Chapter 5 - University Years: Discipline, Freedom, and Becoming (1993–1996)

1. From the Army to the Jacaranda City

The army had taught me how to survive. University, I would soon learn, would require something different. When I arrived at the University of Pretoria in early February of 1993, I stepped into a world that felt almost unreal compared to where I had just come from. Only a month before, my days had been shaped by dust, commands, routine, and pressure. Life in the army was structured down to the minute. You did not decide what to do. You were told. You endured.

Then suddenly, I was walking across campus under Jacaranda trees.

In October, those trees come into full bloom, covering the streets and walkways in purple. The blossoms gathered along pavements and lawns, softening everything—the light, the air, even the pace of movement. Students sat in small groups under the trees, talking, laughing, stretching time in a way that felt unfamiliar to me. There were no shouted commands, no imposed urgency. People moved because they chose to move.

On my first day on campus, I remember walking with a sense of quiet alertness, taking everything in as if I had stepped into a different world. I passed the Ou Lettere Gebou and noticed students sitting casually on the steps, books open but conversations flowing easily, without urgency. It struck me how relaxed everything seemed—people were studying, but they were also talking, laughing, lingering. Just beyond that, the Aula stood in contrast—formal, still, almost imposing in its presence, as if it belonged to a different rhythm altogether.

I drifted toward the Merensky Library, drawn more by instinct than intention. Inside, the atmosphere changed immediately. The air carried the faint smell of paper and dust, and the fluorescent lights cast a steady, even glow over long rows of wooden tables. Students sat quietly, focused, absorbed in their work. The only sounds were the turning of pages and the occasional movement of chairs. I remember standing there for a moment, taking it in, feeling the shift from the open, social energy outside to the quiet concentration within. It felt like a place where something could be built slowly and deliberately, where effort accumulated over time into something meaningful.

No one told me when to study. No one told me when to stop. For the first time, the structure was gone.

The discipline remained—but now, it had to be chosen.

Function over form.

Persistence over time.

Graduation 1996

2. Discipline Becomes Identity

In my first year, I chose discipline deliberately. I attended lectures consistently, often sitting near the front, taking detailed notes, and listening closely. My evenings followed a rhythm. I would walk into the Merensky Library, find a desk, open my files, and work steadily until around 10 p.m. The routine settled into me quickly—the quiet, the focus, the repetition.

I noticed early on that many students approached studying very differently. Before tests and exams, they would sit with multiple open textbooks, photocopies spread out, loose notes piled together, pages highlighted in different colours. I remember looking at that and feeling overwhelmed just watching them.

I couldn’t work like that.

So I built my own system. I took everything—lecture notes, textbooks, additional materials—and consolidated it into one structured study guide. I rewrote, organised, and simplified everything into a single, manageable document. It took time, but once it was done, I could sit with one file and move through it calmly.

When exams came, I wasn’t searching for information. I knew where everything was.

Other students began to notice. Before exams, some of them would ask to borrow my notes because they said it made things easier to understand. For me, it wasn’t about helping others—it was simply the only way I could function.

But underneath that structure was something more personal.

I was not just studying to pass.

I was studying to prove something.

School had left its mark. Being bullied—by students and at times even by teachers—had shaped how I saw myself. I had doubts about what I was capable of. University became the place where I tested that.

I still remember receiving my first results. Five distinctions. It felt good—very good—but more than that, it felt like something had shifted. The limits I had believed in were no longer there.

There were moments that reinforced that change. My Criminology lecturer, Dr Joy Cole, spoke to me about my work and encouraged me. When my bicycle was stolen on campus, she gave me money to help me replace it. It was a simple act, but it stayed with me.

In Law Latin, a subject many students struggled to pass, I achieved a distinction and was among the top students. The lecturer encouraged me to continue with Latin II. I remember that moment clearly. It wasn’t just about the subject—it was confirmation that I was capable.

3. The Shift: From Intensity to Balance

My first year was structured and focused. My second year felt different almost immediately. The rhythm that had defined my first year—lectures, library, repetition—began to loosen. I had proven to myself that I could perform academically, and that gave me a kind of confidence, but it also opened the door to something else. I was no longer driven only by the need to prove myself. I wanted to experience more of what university had to offer.

I started going out more. Evenings that had previously been spent in the library were sometimes replaced with plans—friends, pubs, conversations that stretched late into the night. There was a natural pull toward social life. Friendships were forming, invitations were constant, and there was a sense that this was also part of the university experience. I was still attending lectures and still studying, but the intensity had softened. I was no longer in the library every night until 10 p.m. without exception. There were breaks in that pattern now, and I allowed them.

At the same time, the academic demands increased. Second-year law subjects were more complex, more abstract, and more difficult to navigate. There was a common saying among students and lecturers that in second year, a pass was like a distinction. It didn’t feel exaggerated. The work required a different level of thinking. It was no longer just about understanding content—it was about interpreting, analysing, and applying it in ways that were not always immediately clear.

I remember sitting with cases that were difficult to follow, reading through judgments where the reasoning felt dense and layered, and trying to piece together what mattered. It required patience and sustained effort. And alongside that, there were choices—very real, very practical choices. Stay in and work through material that didn’t come easily, or go out with friends, relax, and be part of the social world that was opening up.

Often, I chose to go out.

It wasn’t a careless decision. It was a conscious shift. I wanted balance. I wanted to experience friendships, conversations, and the social side of university life. I had spent my first year proving something to myself, and now I allowed myself to live a little more freely within that environment.

I still passed everything. I still performed well. But I knew something had shifted. The edge of intensity that had defined my first year was no longer as sharp. I was still disciplined, but not in the same absolute way.

By my third and fourth years, I became aware of that shift and made another adjustment. I didn’t abandon the social life—I valued it too much by then—but I brought more structure back into my studies. It wasn’t the same as my first year. It was more measured, more intentional. I understood the demands of the degree more clearly, and I approached my work with that understanding.

I worked more deliberately. I attended lectures, took notes, and returned to my system of organising and consolidating material, though now with more experience behind it. I wasn’t starting from uncertainty anymore. I knew how to study. I knew what was required.

