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Skollie – One Man’s Struggle to Survive by Telling Stories (Warning: explicit content)

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WARNING: This book contains explicit content and material that might upset sensitive readers. Strong language and descriptions of violence and rape.

*Catch the launch of Skollie at the Open Book Festival on the 7th September at the A4 Arts Foundation in Buitenkant Street.

About the book:

In 2016 South African film audiences were mesmerised by the film Noem My Skollie,  which was written by - and based on the life of - John W. Fredericks. In this book Fredericks tells the full story on which the film was based.

Excerpt published with permission from Penguin Random House South Africa.

The Belly of the Beast (excerpt from Chapter 10)

It was raining when we entered the reception area of the old Pollsmoor prison.

We handed in our valuables and were stripped of our civvies. Our clothes were stuffed into a canvas bag with our names attached and put into storage until our release. We were then body-searched, and the warder seemed to take great pleasure in shoving his gloved hand up our butts as if we were animals.

We were given prison clothes: short pants, navy-blue shirt, jersey and jacket. No underwear or shoes.

They gave each of us a ‘katkop’ (half a loaf of bread with a dollop of jam) and a monitor, a trusted prisoner with an ‘M’ badge attached to his shirt, escorted us across the yard to our section.

My pants were too big and I held them up with one hand while the other clutched the katkop. I had a bad cold, and I had to swipe my runny nose on the sleeve of my jacket.

Convicted prisoners hanging out the cell windows gave wolf whistles and a convict shouted at Gimba, ‘Hei, ronne hol!’ (Hey, round butt!) Another pointed at me. ‘Djy gan nog in my arms lê!’ (You’re going to lie in my arms!) I tried to control my trembling as I stepped between the puddles of water.

You’re a pretty boy. The 28s are going to hunt you to make you a concubine … and they control this cell.

As we passed a lone warder on guard duty, Gimba brushed against him and the warder smacked him viciously, dumping him into a puddle of water. ‘Fok daai kant toe, bandiet!’ the warder shouted. (Fuck that way, convict!)

Gimba scrambled up, still clutching his katkop. We moved on and the monitor murmured, ‘Daai’s Koegedam. Die bandiete het hom geryp op Kougadam se tronk …’ (That’s Koegedam. He was raped by convicts at Kougadam prison …)

The monitor handed us over to another warder, who unlocked the gate and took us to our section. The keys rattled as he unlocked the cell door. He shoved us into the cell and shouted, ‘Twee Krismis-hampers!’ (Two Christmas hampers!)

We entered and a voice shouted, ‘Staan op stimela!’ (Stand by the door!)

We waited there and my eyes scanned the scene in front of us. There were men playing dominoes, dice, and snakes and ladders, and others just staring at us.

In the corner, four convicts, their heads hooded with blankets, were sitting in a circle, deeply involved in a sabela conversation.

The four hooded convicts got up and walked towards us as I wiped my running nose again. I felt like a small kid again, a frightened kid at that.

A white-haired old convict with a towel slung around his neck approached us. He stopped in front of us and grinned, showing smoke-yellowed teeth. He tugged at a tobacco joint and blew smoke into my face and reckoned, ‘Djy lyk vaagweg bekend …’ (You look vaguely familiar …)

He looked at me for a long moment as if trying to remember where he had seen me before.

Then he focused on Gimba. ‘Djy’s ’n mooi laaitie. Die agge gan jou jag om jou ’n wyfie te maak … en hulle passellie hie. Die sesse hulle roof en plunder en hulle soek soldate wan hulle is maa min hie.’ (You’re a pretty boy. The 28s are going to hunt you to make you a concubine … and they control this cell. The 26s rob and plunder and they need soldiers because there’s only a few of them here.)

He whipped the towel from around his neck, exposing a ‘27’ prison gang tattoo with the words ‘The Kid Loves Blood’.

‘My naam is Timer,’ he said, ‘en ek vat bloed!’ (My name is Timer and I take blood!)

The four hooded convicts got up and walked towards us as I wiped my running nose again. I felt like a small kid again, a frightened kid at that.

They stopped in front of us, and I looked at the one who was clearly the leader, a slim, dark-skinned dude with a ‘28’ tattooed across his throat. He had purple gums and a lone tooth stood guard at the side of his mouth. ‘Wie’s julle vi’dag!?’ he barked at me. (Who are you today!?)

I trembled. ‘Os issie Young Ones …’ (We are the Young Ones …)

He hit me viciously in the face and tears sprung into my eyes as he screamed at me, ‘Die Young Ones beteken fokkol hie nie!’ (The Young Ones mean fuck-all here!)

He came at me again and I stood my ground, locking eyes with him, and he stopped. ‘Soe … djy’s sterk gevriet? Os sal sien vanand!’ (So … you’re a tough guy? We will see about that tonight!)

