by Tracy Going
As her heels break the silence of the cold floor and she moves closer to the box to share her knowledge and her expertise, I realise that she looks smaller. Although she is at least six feet tall, she’s not quite as imposing as I remember. I watch as she nods at the magistrate and then she glances around the courtroom, confident in her knowledge.
She won’t remember me from when I was fourteen years old but I will always remember her.
Today I am deeply, deeply saddened.
Today I feel as though the ground is shaking beneath me when I realise that this woman, who I have revered my entire life, who gave me insight, understanding and explanation, who gave me hope, is not on my side.
Today, she is an ‘expert witness’ for the defence, one whose testimony is accounted for by the hour.
Today, with authority, assurance and strength, she will tell the magistrate and everyone present that, despite his years of addiction and violence, the accused is a man deserving of his freedom. He is a man, in her opinion, who has shown remorse and can easily be rehabilitated. She is unwavering in her professional knowledge. She is an authority. She knows and she tells.
As I sit watching and listening, I remember how all those many years ago she gave me no promise that my father would ever change. In fact, she insisted that in all probability he would never be otherwise, that he’d never be anyone else besides the person he already was. Instead, she encouraged me to accept what was, to not focus on what would doubtless never be, to rather become the person I foresaw and live the life I dreamt of living.
But today she testifies differently. Today, in her brevity, she assures us that the accused is a changed man.
I cannot believe her.
Twenty-nine
It is Tuesday, 8 February 2000, and today I wear black. A black jacket, black trousers, black camisole and black high-heel shoes. It is not a colour recommended for broadcasting. I seldom wear it on camera because it absorbs the light and it reflects as dull and lifeless.
I draw my curtain aside to peer out at the developing day. It is 04:00. Pre-dawn, but already it is overcast, cloudy outside. The sky is dark and dense.
At the studio I present the breakfast show. Afterwards I meet my mother in the parking lot and we make our way through town to the magistrate’s court where I am to take my seat beside Sandra for the very last time. My friends Karen, Estie, Sue, Robyn, Katherine and Charlene are inside the courtroom waiting when my mother, Sheryl and I arrive. The remaining court benches are packed with radio and print journalists.
It is 09:00 when the magistrate enters.
Today we will hear him speak.
As he straightens his black gown and begins with his judgment I am still a little hopeful that I have underestimated and misread the outcome. I listen intently as he speaks.
“I find this matter to be an isolated incident through provocation …”
An isolated incident.
I feel the colour draining from my face.
I hear the collective gasp of incredulousness around me. It is not only me who cannot believe he has just said those words.
An isolated incident through provocation, even after the accused’s own psychologist testified, albeit fleetingly, in this courtroom that the accused had admitted to striking out at his previous girlfriend …
The magistrate talks of passion. He accuses me of exaggerating the details of when I was beaten up and says, given my size, my slightness, it would have been impossible for me to survive the incident I described.
I am horrified.
He accuses me of speaking to all and sundry in the media. He says I manipulated the media and used it to my advantage. As his words echo around the court, I think of how I tried to stop the photographs from being published. I think of how destructive some of those media reports were.
I think of how, in all those years, I was only ever quoted twice: once in an article in Fair Lady and then again in another magazine feature. Both articles were published long after he’d skipped the country. I had talked only of my fear, my frustration and my disappointment. Because the matter was sub judice, I made sure that the content of each piece was based on my testimony. I was determined that nothing should jeopardise the trial.
The magistrate concludes that my “revenge has been sweet” and, he says, reminds him of the old adage, “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned”.
I listen to him no more. It is over.
I look at my mother and she is crying silently.
It is a mother’s pain.
When he finally finishes and leaves the courtroom, I stand quietly. I hug Sandra. I thank her for all her hard work and commitment, all those mornings she was in her office, the dawn still damp with dew, preparing for my matter. I know her commitment and I appreciate it so. I am still standing alongside Sandra when the accused pushes past me. He slams his elbow into my arm. I look at him in horror.
He laughs in my face. It is a hard, brittle noise.
I am completely aghast.
I do nothing.
I leave the courtroom between my mother and Sheryl – there is no reason to stay – and, once I am outside in the corridor, I am approached by a radio journalist. He pushes a microphone in my direction and asks for comment. I have nothing profound to say.
“I am in shock.”
After all these years, I have only four small miserable words to say about the matter.
He thanks me for my comment, but he has a viewpoint he’d like to express and announces it with almost certainty.
“Money has changed hands in this court case,” he says. “It has to have!” He shakes his head, disbelievingly.
“Really, you think so?” I answer, but there is hollowness to my voice. “If it has, there’s not much we can do,” I continue. “But thank you.”
I appreciate the sentiment, and then I turn and walk away.
It is too late. It no longer matters.
Head down, I make my way down the corridor, up the stairs and over the concourse with my mother and Sheryl trailing behind me. It was so long ago that I first followed them both through the main entrance on Fox Street, up the grand stairway, past the marble columns and statues of justice, down into the intricate passageways leading to the courtrooms. Today they are behind me as we leave through the less impressive Marshall Street exit.