I remember getting marks like 71%, 72%, 73%, 74%—consistently just below distinction level. It was a very specific kind of frustration. You could see the line. You knew you were capable of crossing it. And yet, time after time, you fell just short—sometimes by a single percentage point. In a degree like law, where distinctions were already difficult to achieve, that margin felt significant.

At the same time, I also understood the broader context. Second-year subjects had been more difficult, and by the third and fourth years, the standard remained high. We had been told from early on that just passing certain subjects was an achievement in itself. So while there was frustration, there was also perspective.

I was still progressing. I was still performing at a high level. And I was doing it while living a more balanced life.

Looking back, that period taught me something important—not in theory, but in practice. Discipline does not always mean intensity without interruption. It can also mean knowing when to push, when to ease, and how to adjust without losing direction.

Still, at the time, my thinking was simpler.

I knew I was doing what I could.

And that mattered.

4. Brotherhood, Friendship, and Belonging

Friendships shaped those years in ways I only fully understood later. University was not just about lectures, notes, and exams—it was about people, about connection, about finding your place among others who were also trying to figure out who they were. For me, that sense of belonging did not come immediately, but once it did, it became one of the defining elements of that period.

I met Jason early on. On the very first day of university, he had already met Carel. When I went to greet Jason, he introduced Carel to me. It was a simple moment—just an introduction between three young men at the start of something new—but it marked the beginning of a friendship that would carry through those years. Jason had been in the army with my cousin, and that connection had already created a sense of familiarity between us. We later realised that we had been in the same battalion, which strengthened the bond even further. There was an unspoken understanding that came from that shared experience—something that didn’t need to be explained.

Carel had a different background. He had worked in the mines in Welkom before coming to university, and like Jason and me, he had lived beyond the school environment. He wasn’t coming in straight from matric. He had already experienced a different kind of life, a harder environment, and that shaped how he carried himself.

We had all lived beyond school.

That made a difference. There was a level of maturity, or at least a different perspective, that set us apart slightly from those who had come directly from school. We had already been exposed to discipline, work, and responsibility in ways that influenced how we approached university life.

Jason pulled life forward at speed—energy, movement, unpredictability. He was always ready for something, always moving, always pushing toward the next experience. There was a restlessness in him that made life feel dynamic, sometimes chaotic, but never dull. Carel held it steady—reliable, present, grounded. Where Jason introduced movement, Carel introduced balance. He was the one you could count on to be there, to follow through, to remain consistent.

I remember my twenty-first birthday at our family’s Bushveld farm. It was a meaningful moment, a milestone, and I noticed something simple but significant. Carel was there. Jason wasn’t. He had chosen to be somewhere else. It wasn’t dramatic, and there was no confrontation, but it stayed with me. Carel showed up.

That mattered.

There were also many smaller moments that defined those friendships more than any single event. One night, Jason and I came back to my Sunnyside flat at around two or three in the morning after a night out. We had been drinking, moving from place to place, and by the time we got back, we were hungry, tired, and slightly drunk. The kitchen was small, the light harsh, and the surfaces already cluttered. We started frying eggs—too many eggs—cracking them into the pan, watching the oil pop and spit, laughing at nothing in particular.

The smell filled the room. The stove became messier with each minute. We stood there, leaning against the counter, talking about whatever came to mind, not really concerned with time or consequence.

Nothing important happened.

But everything was there—friendship, freedom, youth, and the sense that, in that moment, life was exactly as it should be.

Carel and I also shared something deeper. We went to church together on Sunday evenings at Universiteitsoord. It became a kind of rhythm—after everything that happened during the week, Sunday evenings were quieter, more reflective. We would sit, listen, sing, and for a moment, life felt more ordered. We also shared the same surname, Badenhorst, which added a small but noticeable sense of connection, even though we were not directly related.

In my later years, Chris de Jager became a close friend. He was also a law student, and we had a natural connection from the beginning. We had similar interests, similar ways of thinking, and we spent a lot of time together. We worked at the student cafeteria on campus, which added another layer to the friendship—we weren’t just studying together, we were working together as well.

Chris had a flat in Sunnyside, and I spent a great deal of time there. I slept there many times, often after nights out or simply because it was more convenient to stay close to campus. His flat became one of the places where I felt at ease. There was a sense of normality there—a place where you could sit, talk, relax without pressure.

His girlfriend at the time, Annerie, was also part of that space. Together, they created an environment that felt stable and welcoming. It wasn’t about anything extravagant. It was about consistency, about being received without expectation.

By that stage, my life was constantly moving—between studying, working, socialising, and shifting between different places to stay. Having spaces like that, and friendships like that, made a difference.

At a time when life was constantly in motion, that sense of grounding mattered more than I realised.

For the first time in my life, I experienced what it meant to belong.

5. Living Conditions, Movement, and Couch Surfing

Although I officially lived in Mountain View, my life didn’t stay in one place. Mountain View was still home, but practically speaking, I was rarely there for extended periods. University life pulled me closer to campus, and over time my routine shifted naturally into something far more fluid.

I moved between spaces—friends’ flats, couches, wherever I could stay. Couch surfing became normal. It wasn’t something I planned carefully; it just became part of how I lived. I carried a backpack with essentials—extra clothes, basic toiletries, whatever I might need—and I often wore extra layers so that I was always prepared. People joked about it, saying I looked like I was always ready for anything, and in a way, I was. If someone said, “Stay over,” I could.

I remember many nights ending not with a journey home, but with a simple decision to stay where I was. At Chris de Jager’s flat in Sunnyside, for example, it became almost routine. After a night out or even just a long day, I would stay over, find a place to sleep, and continue from there the next day. The same happened with friends like Carel, and others in our circle—Carl, Amy, Amanda. There was always a couch, a spare mattress, or simply a space on the floor if needed.

I remember arriving late at night at someone’s flat, sometimes well after midnight, the city quieter but still alive in the background. You would walk in, drop your bag somewhere near the door, exchange a few tired words, and then settle wherever there was space. No planning. No hesitation. Sometimes the television would still be on softly in the background, sometimes music playing low, sometimes complete silence. You would just lie down and sleep.

It felt easy.

