I Have Life

  Published by Penguin Books

  an imprint of Penguin Random House South Africa (Pty) Ltd

  Reg. No. 1953/000441/07

  The Estuaries No. 4, Oxbow Crescent, Century Avenue, Century City, 7441

  PO Box 1144, Cape Town, 8000, South Africa

  www.penguinbooks.co.za

  First published 2008

  This edition published in 2016

  Copyright © Alison Botha 1998

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owners.

  ISBN 978 1 77609 116 4 (print)

  ISBN 978 1 77609 120 1 (ePub)

  Contents

  Message from Alison

  Acknowledgements

  Foreword

  PART ONE

  1 Falling through a crack – Alison

  2 A waking nightmare – Alison

  3 A moment of choice – Alison

  4 A shocking find – Tiaan

  5 A roadside angel – Alison

  6 Miracle worker – Dr Angelov

  7 In the hands of God – Claire

  8 A father’s rage – Brian

  9 My beautiful friend – Kim

  10 Safe and almost sound – Alison

  11 The suspects – Melvin Humpel

  PART TWO

  12 Finding the threads – Alison

  13 Back on the horse – Alison

  14 Rumblings – Alison

  15 My day in court – Alison

  16 Inside Alison’s mind – Gillian Smale

  17 My tormentor becomes real – Alison

  18 Judgment day – Alison

  19 The wheels come off – Alison

  PART THREE

  20 Counting miracles – Alison

  21 Finding my prince – Alison

  22 Woman of my dreams – Tienie

  23 From victim to victor – Alison

  24 Surviving rape – Alison

  25 Tiring but inspiring – Alison

  PART FOUR

  26 Life continues… – Alison

  Message from Alison

  This book is for all those people who have felt like a victim at some time in their lives – a victim of circumstances, trauma or crime. I dedicate this book to you and urge you to believe in the strength that is within each one of us – the strength to choose to become victors.

  My heartfelt thanks:

  To so many wonderful people – my special friends and the many others, some of whom I know and many whom I don’t know – who have taken me and my loved ones into their hearts through what happened to me. The collective power of your love has had a profound impact on my life.

  To Tiaan – for saving my life. To Doctor Angelov – for repairing my life. To Melvin – for restoring my life. You are the true heroes.

  To Penguin Books and MTN – for believing in this project and making this book a reality.

  To Marianne – for your commitment to telling my story how I needed it told. For your time, thought and talent in writing this book so beautifully; and to Glynis – your support made it possible.

  To my family – to Mom, for teaching me to believe that there is greatness within me; to Dad – for your faith and pride in me, and to Neale and Ronwyn – for your love and your family.

  To Tienie – for your quiet strength, your unconditional love and your consistent support. Thank you for reminding and showing me that when we break through the clouds, the sun is always shining up there.

  To God – for carrying me when there was only one set of footprints.

  Acknowledgements

  ‘In many lives it is the beginnings that are most significant: the first steps, though seemingly effaced, leave their imprint on everything else that follows.’ So wrote American philosopher, writer, social commentator and architectural critic Lewis Mumford (1895-1990), one of my favourite authors.

  Alison’s beginnings start with her mother Claire, both literally and figuratively. When I first met Alison about three years ago I was struck by the close bond between them, so close in fact that it was one of the reasons Alison decided she did not want to die as she lay seriously injured in the bush after the rape and attack. It was love that urged her on, it was love that helped her survive.

  I wondered then how many other people who had found themselves in the same situation had loved someone enough, or were loved enough by someone, to do battle with death itself? Such is its power.

  I believe much of who Alison is today has to do with Claire, the manner in which she raised both her children and the unconditional love she gave them as they grew up.

  Their close bond reminded me of my own beginning and my mother Barbara Maria Thamm, who died on November 3, 1997. I too was blessed to have had a mother who would have fought a bull for me and who believed that I could accomplish anything I set my mind to. Because of her unwavering belief in me, I began to believe in myself. Every child who is privileged to have that sort of beginning will leave an imprint, no matter how small, on everything else that follows. I would like then to honour my mother’s memory in dedicating this book to her.

  I would also like to thank Alison for allowing me into her life and for being such an inspiration to myself and so many others. Ali, your strength and determination helped me through many nights while writing your remarkable story. Thank you also to Tienie for all your gentle support. Thank you to Jane Raphaely for giving me wings and for planting the seed in the first place. Thanks to the Ponton family for the use of their house where I escaped the bustle of Cape Town to write this book. And lastly, a deep thank you to my partner Glynis for her love, tolerance, support and understanding.

  Marianne Thamm

  Foreword

  IN A TIME and place where violence against women had become pandemic, one woman, still recovering from atrocious wounds to her soul and body, said ‘I will not let them take my life away’.

  It was as if I had been waiting for someone to say this. The young woman who did was called Alison. She was South African and until that moment had only been remarkable in that when in trouble, other people always reached out to her, a quality inherited from her mother who had instilled in her the need to ‘hold your head high’ under any circumstances.

