl-child. I don't know, in total, how many children they have. Google it.

It read:
The couple's rep Jo Milloy tells Us Weekly the "happy and healthy" little girl weighed 7 lbs. 5 oz. "David and Victoria Beckham are delighted," Milloy said. "Brooklyn, Romeo and Cruz are excited to welcome their new baby sister to the family."

With a testosterone-filled household, it's no wonder why Beckham longed for baby girl. "When we first found out, we went for the scan and they said, 'Oh, it's a boy,'" David told Jimmy Kimmel in March. "I was like, 'Great,' and Victoria was like, 'Ugh. Another penis in the house.' She thinks there's too many in the house already. So then we went back for the next scan and they said, 'Oh, we think it's a girl.'"

I'm happy for them. A healthy child, in this day and age, is nothing but a pure blessing. 

Now this reminded me of what Gareth Cliff said recently when he found out that Lauren Hill recently gave birth to another child. He threw a fit on his breakfast show. He was disgusted. He insulted sis Lauren for popping out babies like they are going out of fashion. 

I am personally disgusted by the likes of bo Gareth, who know nothing about Afrikanism. Black people give birth to their children. All of them. You know why? In Afrikanism, in true Ubuntu-style, no child is an orphan. When one's parents die, aunts and relatives step in to raise orphans and to help widows and widowers. 

Where I come from, dogs and cats (animals) stay outside the house. Let them bite and play with each other out there. We adopt children by choice. Not because we want to save the world (as Angelina is doing, and I applaud her. She and Brad have big hearts. God bless them).

Now, bo Gareth Cliff came yesterday, from no where, he comes here and talks rubbish in the radio about a fellow sister. Shame on him! 

People like bo Gareth Cliff abuse their privileges and power. He has been blessed with a fancy job, to entertain, educate and inform. And what does he do? Annoys the likes of bo Refilwe by talking misinformed and uneducated nonsense on the radio!

Who made him judge? Ke mang ene?

So flabbergasted! No respect. Totally. 

Now, raise your glasses, will the real DJ please stand up. 

My name is Refilwe Thobega... 'till next time, stay tuned!

I know what I wanna do, but ...

What pains me is that I don’t need coaching. I know what I’m passionate about. I know what I’m supposed to be doing. I know what I want to do. I already know what I like and enjoy doing. I know what it is that I’d like to do every morning when I wake up. I know what it is, that thing, that I would not mind waking up at 4am for. I don’t need to do a test to know what my strong points are. I don’t need to do a survey via a link on some career coaching website to know what I’m good at. I already know. But still, I do nothing about it. 

 I know what tickles my fancy. I know the flavour of my favourite cup ‘o tea. I know what my cherry on top would be. I know the path I want to take. I know where I want to go. I know where the bus station is, how much the bus costs. But still, I stand motionless.

 I know what I would not mind doing all day long. And I know I would do it over and over and over again. In the morning, motshegare, le ka nako ya bosigo.  Tirelessly. Effortlessly. Passionately. But still, I sit. Nothing. 

I know what sets the fire in my belly alight. I know what’s music to my ears. I know what tune sets me in motion. I know what gets me in the mood.  I know what I’m looking for and where to get it. But still, I remain crippled, flat on my behind.

I know what inspires me. I know what I applaud. I know what turns me on. I know what makes me take my hat off. I know what I love and respect. But still, I don’t make my move. 

 What is it that keeps me apart, away, far away from my God-given calling? What prevents me from finding my north star?

Is it fear?

Of what? 

The unknown? Change? 

Is it stupidity? 

Laziness?

Am I stubborn?

Am I timid?

Why?

Need a great escapism? Just go with it

I’m not a greatest fan of comedy (except when it is stand-up comedy, gimme that any day). I’m the serious and analytical type. I love mystery and suspense. I’m a sucker for an intelligently woven story line. But, times are rough and tough and we all need a good laugh from time to time. Just go with it gives just that – a really good laugh.

If the cast is anything to go by, the movie stars the funny Adam Sandler and the American sweetheart, Jennifer Aniston and, of course, Nicole Kidman – who adds the much needed thrill to the whole mixture. You must be a fan of Adam to understand his humour.

On a weekend trip to Hawaii, a plastic surgeon (Sandler) convinces his loyal assistant (Aniston) to pose as his soon-to-be-divorced wife in order to cover up a careless lie he told to his much-younger girlfriend (Brooklyn Decker). And, this is putting it mildly. It is much more dramatic than that. The trip to Hawaii actually came as a result of blackmail. I won’t give away too much.

Just go with it starts in an almost not-so-great way, the pace and the events pick up as it just goes. I love and respect the fact that the funny story unfolds in unexpected ways. They keep throwing a bomb after a bomb and before you know it, there is an explosion. This is one good movie where I actually saw the beginning, the middle, the build-up, the climax and the end. A happy ending. Very well done.

I’ve never laughed so much from just one movie. For it’s genre, I give Just go with it a four out of five. It comes out on 18 March in Cinema Nouveau.