My military experience had prepared me for that. Sleeping on a couch or floor didn’t bother me. Compared to what I had experienced before—hard ground, uncomfortable conditions—it was more than acceptable. In fact, it often felt comfortable enough. I didn’t need much to feel settled.

There was also something practical about it. It saved time and money. Instead of travelling back to Mountain View late at night or early in the morning, I could stay close to campus. It allowed me to remain within the flow of university life—lectures, socialising, work—without interruption.

I remember mornings where I would wake up in someone else’s flat, gather my things, maybe have a quick coffee or something simple to eat, and then head straight to campus. There was no sense of disruption. It felt normal.

People shared what they had. Food, space, time. It wasn’t transactional. If someone had something, they shared it. I shared my notes. Others shared their space. There was a kind of unspoken understanding that we helped each other where we could.

Looking back, my second year—the year I lived in the Sunnyside flat—was the only time I had a fixed place close to campus. In my first, third, and fourth years, I moved between Mountain View and wherever I found space to stay. That movement became part of my identity during that time.

I wasn’t tied down. I could move, adapt, stay where I needed to. I had options.

At the time, it didn’t feel unstable.

It felt like freedom.

And more than that, it felt like I was fully part of something—fully immersed in the rhythm of student life, without barriers, without distance.

It felt like I was living fully.

6. Provision, Kindness, and Unexpected Shelter

Although my life during those years was often defined by movement—between Mountain View, Sunnyside, campus, and various couches—there were also moments where something more stable appeared, not because I planned it, but because people stepped in at the right time. Those moments stood out precisely because they contrasted with everything else. Where most of my life felt fluid and improvised, these experiences brought structure, quiet, and a sense of being looked after.

One of those moments came in my third year through Amanda. She invited me to house-sit for her brother in Monument Park while he was away. At the time, it seemed like a simple, practical arrangement—a place to stay—but it became something more than that. After the constant movement of couch surfing, the unpredictability of where I would sleep from one night to the next, this felt different. It was a house. It was quiet. It was stable.

I remember being there during exam preparation, sitting with my books in a space that allowed me to focus without interruption. There were no late-night arrivals, no shared kitchens filled with movement, no shifting environment. It was just me, the work, and time. That kind of stillness was rare in those years, and I felt the difference immediately. It gave me a kind of calm that I hadn’t realised I needed.

There is also a moment from that time that stayed with me for a different reason. One evening, Amanda invited me to sleep with her. It wasn’t complicated or dramatic. It was simply an invitation, direct and unambiguous. But I didn’t act on it. I chose not to. At the time, I didn’t overthink it, and I didn’t attach any deeper meaning to it. It was just a decision I made in the moment, one that reflected something of my boundaries, even within a life that otherwise allowed for freedom and exploration.

That, too, was part of who I was during those years—a mixture of openness and restraint, experience and limits.

Then, in my final year, another moment of unexpected provision came, this time through Dawid.

We had met him on campus during our studies. He stood out immediately, not because he tried to, but because of who he was. He was older than the rest of us, already married with children, and carried a different kind of presence. There was weight in his story, though he didn’t make a show of it. He had previously worked in the police in Johannesburg, and during one incident, he had been shot nine times. That experience changed the direction of his life. It forced him to reassess everything, and he made the decision to leave that world behind and study law.

We became quite good friends in my final year.

As final exams approached—the most intense academic period of the entire degree—Dawid did something I did not expect. He invited me to stay with him and his family for the entire month of exam preparation at his home in Colbyn, a suburb close to the university.

I moved in during that time and became part of the household, at least temporarily. It was a completely different environment from what I had been used to. There was structure, routine, and a sense of family life that grounded everything around it. I had a place to sleep, a place to study, and a space where I was welcomed without question.

That mattered more than I can fully express.

I remember sitting there, preparing for those final exams, aware of the pressure but also aware that I was not carrying everything alone. There was something about being in a home—rather than moving between temporary spaces—that gave me stability during one of the most demanding periods of my life.

One memory from that time stands out clearly. Near Dawid’s house, they had built one of the first McDonald’s restaurants in what was then the “new” South Africa. It was still something unfamiliar, something we hadn’t grown up with. One evening, we went there together.

I was 23 years old, and it was the first time I ever had a McDonald’s burger.

It seems like a small detail, but it marked something. South Africa itself was changing, opening up, becoming part of a broader world, and there I was, sharing that moment with someone who had shown me unexpected kindness at a critical time in my life.

After I left for Israel in 1997, I lost touch with Dawid.

But I remember that period clearly. I remember his generosity. I remember the way he opened his home to me without hesitation, without expectation, simply because he could.

Looking back, both of these experiences—Amanda’s invitation to house-sit in Monument Park and Dawid’s invitation to stay with his family in Colbyn—stand out as moments where life provided something I had not arranged for myself.

They were not planned.

They were given.

And they reinforced something that ran quietly through those years. Even when my life seemed unstable on the surface, even when I was moving from place to place, I was never without support.

There was always provision.

And often, it came through people who simply chose to help.

7. Cycling, Endurance, and God’s Protection

Cycling was part of my life long before university. I started at sixteen when my parents bought me a racing bike, and it quickly became something I relied on—not just for transport, but for release. During my school years, especially in standard nine and matric, I would often get on my bike in the afternoons and ride 40 to 50 kilometres without much thought, just to burn off energy or frustration. It wasn’t structured training. It was instinctive. If I felt restless, I rode. If I felt pressure, I rode. The rhythm of cycling—the steady push on the pedals, the wind against your face, the hum of the tyres on the road—became something familiar and grounding.

I even attended a cycling clinic when I was about seventeen or eighteen, where I trained with some of South Africa’s well-known road cyclists. That experience sharpened my technique and endurance and gave me a deeper appreciation for cycling as a discipline. It wasn’t just something I did anymore—it was something I understood.

Those recreational rides were different. They had a certain freedom to them. I could choose the route, the distance, the pace. I remember riding out to Hartbeespoort Dam and back—about 40 kilometres there and 40 kilometres back. It was something I could do comfortably, settling into the rhythm, letting the kilometres pass beneath me. Those rides gave me space to think, to process things, to be alone without feeling isolated. It was just me, the road, and the movement.