I walk ahead, alone, to be greeted by throngs, women’s groups and other activists. They are singing and their voices haunt the dying minutes of the gloomy morning. They are waving posters with pictures of women who have been badly injured or murdered by their intimate partners. The women are angry as they chant, they feel the sentence is too lenient. There will be more outrage by the media and other women’s organisations. And so there should be, a paltry fine and a one-year sentence suspended for five years are insulting to all women.
There are also cut-out cardboard T-shirts hanging from a cord across the stairs. Each one bears a woman’s name in black khoki: Selina Ngwena (26) stabbed to death by her boyfriend and Brenda Mahonoe (16) killed by her boyfriend and Kgaogelo Swefo and Anna Mhlanga … it continues endlessly. I walk beneath the names of dead women swaying silently over me in the grey air.
I don’t want to be reminded. I don’t want to think about any further pain. I want to go home, home to my child. I have lived the last few years of my life consciously. I have known each day as the sun has risen and the sun has set, and now I want it over.
I am waiting at the school gate as the bell rings shrilly.
“Mommy, how did it go?” he asks breathlessly. He is smiling. He has two big front teeth. He is taller. He has grown so much over the last two-and-a-half years.
I grab him and hold him tight as he wiggles.
“It’s all over, my angel. It’s finished,” I tell him. “Let’s go home,” I say, taking his school bag and his hand.
Later in the afternoon I am taken aback to receive a call from a producer at a radio station. He says he has spoken to an ex-girlfriend of the accused; sh
e called in to say she had heard the news reports and is unimpressed by the court’s findings. She wants to speak out. It is the first time I hear Cathy’s name. I have known the identity of only one other ex-girlfriend, the same woman I heard the accused verbally abusing on the phone, the same woman the accused’s very own psychologist admitted had been beaten up by him, but she wasn’t prepared to testify.
I am so moved that finally, after all this time, there is a woman out there who is prepared to speak up for me.
The producer tells me he has suggested she contact the Sunday Times, so the headlines of the page that weekend reads: ‘XXX beat me too – Former girlfriend tells how man who assaulted celebrity Tracy Going beat her and wrung her neck’.
In the article, Cathy tells how the accused assaulted her at least a dozen times during their brief relationship. The accused then denies ever having met her and gives his own statement: “When will this personal vendetta of hers end – with me surrendering? This whole thing is a farce – I’ve been demonised. Women are being beaten and emotionally butchered every day, and everyone is focusing on what was nothing more than a spat. I am personally very concerned about women’s rights – people must look at the real issues, not this.”
I skim over his quote quickly – I am interested only in her chilling words: “Those eight weeks were a nightmare – this great guy just changed into a monster suddenly. He threw me around often but the worst was when he wrung my neck on the bed. I thought I would die like that.”
I hold the paper tight as I breathe in its cold, dried, black ink. I remember how I too thought I was going to die.
But it is over now.
He is gone.
I will never see him again. There, in that courtroom when he pushed past me and hit me in the arm with his elbow, is the very last time I see him. I was still rubbing away at my arm when I turned to see him darken the doorway and watched how those in his path gave way around him.
My final words
This has been my long journey in my search for light, understanding, and acceptance of self.
As I wrote this book, I’ve often asked myself: “Why? Why am I writing this?” But through all the self-doubt and the second guessing, I’ve also asked “Why was I given this story?” And I hope I have been right in thinking that I was given this story to tell it one day.
Writing this book, I’ve had to dig deep. I’ve had to go far back into my memory and remember. It has been long and arduous. Sometimes I’ve wanted to give up. But I’m so glad I didn’t.
I initially started writing to offer some insight into the dynamics of the power play between an abuser and the abused. I also wanted to share what happens in the courtroom. I do not want to discourage any courageous woman from ever taking a stand, and perhaps my experience can be used in preparation for the psychological onslaught.
But, as I wrote, I realised more and more that I was actually leaving a legacy for my children. I realised that by telling them my story I could offer some understanding into why I might fall short as a person or as a mother. I want them to know that I take the blame for any damage I’ve unconsciously inflicted. I tell them all the time that if I’ve left them with any holes, I’m sorry. I will not walk away. I will not make excuses. I believe apology brings empathy and understanding, that it clears the way to the privilege of having a relationship with one’s children. They’ve all asked whether they can read my story one day. I tell them they can read it if and when they want.
But the reason of writing for others, or for my children, paled when the more immersed I became and the more I remembered, the more I realised that, really, I wasn’t actually writing for others at all – I was writing for myself.
I’ve had to analyse why things happened as they did. I’ve had to look deep inside as I examined my reactions, or non-reactions, to certain situations. I’ve had to ask what it says about me and whether I could have – or should have – done things differently. And through this analysing, perhaps even over-analysing, I have come to understand myself so much better. I’ve had to forgive myself, I’ve had to be kind.