  Alison’s warcry inspired Femina to institute a Woman of Courage Award and she became the first recipient. We sent Marianne Thamm to Port Elizabeth to interview her. She was one of the toughest journalists on our team and we knew that not only would she not flinch from a horrific story but that also she had the heart to gain the trust and confidence of someone who was in a shattered and still traumatic state.

  This was the beginning of a remarkable relationship between the magazine and a heroine who the whole country would take to its collective heart. The actual award had to take place on a Saturday morning and we anticipated a poor turnout from the rest of the press. They turned out in strength and when she spoke, even the most jaundiced of eyes filled with tears.

  Alison’s story reflected a triumphant spirit and an unquenched love of life. This set the tone for the journey that would follow as more and more people called on her to comfort and inspire them. She became the symbol of the survival of the human spirit in South Africa. The golden dove of peace which sculptor Stella Magni had given her as part of the award and which she wore everywhere she spoke sent its own message. Like Nelson Mandela, her most impressive attribute was a complete lack of bitterness.

  When Alison married Tienie in Knysna, Marianne and I were honoured to be asked and incredibly happy to be there. It was not just that she had found such a good man and that it was such a golden day. It was because when w
omen are violated in their innermost souls it stays with them, sometimes for ever. But on that day, as Alison’s remarkable mother said, it wasn’t as if it had never happened but it was as if it didn’t matter any longer. In fact the brutal attack and rape were hardly referred to.

  In the most vital sense Alison’s attackers had ceased to exist because she had risen far above them and gone past the darkness they represented.

  That meant that it was time for her to write her book. Despite everything, a book remains the most permanent and valuable testament a person can leave for future generations. Alison’s message must travel the world and go into the libraries of a new millennium. To find the words which will make it into a great book she needed a partner in the project.

  Who better than Marianne who had chronicled the first in-depth account and, finally, the story of her love and marriage?

  Together, Alison, Tienie and Marianne have produced a book which is a beacon and a beautiful read. The story it tells is unforgettable and the hope that it gives is invaluable. It celebrates a life which was reclaimed, which no one could take away. Alison has given us back our courage too.

  Jane Raphaely

  1

  ALISON

  Falling through a crack

  AS I TURNED Reginald, my troublesome but trusty little yellow Renault 5, into Deare Street in the early morning hours of Sunday, December 18, 1994 the world outside was as I had always known it. The soft silver light of a full moon brushed everything in its wake, tinting the leaves of tired suburban trees and casting a luminous glow on the few cars that swished past me. It was all quite beautiful.

  It was about 1 a.m. and the broad streets of Central were relatively quiet for such a balmy Port Elizabeth evening. The 24-hour, neon-lit café around the corner from my flat was still buzzing, as always, and the pulse of a heavy bass rhythm that pumped from a parked car trailed after me as I scanned the darkened street for parking.

  I was tired, but pleasantly so. The glorious afternoon spent on the beach with my friend Kim and her sons Devon and Jarryd had continued into the night when two mutual friends, Phil and Richard, had arrived unexpectedly at her flat. It had been one of those wonderfully spontaneous evenings and after sitting out on Kim’s balcony enjoying the glorious weather and chatting, we all decided, like some happy travelling road show, to return to my flat for a take-away pizza, a game of Balderdash and a bottle of good wine.

  I had promised Kim earlier that I would give her a lift home, which I did. Now as I turned back into Deare Street thinking of the cool shower I was about to take, I realised I had lost the convenient parking space I had found earlier almost right outside my front door.

  Parking was always a problem this time of night, or should I say, this early in the morning. Most of the people in the blocks of flats bordering my double-storey maisonette, one of six in the charming little complex I had grown to love so much, were probably already tucked up in bed. There isn’t that much to draw anyone out of doors at night in Port Elizabeth, which is why we had all chosen to stay at home and enjoy each other’s company.

  Up ahead I spotted a parking space under a massive old tree. It was about ten metres from my front door, but it would have to do. It wasn’t ideal; the pool of light from the street lamp a little way up didn’t quite reach there, I remember thinking, but there was no alternative so I backed Reginald into the spot.

  Then suddenly he was there. I had just turned off Reginald’s engine and flicked off the lights. It was so routine, I did it all in one swift movement. As I reached over to the passenger seat to gather up the pile of clean laundry I had just picked up at Kim’s, I felt a gush of warm air as the car door next to me was wrenched open.

  Like an apparition, conjured out of the darkness, a scrawny, tallish young man with light blond hair pushed his pinched face into the car. I immediately spotted the knife. It was a long, thin weapon, almost like a letter opener, with a tapering blade. It felt cold and spiny as he pressed it to my neck.

  When he spoke, his voice, which was quiet and controlled, sounded as though it emanated from a distant planet. But every word thudded into my skull.

  ‘Move over or I’ll kill you,’ he almost whispered.