University introduced a different kind of cycling.

By the time I reached university, I was very fit, and cycling became more than just recreation—it became necessity. The ride from Mountain View to the University of Pretoria campus was no longer optional. It was part of my daily routine. That 30 to 40-minute ride was not about freedom or exploration. It was about getting somewhere on time. It meant navigating traffic, managing time, and riding with purpose rather than for enjoyment.

The experience was different. When you cycle recreationally, you ride when you want to. When you commute, you ride whether you feel like it or not. Some days you were tired. Some days the weather wasn’t ideal. Some days you had other things on your mind. But you still got on the bike and rode.

The roads became familiar in a different way—not as routes of exploration, but as paths of necessity. Intersections, traffic patterns, distances—you learned them because you had to. The bike was no longer just an outlet. It was transport, reliability, independence.

Occasionally, if I needed to, I would take a black mini-bus taxi from campus to Menlyn, but never from home. From Mountain View, I relied almost entirely on my bike. It gave me control over my movement. I didn’t have to depend on anyone else.

In some situations, especially in my first year when I didn’t yet have many places to stay close to campus, walking also became part of my experience. I remember a few occasions where I walked from campus back to Mountain View. It would take three to four hours. It wasn’t something I did often, and I don’t have clear memories of walking to campus, but I do remember those long walks back. They usually happened out of necessity—no bike, no transport, no other option.

Even then, it didn’t feel impossible.

I had come out of the army. My body was conditioned for endurance. Walking for hours was not comfortable, but it was manageable.

Cycling, however, remained my primary mode of movement—both as transport and as something that still, in quieter moments, belonged to me.

One moment on my bike has stayed with me clearly.

I was cycling along Park Avenue in Arcadia, moving at a steady pace, focused but relaxed, as I had done many times before. This was not a recreational ride. It was a normal commute—part of the routine, something I had done countless times.

Then, unexpectedly, my foot slipped off the pedal.

This was not something that happened often—almost never, in fact. It was unusual enough that it immediately disrupted my rhythm. I had to stop completely, reposition my foot, and reset before I could continue.

It delayed me by about ten seconds.

Then, just ahead of me, two cars collided.

The impact was sudden and violent. One driver, a French man, had been driving on the wrong side of the road, instinctively following the rules of the country he came from rather than those of South Africa. He moved into the wrong lane, and another car coming from the correct direction had no time to react. They crashed into each other and then into a pole with force.

I stood there holding my bike, frozen for a moment, watching it unfold. The sound, the movement, the suddenness of it—it all happened so quickly. I could feel the shock settle in my body as I realised what had just taken place.

And what I had almost been part of.

If I had not been delayed—if my foot had not slipped off that pedal—I would have been in that exact position at that exact moment. I would have been caught between those two vehicles, likely crushed against that pole.

I have never seen that moment as coincidence.

Standing there, with my bike beside me and the aftermath of the collision in front of me, I understood something without needing to explain it.

To me, it was God’s protection.

Jock of the Bushveld race 1996

8. Sunnyside Living

In my second year, I moved into a flat in Sunnyside, which at the time was a typical student area—dense, busy, slightly worn, but full of life. Sunnyside had its own rhythm. Streets were always active, people moving in and out, taxis passing, voices carrying through open windows, especially in the evenings. It wasn’t quiet, and it wasn’t particularly polished, but it was alive in a way that suited student life.

The flat itself was shared with Wynand and Marius, neither of whom I had known before. I had responded to an advert for a room, went to view the place, and decided it would work. It wasn’t about comfort or luxury—it was about having a place close enough to campus and affordable enough to manage. At that stage, practicality mattered more than anything else.

The layout of the flat reflected the improvisation common in student living. Wynand occupied what we called the “stoep room,” essentially a porch that had been converted into a bedroom. It was smaller, more exposed, and not originally designed for that purpose, but it worked. I had the main bedroom, which felt like a privilege in that context—more space, a proper door, and a sense of privacy that you didn’t always get in shared accommodation. Marius had taken over what used to be the living room, converting it into a shared sleeping area for himself and his girlfriend. The original purpose of the rooms had been adapted completely to suit our needs.

We shared the bathroom and kitchen, and despite the potential for conflict, things worked surprisingly well. We didn’t know each other before moving in, and we never became particularly close friends, but there was a mutual respect that kept the living arrangement stable. Everyone understood boundaries. Everyone respected space. There were no major disputes, no tension that disrupted daily life. It was functional, and that was enough.

Wynand stood out slightly from the rest of us. He was a few years older and already working while completing his accounting articles. There was a level of maturity and structure in his life that was different from ours. He had routines, responsibilities, and a quieter presence in the flat. He didn’t socialise much with us, but he was steady, reliable, and easy to live with. Marius was more relaxed, more aligned with typical student life, especially with his girlfriend living there. His space was more active, more social, while Wynand’s was more contained.

Daily life followed a pattern. Mornings meant leaving for campus—lectures, movement, the flow of university life. Evenings were less predictable. Sometimes I returned early, sometimes much later, depending on what the day had become. There were nights where the flat was quiet, everyone in their own space, and other nights where you arrived late, the energy of the evening still lingering.

One detail that stands out clearly from that time is the shared telephone. There were no cell phones. Every call had to be logged manually—your name, the number you dialled, and the duration of the call. There was a sheet kept near the phone, and everyone was expected to record their usage. It was a simple system, but it relied entirely on honesty. Even something as small as making a phone call required a level of accountability.

The kitchen and shared spaces carried the marks of daily life. Dishes, food, small signs of use. It wasn’t spotless, but it was lived in. You could tell people were moving through it constantly.

One memory from that flat has stayed with me vividly. Jason and I returned there one night at around two or three in the morning after being out. We had been drinking, moving from one place to another, and by the time we got back, we were hungry, slightly drunk, and exhausted. The kitchen was small, the light harsh, and the surfaces already cluttered. We started frying eggs—too many eggs—cracking them into the pan, watching the oil pop and spit, laughing without any real reason.

The smell filled the space. The stove became messier as we went along. We stood there, leaning against the counter, talking about whatever came to mind, not concerned with time or anything beyond that moment.

