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In the dark days of apartheid a young schoolboy joins the South African Police Force. It is a time when brutality is commonplace and men don’t cry.
Over a period of fifteen years Johan Marais is exposed to extreme violence as he is transferred to Koevoet and later becomes a member of the East Rand Riot Unit. Living with bloodshed and hostility on a daily basis, Marais develops a serious drinking problem. Not realising that he suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder, he spirals down into a world of corruption and decadence.
Time Bomb looks at the other side of South Africa’s political history and tells it from the perspective of an ordinary policeman.
About the author:
Johan Marais joined the South African Police Force when he was an innocent farm boy of 16 years old. His career in the police spanned more than 15 years – an era which saw the worst of apartheid’s repression and violence. As a member of Koevoet in the seventies and the East Rand Riot Unit in the eighties, he witnessed first-hand what many only whispered about. He quit the Police Force in the early nineties to start his own scrap business but he soon began to suffer from symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder. He nearly committed suicide before seeking professional help.
CONTENTS
| 1 | A bar fight |
| 2 | A child in a grown-up world |
| 3 | Farm life |
| 4 | If truth be told |
| 5 | Koevoet |
| 6 | All in a day’s work |
| 7 | Running riot |
| 8 | The rough and the smooth |
| 9 | Too little too late |
| 10 | Dog-eat-dog |
| 11 | Pretoria’s pleasure palaces |
| 12 | Tick, tick tick … |
| 13 | The pen is mightier than the sword |
Postscript
I was not in safety, neither had I rest, neither was I quiet; yet trouble came.
Job 3:26
In performing their duties, many policemen are competely destroyed as human beings. Writing this book is an attempt to make sense of my own life, but it is also for my colleagues, and for their wives, children and families.
1
A BAR FIGHT
Before I knew it, a mighty blow came from somewhere to my left and struck me on the jaw. I went down.
As I was lying on the ground, semi-conscious, someone kicked me in the face. I heard my nose crack and nearly lost consciousness again. From where I was lying, I watched a full-blown barfight develop, with everyone punching everyone else.
Here we go again, I thought. The same old bloody story.
It was a balmy Saturday evening and I’d been enjoying a cold beer (or six) in one of Nigel’s watering holes. We’d been watching a Currie Cup fixture on TV and everyone was in high spirits. In small pubs like this one, everyone knows everyone else and the entire community is familiar with one another’s disasters and achievements. I knew the place well. Nigel was my home town.
I couldn’t help noticing a woman with whom I’d been at odds on previous occasions and whom I avoided for that very reason. She kept looking in my direction, and I realised she was discussing me with her friend. It bothered me. After a few more beers I strolled over for a friendly greeting. She told me in no uncertain terms to fuck off and make sure that I kept my distance. I was happy to oblige. I did, however, mention the lady’s behaviour to the owner, who dismissed my complaint as unimportant, telling me to relax. “It’s just the way she is,” he said, “always looking for trouble.”
After a while I decided it was time to go. On my way out, the lady headed me off and launched into a tirade. I’d had enough by then. “If you want to behave like a man, I’ll treat you like a man,” I warned her. When she continued to swear at me, I snapped. I slapped her, sending her flying. She landed on her behind in a corner.
It was at that point that I was knocked flat. As I got to my feet, half dazed, I threw a punch at a sturdy young lad to my left. He went down, but his father, who’d been close at hand, stepped in and I joined his son on the floor.
There was a slight lull, which gave me the opportunity to ask who had kicked me in the face seconds before. When the fellow was pointed out to me, he began to curse vociferously. I aimed a blow at him but in my inebriated, punch-drunk state, I missed. He, on the other hand, found his mark.
Blood was pouring from my nose and mouth, spoiling my brand-new Pringle shirt. I realigned my nose and ascertained that, besides a broken tooth from the first blow and a sore lip, I was in reasonably good shape. At that point some blokes stepped in to restrain me, putting an end to the fight.
I drove home, knocked back a few painkillers and sank into a merciful sleep. The next morning I ached all over as I got into the shower. As the water poured over me, I had a moment of sanity. What had I been thinking the previous evening? I was fifty, after all. What was I trying to prove by carrying on like that?
I stood in the shower for a long time, trying to wash away the unsavoury events of the night before. Where had things gone wrong for me?
I remembered all the previous occasions before this last one. If there was trouble, I was there. I did not always go looking for it, but it always found me. I had no idea what had happened to my life, but I knew that I didn’t want to live like that any longer.
2
A CHILD IN A GROWN-UP WORLD
How did I get to this point? I had lost all sense of humanity and could no longer endure my own life. Where did this falling apart begin? If I had to think about it, it probably already started in childhood.
After all, I was hardly more than a child when I joined the police force at the age of sixteen. My brother Len[1] had left school that year and decided to give the police a go. I fell in step with him and, having completed standard nine, I left school as well.
Late in 1975 I joined the police force, working as a student constable at the Springs police station. The next year I was part of the January intake at the Police College in Pretoria. There I completed my police training, as well as my matric, studying legal subjects such as Criminal Law, Statute Law, Criminology and International Law.
During the first three months we were not allowed to walk anywhere. We had to move at the double, except when we were returning from the mess. We got no leave during this time either. At the end of three months, we were given our first weekend pass. After that, the pace slowed slightly and the training became more bearable. The discipline remained strict, however, and we jumped to attention at just
