Early March 1991, Terry and I had recently returned from our pre-honeymoon in Europe and were back in Johannesburg, ready to get down to the important task of finding a house. As I’ve mentioned before, the first thing my dad said when I told him I’d asked Terry to marry me—or, correction, she’d asked me, or we’d agreed mutually to marry each other (let’s put it that way)—was: “I’ll buy you a house.” He was absolutely over the moon that I’d finally found a girlfriend—and not just any girlfriend, but one he firmly believed was marriage material.
At this point, my dad was 71 years old. He had high blood pressure but exercised daily and was in relatively good health. What was really troubling him was macular degeneration. It was pretty much untreatable at that time, and his eyesight was deteriorating fast. In hindsight, I think he was just so relieved and happy to see me settled and in love. He was all too eager to set us up.
So, between him and Terry’s mom, Mary, the wedding planning began in earnest. Terry and I, meanwhile, started house-hunting. Dad had given us a budget, and we eventually found a delightful little place at Number 10 Sneeubloem Street in Jukskei Park. Jukskei was a newer suburb of Johannesburg, out near Fourways, and the house was a gem. It was thatched, had a pool out back, and sat on a quarter-acre with a charming little garden.
We began moving furniture in—not that I had much to move from Rivonia, and some of my things were still at my mother’s house. But we started furnishing it together. The purchase price was R180,000.
At that stage, Terry and I were living at her parents’ place. I was sharing a room with her brother Paddy, while Terry was back in her childhood room with Bernie. We didn’t move into our house until after the wedding. Needless to say, premarital sex under Malachy’s roof was strictly forbidden, so KAJ saw a good deal of renewed action.
Eventually, the big day arrived, April 6th 1991. It was to be a full Catholic nuptial Mass at St. Charles Catholic Church in Linden—nicknamed the Lemon Squeezer because, well, it looks exactly like one. The celebrant was Father Fidgeon, an Irish Catholic priest and close friend of Mary’s. She went to him and asked, “Please, can Peter take Mass? He’s Anglican, confirmed, and goes to church.” His response, in a thick Irish accent, was: “When he becomes a Catholic, he can take Mass. But until that time, no.”
I was nervous as hell that morning. I remember sitting in the front row, sweating like mad, fiddling with the rings. At one point, I slipped one on my finger and then couldn’t get it off. I had to pull out some lip ice from my pocket and lube it up to slide it off again.
And then it was time. The music started, and Terry came down the aisle on Malachy’s arm who was grinning from ear to ear. She looked absolutely stunning. We were married in front of a large group of family and friends, and afterwards everyone headed to the Johannesburg Country Club. It was one hell of a party. I still remember our first dance song: Phil Collins’ “A Groovy Kind of Love.” I suck at dancing but I was so in love I didn't care.
After the festivities, everyone sent us off on honeymoon with the usual bells and whistles, shaving cream messages on the car, the whole bit. We spent the wedding night at the Hertford Inn, a boutique hotel near Lanseria Airport. The next morning, we flew in KAJ to Benguerra Island, a Mozambican island about 600 km up the coast from Maputo. By this time—just two years after my chaotic trip to Inyaca—things had developed. Lodges were popping up on Inyaca, Margaruque, and Benguerra.
Both our families came to the airport to see us off. It was the last time I would ever see my beloved father. I remember him clearly: powder blue polo shirt, very dark glasses to protect his very sensitive eyes.
The honeymoon lasted just a week, but it was glorious. One day we were out on a boat and I hooked something on the troll. While I was fighting it, the other lines dropped to the bottom—and we ended up landing a massive grouper. Another time, we were walking on a deserted beach and came across two manatees mating in the shallow water. There was a lot of that going around.
The only downside was I came down with a nasty bout of food poisoning right before we had to fly back to Johannesburg via Maputo. I managed the trip okay, but Lanseria wasn’t often used as a customs airport back then and I completely forgot to clear customs and immigration. It dawned on me three months later—but thankfully, things were still analog back then and authorities never picked up on it.
Looking back, it was a magical time. I mean, who gets to marry the love of their life, have a house bought for them, continue their studies with a healthy allowance, and have access to their own private plane? It was crazy how privileged I was and I knew it.
And the craziest thing of all was that so soon before, I’d been in mental freefall—putting myself through self-inflicted torment. Maybe its wrong to call mental illness self inflicted but it sure feels like that when you're experiencing it. The summer collapse in Mallorca had only been 18 months before. But at that moment in 1991, I truly believed I’d conquered my mental health issues. I’d done it, I thought—through discipline, exercise, meditation, and a commitment to accessing the spiritual side of myself. No meds. I had told Terry everything about Mallorca—how dire it had been—and she married me knowing it all.
I started married life thinking I’d left the darkness behind for good.
Well… that would prove not to be the case.
But there was a lot of happiness ahead before that old boogeyman came back to bite but when it did it would bite hard.
A small addendum, on my birthday that year, March the 16th less that a month before my birthday Terry wrote me a beautiful letter which I still have. I still have deep emotional reaction to those words even after 34 years.
16 March 1991
To My Love
The last of your bachelor days are about to be rounded off and this is your last birthday as a single man, but your days of
love & togetherness, of family & me are about to begin, and every birthday will be filled with more joy than the last.
You have made me grow to such an extent, that at times I will find myself saying something that the previous day I never would have uttered. You are opening up inside me, slowly but surely, a great capacity to love, that I so easily could have filled in with cynicism and “wisdom”.
You make me so proud, I hold my head up high when I walk beside you and deep down I’m sure that everyone knows that
I am the luckiest person as they know.
I cherish the moments I spend making love to you (well, hours), the times we laugh together, and the times we plan our future together.
I know I’m not perfect & I haven’t got enough paper to write down why I might not be the best wife for you, so I won’t, but I love you & will do my best, to be that not for one moment will you regret marrying me.
I stand bathed in happiness because you exist, because of who you are and because of what has made you that way. Working side by side we will make the world look up & take notice, saying, “They’re really happy”, and we will be.
I love you
Your wife-to-be, Terry.