Nothing important happened.

But everything was there.

That flat also became a point of connection to other parts of my life. It was the same place where Jason would come by after nights out, where friendships passed through, where movement between different social circles intersected. Even though Wynand and Marius were not part of my main social group, the flat itself became part of the network of places that defined those years.

I stayed there for about nine months, and in that time, it served exactly the purpose I needed it to. It gave me a base close to campus, a place to sleep, a place to return to, even if I wasn’t always there.

It was not a place of luxury or deep connection.

But it was part of the structure that held that phase of my life together.

9. Katie: A Constant Thread

In a life that moved constantly—between Mountain View, Sunnyside, campus, and various couches—Katie remained one of the few constants. While everything else shifted depending on where I needed to be, where I could stay, or what the day required, Katie was always there in the background, steady and reliable in her own way.

Katie was a 1977 light-brown Toyota Corolla that my father had bought when I was four years old. I still have early memories of that car from our time living in Rietondale, in a rented house owned by a doctor. It was parked outside, part of the everyday scene of childhood. I remember the shape of it, the colour, the feel of being inside it as a child. It had been part of our family for as long as I could remember.

Over the years, the car aged, but it never disappeared. It stayed with us. It was never replaced with something newer or more modern. My father kept it, maintained it as best he could, and continued to use it. By the time I reached my teenage years, it had already lived a full life, but it still worked.

I learned to drive in Katie when I was sixteen. That in itself was an experience—learning clutch control, balance, coordination, all in a car that didn’t forgive mistakes easily. There was no power steering, no modern assistance, just direct control. You had to feel the car, understand it, and work with it. That process stayed with me.

I only officially obtained my car driver’s license in 1994, just before I turned twenty-one. By that stage, I was already comfortable behind the wheel, having spent years learning in Katie. Around that same time, I also taught Jason how to drive in that car. He preferred motorbikes and already had a license for bikes, but he couldn’t drive a car. So we used Katie. I remember those moments—him learning the clutch, the timing, the feel of the gears, the slight jolts when he got it wrong, the satisfaction when he got it right. There was something fitting about it, that the same car I had learned in became the car where I passed that skill on to a friend.

By the time I reached university, Katie had effectively become my car. Technically, she still belonged to my father, but in practical terms, I used her as if she were mine. He gave me access to it, trusted me with it, and for that period of my life, it became part of my daily movement. I drove it to campus, to friends, to wherever I needed to go. It gave me another layer of independence alongside my bicycle.

Katie was not a perfect car. The body showed its age. The paint had faded, the exterior carried the marks of years of use, and there was nothing polished or impressive about it. But the engine kept going. It started when it needed to. It got you where you needed to go. That was enough.

At one point, during one of my summer jobs doing security work for hostels associated with Tshwane University of Technology, I decided to invest some of the money I had earned into fixing Katie. The dents and wear on the body had become more noticeable, and I thought it was time to improve her appearance.

I found someone who offered to do the bodywork. He was a teacher at a special needs school and explained that he taught boys practical skills, including panel beating and body repair. It sounded like a good opportunity—not only would the car be fixed, but it would also be part of a learning process.

So I agreed.

Katie was taken in, and the boys used her as part of their training. They worked on the dents, the panels, the bodywork, applying what they were learning in class.

When I got the car back, the result was not what I had expected.

The work had been done—but poorly. The panels were uneven, the finishing rough, the patches visible in ways that couldn’t be ignored. It was clear that while the intention had been good, the execution had fallen far short.

I had spent money I had worked hard to earn, and Katie came back looking worse in some ways than before—patched, uneven, visibly repaired but not properly restored.

At the time, it was frustrating.

But looking back, it fits the story of that car perfectly.

Katie was never about perfection.

She was about function.

She was about endurance.

I continued to drive her as she was.

I remember moving through Pretoria in that car, between Mountain View, Sunnyside, and campus, sometimes alone, sometimes with friends. There was a particular feeling to it—windows down, the sound of the engine, the simplicity of it. It wasn’t about comfort. It was about movement. It was about getting where you needed to go.

The name “Katie” came from a song by Koos Kombuis, an artist I followed closely at the time. His music resonated with a certain alternative Afrikaans culture that existed on campus, especially among students who were exploring ideas and identities outside of the traditional norms. His songs were raw, reflective, and different.

There was also a strange personal connection. At some point, I realised that we had both, at different times, slept on the same couch in the same house, although we never met. It was a small detail, but it added a sense of connection to something broader than my immediate world.

The song itself spoke about a woman who had cared for the singer during his childhood, and for me, that connected directly to Lettie. Lettie had worked for our family for about thirty years. She helped raise me, disciplined me, cared for me. She was firm when she needed to be, kind when it mattered, and consistently present throughout my childhood. She shaped me in ways that I only fully understood later.

So naming the car Katie was not random.

It carried meaning.

Katie, the car, became more than just transport. She carried associations—childhood, care, continuity, and connection. In a life that was constantly shifting, she remained something steady.

There were also practical memories attached to her. Driving from Sunnyside back to Mountain View late at night, heading out to meet friends, or choosing between cycling and driving depending on the day. When I drove, it felt different—less exposed than cycling, more contained, but still independent.

My father eventually took the car back at some point, but during those university years, it was very much part of my life. And even after all those years, he still has that car.

The body is worn now, more than ever. Time has left its marks clearly. But the engine still runs.

In many ways, that reflects something deeper.

Endurance over appearance.

10. Work, Responsibility, and Independence

Financially, my university years were shaped by a clear structure. My father paid my tuition using his thirteenth cheque each year. I knew what that meant. It meant sacrifice. It meant that the family sometimes did not go on holiday. It meant that resources were being directed toward my future. He never made a show of it. He didn’t sit me down and explain it in detail. But I understood it clearly, even if it wasn’t spoken out loud.

He did not speak much about it, but I understood.

Everything else, I paid for myself.

That was simply how it was. Books, food, transport, socialising—those were my responsibility. And I accepted that. In fact, I preferred it that way. I had already been working since I was sixteen, and there was something about earning my own money that gave me a sense of independence and control.