  It was a strange, disjointed moment. Until then everything around me had felt so familiar, so predictable and ordinary. Each minute, each second, had merely tumbled into the next. I had taken it all so much for granted that a part of me couldn’t quite grasp what was going on.

  I shifted on to the passenger seat, clutching the fresh laundry to my chest. A hint of washing powder wafted up my nostrils. It was such a familiar and comforting aroma but it seemed so strangely out of place now. Things started to slow down. I could feel it happening, almost as if my brain was awash with some strange chemical that stalled or muted all outside stimulus. Everything felt uncomfortably unreal, as though I had fallen through a crack in time.

  A hollow sense of detachment separated me from this stranger, dressed in a T-shirt and tracksuit pants, as I watched him turn the ignition key. He looked so average, like any number of young men I had seen strolling along the streets and beaches of Port Elizabeth.

  And as he jerked my car out into the street I wondered if I would be able to jump out.

  ‘Do it, do it, do it’ a voice screamed inside my head. But I couldn’t take that chance. I felt strangely immobilised, aware that although this man appeared to be calm and looked so ordinary, there was a menacing edginess brimming below.

  He observed me out of the corner of his eye and I could see the knife. It was resting on the seat next to him near the driver’s door. We sped off towards the stop sign at the end of my road. While he drove he fumbled around the dashboard looking for the light switch.

  ‘Where do you put the lights on?’ he commanded.

  The switch was located on the right indicator and I knew he would not find it. I reached over and turned on the lights. He spoke again, his words bouncing off the interior of the car.

  ‘Don’t worry, I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to use your car for an hour,’ he said.

  I chose to believe him at that moment.

  This is so bizarre, I remember thinking, still not accepting the reality of it all. This doesn’t happen. This can’t be happening, I repeated to myself like a mantra.

  I convinced myself that soon I’d be safely back at home. I couldn’t wait to tell Kim what had happened. I really wasn’t able to compute the danger of the moment.

  ‘You live in Number One, don’t you?’ he volunteered quite matter of factly.

  So, he’d been watching me. I wondered for how long and how much he really knew. And why was it that I had not seen him? Was I just too absorbed in my own world, or had he hidden in the shadows out of sight?

  ‘What’s your name?’ the man asked me almost casually as he turned my car right into Pearson Street.

  I could not believe his audacity. Here he was abducting me, stealing my car and he wanted to make everyday chit-chat. He already knew where I lived and there was no way I was going to tell him anything more about myself.

  ‘Susan,’ I replied. ‘And yours?’

  He said his name was Clinton.

  I wanted to find out more about him. I thought perhaps that way I could play to his sense of fairness, his humanity, and somehow convince him to let me go.

  ‘Where are you from?’ I asked.

  ‘I’d rather not tell you anything about me,’ he snapped.

  I was startled at the sharpness of the reply, the cold edge to his words, but I dared not show him I was afraid.

  ‘So you live there alone,’ he picked up the conversation.

  ‘No, my boyfriend’s at home waiting for me,’ I lied, thinking this might encourage him to let me go.

  There was a short silence and I thought I would take the gap.

  ‘Why don’t you just let me get out and take the car?’ I asked him.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I want company. I have to find this friend of mine who stole m
y TV. And he owes me money.’

  I fought hard to control my thoughts. I’d never felt this helpless before. It was a feeling I didn’t like at all. The best way to deal with this, I told myself, was to remain totally calm and not make him angry. I would deal with each moment as it came.

  I pressed the bundle of washing to my chest. It was comforting to have my warm, soft, familiar things so close to me. Soon, I reassured myself, we’d find his friend and this would all be over.

  Just then he turned into the traffic circle in Pearson Street. This was still a part of town that was familiar to me. The streets are narrower than others in Central and there are a few quaint little antique and second-hand clothing shops that squat between ordinary businesses. In fact the area reminded me a little of London. Right then though, everything looked so eerie, almost hostile. There was not a soul around.

  Then suddenly, up ahead, I spotted it.

  A yellow police van was cruising slowly up the street. It was about 15 metres away, but for me it stood out like a beacon. The man sensed this too and my heart sank when he slowed down. I kept my eyes on the back of the vehicle, wishing and willing it to stop.

  Now, I thought to myself, jump out now, do something, hoot, lean over, push him.

  But just then the police van turned right into a side-street and was gone. My moment of hope vanished as the red tail-lights disappeared around the corner.

  There was a crushing, claustrophobic silence in the car. The police van had clearly rattled the man and he appeared to have grown a little irritated.

  I looked out of the window at the landscape outside. We were now in a part of Central that had changed completely during my three and a half year stay in London. It was so totally unrecognisable that I felt I had been transported to a foreign place.

  The lush gardens that edged on to the cobbled streets and the strange Victorian lamps that glowed quietly seemed like the backdrop to some turn of the century movie. Nothing moved outside and I felt the fear welling up inside me.

  Why is he taking me here? I asked myself.