WATCH: Noem my Skollie trailer

One of the 26 gang members, named Ghost, pointed to Gimba and addressed Gums. ‘Die een is Mr C se laaitie, soe hy’s onner osse protection.’ (This one is Mr C’s kid, so he’s under our protection.)

Gums’s eyes lit up at the revelation. ‘Mr C se laaitie? Daai vark het my swak gemaak op Barberton se tronk!’ (Mr C’s kid? That pig made me weak at Barberton prison!)
‘Os kan altyd die ding stryt maak, Gums,’ said Ghost. (We can always sort it out.)

‘Stryt maak?’ Gums replied. ‘Hoe gan djy dit stryt maak, roebana? Djy het dan fokkol nie! Tong en lip beteken niks; bewysstuk, daai’s die nobangela!’ (Sort it out? How are you going to sort it out, robber? You’ve got fuck-all! Talk is cheap; demonstrating, that’s the thing!) More 28 members gathered around, and Ghost and his fellow 26 brother, Sampie, backed down.

The cell was a long room with beds on both sides, each made up of a straw mat and three blankets, folded into a bundle. In the middle was another row of mats and Timer pointed us there.

‘Julle slaap oppie eiland,’ he said. (You sleep on the island.)

We found an open space on the island and sat down. Gimba gobbled up his katkop. I felt ill and had no appetite so I hung onto mine. Minutes later a lackey arrived and told us, ‘Gums roep julle … julle biete gou kom voo julle op julle moer kry!’ (Gums is calling you … you better come quickly before you get fucked up!)

I remembered my cousin Lenny’s advice that I should never take anything from another convict and that I didn’t have to join the number.

‘Ko os gan hoo wat hy wil hê …?’ Gimba said. (Let’s go find out what he wants …?)

I was going nowhere. ‘Gan djy!’ (You go!)

Gimba got up and walked towards Gums’s ‘ranch’. I followed, still holding onto my katkop.

The 28 gang hierarchy in the cell was gathered at Gums’s huge double bed made from a stack of mats and blankets. An evil-looking convict with ‘Call Me Dog’ tattooed across his forehead leered at us. The lackey was busy making an ‘andalabak’, a cake made with crumbed bread, sugar and a dollop of jam mixed together in a flat tin that he held over a ‘vet lampie’ (fat lamp) to warm it.

Gums indicated to us to have a seat. ‘Sit daa …’ (Sit there …)

I sat down as Gums tugged on a thick dagga zol. He blew smoke into my face and offered me the zol. I refused the offering. ‘Nie dankie, ek roekie dagga nie.’ (No thank you, I don’t smoke dagga.) The Dog chuckled hoarsely while Gums fumed and offered the zol to Gimba, who accepted eagerly. Gimba tugged at the joint and held his breath, savouring the hit and trying to impress.

I waited for Gimba to return to his bed, but I heard a couple of thuds and Gimba pleading

Gums cut off a piece of cake and offered it to me. ‘Iet ’n stukkie koek.’ (Eat a piece of cake.)

I remembered my cousin Lenny’s advice that I should never take anything from another convict and that I didn’t have to join the number. I showed Gums my katkop. ‘Nei … ek is olraait, ek het nog my katkop.’ (No … I’m alright, I’ve still got my bread.)

The Dog found it funny and chuckled again. Gums bit angrily into the piece of cake with his one molar and offered it to Gimba. I looked at Gimba and admonished him with my eyes, but he ignored me and ate the cake.

Suddenly Gums shoved a small amount of tobacco into Gimba’s shirt pocket, took his hand and read his palm. ‘Relax … djy gan nog ’n lang future het same Gums.’ (Relax … you’re going to have a long future with Gums.) Gimba’s eyes flashed at me as the reality of his situation hit home.

Gums turned his attention to me. ‘Soe djy’s ’n clever? Die clevers is byte, die moegoes is binne! Djy slaap hie vanaand!’ (So you’re a clever? The clevers are outside, the stupids are inside! You sleep here tonight!)

I let him hang for a few moments as his crew waited for my response. ‘Ek dowel mossie vi daai club nie …’ (I don’t play for that club …)

Gums exploded and beat and kicked me in a frenzy of fury, screaming, ‘Jou fokken tief!’ (You fucking bitch!)

I scampered away as Gums turned on Gimba. ‘Djy, Elvis! Druk ’n number!’ (You, Elvis! Sing a song!)

I lay on my bed and listened to Gimba singing in a falsetto. The bell rang for lights-out and Gums shouted, ‘Toe mettie kop en oep mettie hol!’ (Close your heads and open your bums!)

I waited for Gimba to return to his bed, but I heard a couple of thuds and Gimba pleading. Soon his pleading turned to moaning and I knew that he was not returning to bed.

Interested in reading more from the book? Purchase a copy of Skollie from Raru.co.za



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