My first job was at John Orr’s in central Pretoria. It was basic work, but it introduced me to the discipline of showing up, doing what needed to be done, and earning something for it. Later, I worked at Pizza Hut for about two and a half years during my final school years. That job stayed with me more vividly.

I still remember those long double shifts, starting around nine or ten in the morning and finishing at two the next morning. It was a long stretch of time, and by the end of it, you were exhausted. I earned R2.32 an hour, which even at the time wasn’t much, but it was mine.

At the end of those shifts, I would usually have a staff meal—often an extra-large pizza—and my father would come to fetch me. We would sit together, sometimes in silence, eating that pizza late at night or early in the morning. There wasn’t much conversation, but there was something steady in those moments. He showed up. He fetched me. We ate together.

That stayed with me.

At university, I continued working in various roles, not out of pressure, but out of habit and necessity. I worked as a waiter at Snackeroo’s, which I found challenging. Waitering is not just about carrying plates—it’s about presence, attentiveness, and constant interaction with people. You have to be switched on all the time, and for someone who was naturally a bit reserved, that didn’t come easily.

I remember serving an Afrikaans actor one day. It was one of those moments where you recognise someone but don’t quite know how to act. I served him, trying to do my job properly, and afterwards I asked him for his autograph. It felt slightly awkward, but it was part of the experience. I wouldn’t say I was a particularly good waiter. I had friends like André who worked at more upmarket places like Pavarotti’s and did very well. I was more average in that environment. But I learned from it—how to deal with people, how to listen, how to communicate, how to manage different personalities.

I also worked at Dion’s in the hardware department. That was a different kind of environment—more structured, more repetitive. I remember the atmosphere during the December holidays, working long hours, hearing music like Boney M and the Drakensberg Boys Choir playing in the background. It created a kind of seasonal rhythm—work, repetition, music, and the sense that you were part of something larger, even if the work itself was simple.

I did stock takes, which required attention to detail and patience. Counting, checking, verifying—it wasn’t exciting, but it was necessary. I worked as a barman at rugby events, which introduced a completely different energy. People drinking, celebrating, sometimes becoming loud or difficult. You saw a different side of people in those environments, especially when alcohol was involved. Some became friendly, others difficult. It taught me something about human nature—how quickly behaviour can shift depending on circumstances.

One of the more unusual roles I had was doing security work at student hostels associated with what is now the Tshwane University of Technology. The work involved sitting in a small guard room, doing occasional rounds, and staying awake through the night. It wasn’t dangerous, but it could be incredibly boring. You were alone most of the time, with very little happening around you.

There were no smartphones, no real distractions. So I used that time. I read novels, slowly working through them, and whenever I encountered words I didn’t understand, I would look them up in a dictionary. In that way, almost unintentionally, I improved my English significantly. It wasn’t structured learning. It was practical, consistent exposure.

At one of the hostels, there was a swimming pool, and during the December holidays, when things were quiet and there was very little movement, we would sometimes swim just to pass the time. It broke the monotony. It gave some relief from the long hours of sitting and waiting.

Perhaps the most intense job I had was delivering cars across South Africa for Nissan. We did it several times—driving to places like Durban and Cape Town. The work was demanding in a different way. We drove in convoys, often at night, without number plates, at high speeds—sometimes up to 180 or even 200 km/h. There was constant pressure to deliver the cars as quickly as possible.

You had to stay focused for hours at a time. Eight, sometimes twelve hours of continuous driving. I remember moments where fatigue became real, where I could feel myself drifting slightly, fighting to stay awake, aware that losing focus even for a second could have serious consequences. It was dangerous work, though at the time, it felt like part of the experience—something you did without fully questioning it.

We also drove at night quite often, which added another layer of difficulty. Darkness, long roads, the monotony of the drive—it required concentration. Looking back, it’s not something I would choose to do again.

At the time, though, it was part of life.

All of these jobs served multiple purposes. They gave me financial independence, supported my social life, and allowed me to function without constantly relying on others. They also connected me with people from different backgrounds and exposed me to different environments—restaurants, retail, events, security, long-distance driving.

More than anything, they reinforced something simple but important.

I was responsible for myself.

11. Social Life and Culture

My social life formed another significant part of those years, and it evolved as I moved through university. It didn’t replace my academic life—it existed alongside it, sometimes in tension with it, sometimes balancing it out. In many ways, it was where a different side of life was explored, experienced, and understood.

In my first year, I was very much part of the nightclub scene. Jacqueline’s was the place to go. It was loud, crowded, filled with flashing lights and music so intense that conversation was almost impossible. You didn’t go there to talk. You went there to move, to dance, to lose yourself in the energy of the space. The music was constant, the lights disorienting, and the crowd always in motion.

I had already been going there since I was about sixteen, sometimes slipping in without proper identification. Even during my military service, when I came home on pass, I would go back there. So by the time I was at university, it was already familiar territory. It didn’t feel new—it felt like a continuation of something I had already stepped into earlier.

Those nights followed a pattern. You would meet up with friends, arrive sometime in the evening, and then stay for hours. The music didn’t stop, and neither did the movement. You didn’t track time in the usual way. You just stayed until it felt like enough—or until the place began to empty out in the early hours of the morning.

As time went on, my preferences shifted. The nightclub scene began to lose some of its appeal, and with Jason and Carel, we moved more toward pubs, especially in Hatfield. Places like McGinty's Irish Pub offered something different. There was live music, often a cover singer, and you could actually sit, talk, and engage with people. The atmosphere was more relaxed, less intense, and more social in a conversational sense.

Instead of being surrounded by noise where you couldn’t hear each other, you could sit with a drink, listen to music, and have real conversations. That shift reflected something in us as well. We were no longer just looking for energy—we were looking for connection.

Oom Gert se Plek was something different altogether. It wasn’t a nightlife venue, but rather a cafeteria on the main campus where we regularly went during lunch breaks. It was one of those central meeting points where students gathered between lectures to eat, talk, and take a break from the academic rhythm of the day. The space was often busy, filled with the sound of trays, voices, and movement, a constant flow of students coming and going.

I remember standing in line, choosing something simple to eat, and then sitting down with friends, sometimes discussing classes, sometimes talking about completely unrelated things. It was part of the daily routine rather than something planned. You would naturally end up there, because that’s where everyone went.

