At the beginning of 2006, I got a phone call from Shaun Patterson. Shaun had been one of the directors at CH Chemicals—my old boss, though we’d rarely dealt with each other day-to-day. I’d always liked him. He was from the UK, treated me fairly, and the feeling was mutual. By then, I’d long since left CH Chemicals, but Shaun knew my history—Fishy Pete’s, the first e-commerce site in South Africa—and he had an idea.
It was born from his love of pub trivia: he envisioned a service where you could send a text message and get back an intelligent answer, like a Google search. This was 2006, remember—pre-smartphone, pre-mobile broadband. His concept was simple: you’d text a five-digit short code (like the ones charities used for donations), and someone at the other end would research your question and reply as fast as possible. He called it Fundi (F-U-N-D-I, slang for “expert”) and had secured the number 38634 from Vodacom. Unfortunately Vodacom took 60% of the 10 rand per SMS—“complete freaking crooks,” as I put it. Shaun had the number and the concept, but no technical muscle. That’s why he called me.
I knew John Cartwright could build it. John was still living in his basement, driving my bakkie (which I was still paying for), but Shaun gave him a salary—10,000 rand a month—and suddenly, John could cover the bakkie payments. One less headache for me.
John moved into Moni Moni, a hilltop townhouse complex north of Lanseria Airport. Three kilometers of dirt road from the main road, gated, fenced, with a pool and views amazing views: Johannesburg sprawled to the South, the Magaliesberg mountains and the Cradle of Humankind to the North. The place had been built for a quarry’s managers, but the quarry went bust, and now it was open to the public. When I visited, I thought, “Damn. This is a nice place to live.”
Within weeks, John had the system running. I helped test it: text a question—“Who wrote the theme song for Paint Your Wagon?”—and 30 seconds later, boom, the answer arrived. Magic, for 2006. We launched with fanfare—I even did a Radio 702 interview—but at 10 rand per SMS, it was too expensive. Better phones were already offering basic browsers. The project folded. Shaun pulled funding. John, true to form, stopped paying rent and did nothing else.
By then, my marriage to Tish was unraveling.
There were two reasons. First, I’d always felt like a “hobby husband”—she’d never fully committed. Second, her behavior was getting stranger by the day.
Tish was heavily medicated, but some things defied explanation. One evening, she watched an Oprah segment on pedophiles. “They’re usually highly educated,” she said. “And they often own digital cameras.” I looked up from my laptop. “Okay…?” “You’re highly educated. And you have a digital camera.” “Are you accusing me of something?” “No! I’m just saying.” I thought, “What the hell is happening in that head of hers?”
Then came the remote control incident. I couldn't find itit. We spent 90 minutes tearing the house apart, nothing. A week later, our neighbour José handed it to me over the fence. “Found this in my garden, is it yours?” he said. I took it inside. “Tish, did you throw our remote into José’s yard?” “Yes.” “Why?” “You watch too much TV.” “You helped me look for it!” She shrugged.
That’s when I realised I couldn't do this for the rest of my life. I called Bruce. “Did she—or anyone—warn me how bad her condition was before we got married?” “I knew she was on meds,” I said. “But ‘Looney Tunes’ wasn’t in the fine print.” Bruce, a devout Catholic, didn’t miss a beat: “Then your vows don’t count.” I decided to leave her. If she had been financially dependent on me I wouldn't have been able to but she wasn't. She would fall straight back to her old life, hell she still owned the apartment in Sandton she was living in when we met.
A week later, during my weekend with the kids, I took them to lunch and broke the news: “This is going to suck, and I’m sorry, but I’m leaving Tish.” They didn’t look shocked and took the news in their stride. Thank God.
We went home. I started packing. Tish walked in midway. “What are you doing?” “Leaving.” “You can’t just—” “I can. And I am.”
The kids were troopers, but it was still awkward as hell and we got out of there as fast as possible. We drove to Moni Moni, where John lived. Tish had been there once for a braai, but her sense of direction was nonexistent, and I needed her nowhere near us. That first night, I borrowed an overhead projector from MPS, and we watched movies on the wall. John’s kid, Dylan, around Olie's age was also there. It was actually fun and I felt the best I had in a long time.
Then I had to tell Niels and Carey.
Pathetic as it sounds, his approval still mattered to me. I dreaded the call, but when I finally made it, they were expecting it. Turns out, at a wedding months earlier, they'd sat next to Pete Shaw, Tish’s ex. “The bloke didn’t hold back,” Niels said. “Told us she was certifiable. We’ve been waiting for something to break.”
I was relieved they understood?
One of the first things I did in my new home was settle John’s three months of unpaid rent with the landlord. Then we started cohabitating.
And just like that, the Lanseria days began.