By 1990, my father and Kirsten had returned to Mallorca. We'd had a great holiday together, but now it was time to head back to university. I was feeling vastly better after many sessions with Mariana Stuve, recovering from the crash I'd experienced the previous July in Mallorca. But once I returned to my studies, I could sense that something wasn't right. The same old thought patterns began to creep back in—warning signs I now recognised all too well.
Through therapy and reflection, one truth became painfully clear: my relationship with my mother had become unhealthy. She hadn't moved on with her life, hadn’t tried to meet anyone new, and still came on every holiday. Emotionally, she had never truly let go of my dad—and I had become her surrogate. I was her support system, her stand-in, and I knew it had to change. I needed a relationship that wasn’t built around my family—especially not around my mother.
I remember the phone call vividly. I rang my father and told him, “You have to help me get away from Mom. I need my own place. I’ve become a substitute for you, and it’s not good for me.” He was deeply upset and tried to talk me out of it. But to his credit, he eventually agreed and gave me a modest budget—probably around 1,000 Rand a month, if that—to find somewhere to live.
Telling my mother was one of the hardest conversations I’ve ever had. She burst into tears, begged me not to go, pleaded with me to reconsider. But I held firm. I knew I had to do this—for myself.
At a local estate agent, I stumbled upon a place that happened to fall within budget—and it came with a hell of a backstory. It was a small cottage on a five-acre property in Rivonia, owned by none other than Professor Harry Seftel, a celebrity radio doctor known to just about anyone in Johannesburg at the time.
What people didn’t know was the Seftel family history. Harry had once lived there in a mansion with his wife and children, including a schizophrenic son named Colin. Colin had, at some point, burned the family home to the ground. The mansion was never rebuilt. The ruins remained but a small bungalow was constructed in the top right corner of the property. Over the years, the family splintered. Harry and his wife divorced, and Colin was institutionalised at Sterkfontein, the largest state mental institution.
At some point, Colin came home and attempted to live with his mother in the new house, but it didn’t work. So they built him a separate two-room rondavel at the bottom of the garden, where he lived in isolation. Food was delivered once a week. He slept on the roof. There were stories of a naked man high as a kite appearing on Rivonia Road, and the sheer number of marijuana plants growing wild around his dwelling told its own story.
By the time I arrived, Colin had been re-institutionalised, and his mother had relocated to Natal. The property was available to rent. I moved in with Don Waller, a university mate also looking for a place. Our cottage sat in the top right corner of the estate, and the burnt-out shell of the old mansion still loomed in the middle. The rest of the property had once been landscaped gardens but was now totally overgrown. Even the driveway leading up from Rivonia road was now a dirt track.
Next door lived Graham Edkins, a friend of Niels from school. A kind man whose wife had left him and taken their kids to Australia. I threw a housewarming party and invited Graham and all my mates. My beloved dogs, Purdey and Wellington, stayed behind with my mother—she’d convinced me that losing the dogs as well would be too much for her.
Luckily, around that time, a big, beautiful stray Alsatian had appeared at the bottom of Pete Becker’s garden. I took him in and named him Oscar. He was a fantastic dog—and my new companion as I began my first independent chapter.
Around then, Niels had an idea: he wanted custom concrete tiles for the patio at his Rivonia house. He figured it would be cheaper to make them than buy them. He handed me a small budget and said, “Go for it.”
This was well before the internet, but somehow I figured it out, the practical skills I learned at Spargo coming in handy. I built fiberglass-reinforced polyurethane molds, erected a gantry in the ruins of Harry Seftel’s old mansion, and—with the help of a few Mozambican laborers I paid cash-in-hand—started manufacturing tiles. It was the beginning of something much bigger. That whole operation would eventually move down to Valentine Farm in Lydenburg, becoming a full-fledged business: Valentine Projects. Half of Mpumalanga is probably still paved in tiles made from those original molds. I started with six ceramic tiles, each about 40 by 40 centimetres, and those became the templates.
The first night I spent in that cottage, having broken away from my mother at last, I didn’t sleep a wink. Waves of anxiety crashed over me—tangible, physical waves. I took a hot bath. I went for a run. But this time, I wasn’t helpless. I’d met this anxiety before, and I knew I could endure it. I had tools: deep breathing, meditation. I used them. And gradually, I found my footing. I began a routine—commuting to Wits, exercising, cooking for myself. Don was barely around—he was obsessed with skydiving and spent most weekends jumping out of planes.
That was the start of my real independence.
There’s one incident from that period that still makes my stomach turn. Don came to me with a request: could he host a strip party for his skydiving friends at our place? I agreed. It seemed harmless enough at the time.
The night arrived. Thirty or so guys in their twenties, beers in hand. The stripper arrived, and one of her props was a whip. I’d seen a similar show before, so I knew what was coming—she’d choose a guy from the audience for the finale. She picked a German guy from the crowd, one of Don's skydiving buddies. I think she assumed, as many do, that under those circumstances most men wouldn’t be able to “perform.”
But he could. And did. They ended up having sex on the floor. She was clearly distressed. This wasn’t how it was meant to go. I tried to intervene—tried to stop it—but was physically held back by other guys. Afterwards, she was in tears. Her pimp came to pick her up. I kicked everyone out.
Before she left, she asked for her whip. No one would admit to having it. I’d seen Pete Becker’s school friend, Ashley Fulford, take it. I told him to return it. He denied it. Bruce, to his credit, backed me up: “If Peter says he saw you take the whip, you took the whip.” But Ashley held firm. Months later, Pete told me he’d been to Ashley’s farm—and there it was, mounted on the wall.
I was complicit. I’d agreed to host the party. But what happened went too far. I think it was rape. Not overt, not violent—but something she didn’t want. Something that spiraled beyond performance. I’m still deeply disturbed by it. Some men simply have no respect for women, and that night exposed more than I cared to see.
Another unforgettable moment came one evening while I was home alone, studying. The phone rang. It was Harry Seftel. His message was direct: Colin had escaped from Sterkfontein and was almost certainly on his way back to the house. Harry warned me that, finding his mother gone and a stranger living in “his” home, Colin might not respond well.
If anything sharpens your focus, it’s the idea of a schizophrenic arsonist heading toward your front door.
I drove straight to my mother’s place, opened the gun safe, and took out my pump-action shotgun—which I hadn’t yet moved to the Rivonia cottage. Then I drove back, armed and ready. But Colin never showed.
I never met Colin, but years later, I did meet his younger brother in Dullstroom. Apparently, Colin had once been incredibly intelligent but went off the rails after his first experience with marijuana. His brother told me a story: on a recent visit to Sterkfontein, they were walking together through the garden. Colin was calm, lucid, perfectly normal—until he spotted a weed that looked like marijuana. He dived on it and ate it.
I’ve never been a weed smoker. Alcohol was always my vice. But I know what I saw. For those who believe marijuana is completely harmless, I can only say: that hasn’t been my experience.
I have a story about my own encounter with strong marijuana in Sydney—many years later—but that’s for another chapter.