One of the small but memorable details from that place was the “Buddy Coke special.” It reflected student life perfectly—affordable, simple, and practical. It wasn’t about quality or refinement. It was about what you could get within your budget. Those small details—what you ate, what you drank, where you sat—became part of the texture of everyday university life.

A typical day could include lectures in the morning, a lunch break at Oom Gert se Plek, and then a completely different environment in the evening—moving from structured academic spaces into social ones.

There were also moments that stood out beyond the routine. I remember watching performers like William Black Rose in local pubs, becoming familiar with his music over time. He wasn’t just background entertainment—you started recognising him, recognising the songs, feeling part of a smaller, more connected scene.

In my final year, my taste shifted even further. I became more interested in folk music. I remember a trio—long beards, violin, almost a hippie-like presence—playing in certain pubs or restaurants. The atmosphere was completely different from nightclubs or even standard pub music. It was slower, more reflective, more about listening than reacting.

Those moments stayed with me.

We also took part in events like Jool, the student carnival. It was something that brought the university together in a different way—more public, more collective, more celebratory. It added another layer to the student experience, something beyond lectures and exams.

A typical night out would start around seven or eight in the evening and stretch into the early hours of the morning. We would move between places sometimes, or stay in one spot depending on the mood. Beer was the main drink—cheap and accessible. I remember we often chose Carling Black Label because it had slightly more alcohol content than alternatives like Castle Lager or Amstel. The thinking was simple—get more effect for the same money.

It wasn’t sophisticated.

But it was practical.

A night would end late—one, two, sometimes three in the morning. You would leave tired, often slightly drunk, and make your way home or to wherever you were staying. Sometimes that meant driving, sometimes cycling, sometimes walking, and sometimes just staying over where you were.

Looking back, there were many nights like that. Not all of them stand out individually, but together they formed a pattern, a rhythm that defined that period of life.

These places and experiences were not just about entertainment.

They were part of the environment in which identity was shaped.

They reflected a balance that I was learning to navigate—between discipline and freedom, between responsibility and experience.

And at that stage, both mattered.

12. Love, Choice, and the Road Not Taken

It was in my final year that I met Karen de Beer, and that relationship became one of the most meaningful—and later, most haunting—parts of my university years.

The way we met was simple, almost ordinary, but it stayed with me. Jason had a girlfriend at the time, and she lived in a flat in Sunnyside with two other girls. One of them was Karen. One day, I went to that flat—either to look for Jason or to pass on a message. I rang the bell. Karen opened the door, and in that moment something happened that I have never been able to explain in logical terms. It did not feel gradual. It did not feel uncertain. It was immediate. For me, it was love at first sight.

From that moment, something shifted in the way I moved through that final year. Our relationship developed naturally, without effort or pressure. It felt easy to be with her, easy to talk, easy to spend time together. There was a calmness in her presence that stood in contrast to the rest of my life at the time, which was often fast-moving and unpredictable. Where everything else carried motion, she brought stillness.

I remember our first date clearly. I played her a song by Koos Kombuis called “Bicycle sonder ’n Slot.” It is a nostalgic Afrikaans love song that looks back on a youthful romance with a girl named Karin. The tone of the song carries memory, innocence, and a quiet kind of longing. The fact that the girl in the song shared her name made the moment feel almost symbolic, as if something deeper was being expressed without needing explanation. It was not just a song I liked. It was a way of saying something I could not yet fully articulate.

Our relationship deepened quickly. It had substance. It was not superficial or uncertain. I took her to my family’s Bushveld farm and introduced her to my family, and that alone reflected how seriously I regarded what we had. You do not bring someone into that space unless they matter. My family recognised something immediately. They saw in her a sense of completeness, a kind of fit that felt natural and right. To them, she was the one.

And in many ways, it felt like that to me as well. There was stability in the relationship. There was care, consistency, and a sense of grounding. In a life that had been defined by movement—between places, between people, between experiences—this felt different. It felt anchored. It offered something that the rest of my life did not.

But at the same time, something else was happening inside me. I was standing at the edge of another phase of life. The idea of travelling, of leaving South Africa, of exploring the world beyond what I knew had already taken hold of me. It was not a passing thought. It felt like something necessary, something I needed to do in order to understand myself and the world more fully.

Alongside that desire was something I only fully understood later.

Fear.

Not fear of Karen, and not fear of the relationship itself, but fear of settling too soon, fear of committing to a path before I had explored what else might be possible. There was a sense, perhaps irrational but real, that choosing this life would close off others that I had not yet experienced.

So I made a decision.

I broke up with her.

At the time, I framed it in terms of opportunity and direction. I told myself that I needed to travel, that I needed to expand my horizons, that there was more I had to see and do before settling into something permanent. And those reasons were not untrue. But looking back, I can see that they were not the full story. Fear played a role—fear of commitment, fear of finality, fear of choosing one path at the expense of another.

It was not a decision made lightly, but it was one made without fully understanding its weight.

And it stayed with me.

Over the years, I have returned to that moment many times in my mind. Wondered what could have been. Wondered what life might have looked like if I had chosen differently. Those thoughts do not dominate, but they remain present, part of the deeper structure of memory and reflection.

Karen was not just another relationship.

She was the love of my life at that time.

And walking away from that was not simply a practical decision about travel or timing.

It was a defining moment.

One that opened certain paths.

And closed others.

13. Faith and Inner Conflict

Faith remained present in my life during university, but it was not fully integrated. I grew up in the Dutch Reformed Church, and like many Afrikaners, church was simply part of life. It was structured, expected, and familiar. You went to church because that was what you did. It formed part of your upbringing, your identity, your environment.

During university, I continued attending church, often with Carel or sometimes with Yolandi. Sunday evenings, in particular, were set apart. After everything that had taken place during the week—the lectures, the studying, the social life—Sunday evenings carried a different tone. We would go to church, sit quietly, sing the hymns, listen to the sermon, and participate in what felt like a sacred rhythm.

There was sincerity in it. I wasn’t just going out of habit. I did have a genuine desire to know God and to live rightly. There was something in me that was drawn to it—something that recognised that faith mattered, that there was more to life than what I was experiencing on a daily basis.