Those who have held my hand through this process have often asked whether it has been cathartic. I’ve always thought that to be an interesting question. When I started writing, I genuinely did not think it would be purifying in any way; I’d already done all my healing, but as the words unfolded before me there have been many times when I have put my head down and sobbed, when I’ve stood up and walked away for the day, a week, maybe even a few weeks. But then there have been occasions when I’ve also thrown back my head and laughed until I was gasping for breath, dabbing my eyes with my sleeves. So, yes, it has been surprisingly therapeutic.
But, as I’ve explored my own journey, I’ve also looked at the role other people have played in my life. I’ve gained insight and an understanding and hopefully even found some compassion, although I still feel strongly that we all need to take responsibility for our lives and actions.
I still believe that denial is unhelpful.
I’ve learnt I do not forgive easily. But I accept.
I’ve also often been asked why I don’t mention his name. And the reason is simple. This is not his story. It is mine.
Besides, he’s not entitled to the privilege. He doesn’t deserve the honour in my life. He could have been anyone – the who behind the he has become irrelevant.
Although, admittedly, there have been times when I wrote about him that I wished he’d never been. When I relived some of the scenes and as they came alive, there were many occasions when I was crippled by his presence, terrified of him all over again. But mostly I was angry, or sad. I hope that over the years he has been able to look inward and make some positive changes, but I’m not convinced that could ever happen as he has never felt the need to apologise or reach out to me to make any amends.
And as I sit in my office typing these last words, I look up and stare out of my window to the wide landscape that stretches beyond. I have spent the last year looking down, typing furiously, but today I look up and I see Table Mountain before me. She is standing proud and resolute. I watch as her cloud lifts lightly, then scatters and I look out over her edges in wonder.
Acknowledgements
I remember my very last day of school as I walked with my friends around the formal gardens, our arms linked tight as we moved together with youthful abandon, our green school dresses grown too short. We strolled around and around, the jacaranda trees dropping their purple blooms on us like confetti as each of us shared our dreams and hopes for the future. I was going to be a TV presenter, a fashion designer, and one day I’d write a book. My life in fashion was short-lived, after circumstances with my father and what was happening in my life at the time brought that part of my dream to an end. It was fortuitous, though, as I have loved my career as a TV and radio presenter and, of course, I have learnt enormously from this experience of writing a book. I might even write another one. But thank you, Dianne Blount, Carol Maclennan, Joy Ackerman and Robyn Holmes for being a part of my dreams.
I hadn’t been living in Cape Town very long when I was invited to join a running group. They had been running together for many years and weren’t really open to expanding and bringing in anyone new, but somehow my friend Ruth Scholtz convinced them to include me. They were a small group of six. Every Tuesday I’d join them as they took to Newlands forest and ran the upper and lower contours, scrambled over rocks, searched for porcupine quills, and stopped to take photos. It was only after many months of running together that I found out who Mike was. Mike Behr was the journalist who’d written that beautiful, sensitive, fateful Fair Lady article that had drawn my abuser to me. Mike had interviewed me telephonically at the time, so I had had no idea of what he looked like. He is very tall.
It then transpired that petite, lovely Elizabeth – also in the running group – was the sister of that wonderful woman, the ex-girlfriend, Cathy, who so bravely came out in my defence at the very end, after my trial.
Somehow the beginning and the end were running on either side of me. It seemed unbelievable and I took it as another sign that now was the time to sit down and remember and finally tell my story. So thank you, Mike and Elizabeth, and of course thank you, Cathy, for being so terribly brave and being the ending to my book.
Over the years there have been many others by my side.
Charlene Smith, Miranda Friedman, Katherine Bester and my mother, Liza, thank you for giving up all those days over a two-and-a-half-year period to sit on those hard benches, never wavering in your support.
Thank you to Karen de Waal for thirty years of friendship, for never missing a day in court and for always believing in me.
To Estie Morgan, thank you for being my staunchest supporter and dear friend.
Thank you to Sue Grant-Marshall for being my court support, my daughter’s godmother and my fascinating wordsmith friend.
Sandra Maat and Sheryl Michelow, thank you for being the best. We all knew the system was always going to be against us. But we are enough.
Amy Taylor, thanks for being my reader, and for your youthful, reassuring enthusiasm.
Sam Kalis, thanks for listening as I plotted and mulled out loud each chapter while our feet pounded the hills of Constantia.
Ashleigh Hamilton-Moore, for holding the light aloft despite your own trying circumstances – thanks for the coffees, insight, the laughs and your new-old friendship.
To my husband, Arnaud, I know you’re not a reader and will never open this book, but thank you for giving me the time and space to write it.
To my Going family, thank you for allowing me to tell my story; for your understanding and support. I love you all, Dave, Fi, Roy and Marg.
To my cousin Nikki Going for holding me up when I was having fevered second thoughts and for taking my words so calmly in your gentle hands, for reassuring me, and for coming up with the elusive title.