At the same time, there was a clear contradiction.

From Monday to Saturday, my life looked very different. Socialising, drinking, going out, living freely—those things were part of my routine. The environments I moved in, the conversations I had, the choices I made—they did not reflect the same values that I engaged with on a Sunday evening.

There was a gap.

And I was aware of it, even if I didn’t fully confront it at the time.

I was, in many ways, living two lives.

One life was structured around faith, belief, and a desire for something higher. The other was shaped by experience, freedom, friendships, and the natural pull of student life. Both felt real. Both felt valid in their own way. But they were not aligned.

Church, for the most part, did not bridge that gap. It provided a space for reflection, for worship, for tradition—but it did not necessarily lead to transformation in my daily life. Looking back, I can see that there was a form of religiosity present—participation without full internal change.

That awareness, however, was not fully formed at the time.

It began to emerge more clearly in my third and fourth years. I started noticing the inconsistency more consciously. There were moments, especially after church or during quieter periods, where I would reflect on how I was living and feel that disconnect more sharply.

I also became involved, to some extent, in the university cycling tours during that period, which were connected to the church. Those experiences exposed me to people who were more intentional about their faith. Some were genuinely seeking God, living in a way that reflected that pursuit. Others were there more for the experience, the adventure, the cycling.

But it introduced another dimension.

It showed me that faith could be something more than routine. It could be lived more deliberately.

At the same time, I wasn’t ready to make that shift myself.

I was still exploring. Still experiencing life. Still trying to understand who I was, what I wanted, and how everything fit together. The social life, the friendships, the freedom—all of that still held a strong pull.

By my final year, that tension had become more visible to me. I could feel it more clearly. I believed in God, but my life was not aligned with that belief. There was a growing awareness that something was not fully integrated.

And yet, I did not resolve it.

I carried both sides forward.

That tension didn’t disappear.

It deepened.

14. Cycling Tours: Endurance, Community, and Perspective

The cycling tours of 1995 and 1996 were among the most physically and socially defining experiences of my university years. They were not just about cycling—they were about endurance, community, faith, and stepping into environments that pushed you beyond your normal routine.

The first tour took us from Ficksburg in the Free State to Scottburgh on the Natal coast, covering around 900 kilometres over two weeks. It was a long-distance journey that required consistency rather than bursts of effort. The second tour covered roughly 1000 kilometres through Mpumalanga, moving through towns, valleys, and long stretches of open road.

The physical aspect was demanding, but manageable for me. I was already a strong cyclist, used to long distances and sustained effort. What stood out more were the conditions and the environment.

I remember one morning in Bethlehem, waking up in a church hall where we had slept in sleeping bags. It was minus seven degrees. The cold was sharp. You could see your breath in the air, and your body resisted movement. Your hands were cold before you even got up, and the idea of changing into cycling clothes in that temperature required a kind of mental effort before anything else.

And yet, after breakfast, you had to get dressed in cycling gear and start riding.

There was no delay. No easing into it. You got on your bike and moved.

The tours were well organised. A bus travelled with us, carrying all our luggage, and additional vehicles followed for safety. You didn’t have to carry your belongings on the bike, which made the distances manageable, but you still had to cover the kilometres each day—often 80 to 100 kilometres depending on the stage.

Every town we entered had its own rhythm. Often, the traffic police would escort us into town, creating a sense of arrival—sirens, movement, visibility. It felt significant, even though we were just a group of students on bicycles. There was a sense of occasion to it.

Local congregations hosted us in each town. They opened their church halls, provided places to sleep, and prepared meals for us. One detail that stands out repeatedly is lasagna. It seemed to appear everywhere. Every town, every stop, there would be trays of lasagna prepared by the women of the congregation. It became almost symbolic of the hospitality we received—simple, consistent, and generous.

There was a strong sense of shared purpose. These tours were not just recreational. They were organised through the university church, and part of the purpose was fundraising. We would walk through towns with collection tins, going from door to door, asking people to support the university church.

For me, this was one of the most difficult parts.

I didn’t enjoy asking people for money. It felt uncomfortable, intrusive even. It required a different kind of courage than cycling did. Physical effort was straightforward—you just pushed through. But asking strangers for support, approaching people at fuel stations or homes, explaining who you were and what you were doing—that pushed me out of my comfort zone in a way I didn’t naturally gravitate toward.

Still, it was part of the experience, and I did it.

At the same time, the tours created strong connections. When you spend two weeks cycling, eating, sleeping, and moving together as a group, relationships form naturally. There is a shared rhythm, a shared struggle, and a shared sense of progress.

I remember people like Gordon, who was my friend on the first tour and later became the tour leader on the second. He had a steady presence, someone you could rely on. His girlfriend Christelle was also part of that circle. Then there was Riaan, who became a close friend during the second tour.

Over time, many of the names faded, but the faces and moments remained.

Two friendships from those tours, however, stayed with me more distinctly.

On the 1995 cycling tour, I met Jolena Nichols. She was well known within the Universiteitsoord community—almost royalty in that environment. Her father was the head dominee (reverend), and her parents were public figures in their own right, writing a column in the Sunday newspaper Die Rapport. There was a sense that she came from a recognised and respected background.

But beyond that, she was approachable, friendly, and easy to talk to.

After the 1995 tour, she shared with Gordon that she liked me. He encouraged her to act on it, and she eventually asked me out. I remember she invited me to her Occupational Therapist Dinee—a formal dinner event connected to her studies. It was a different kind of social setting from what I was used to—more structured, more formal—but it stood out as a moment where the cycling tour connections moved into something more personal.

Through Jolena, I also became connected to her circle of friends, including Anoet.

I met Anoet more directly on the 1996 cycling tour. By that time, Jolena’s life had moved in a different direction. She had a boyfriend, Pieter, and they were serious—already talking about marriage, which they went on to do at the end of 1996.

Anoet and I, however, developed a close friendship.

There was an ease in that friendship, something natural and unforced. It extended beyond the tour itself. After my gap year—after I had spent time in Israel on a kibbutz and then in England—we reconnected. I remember a long weekend spent together with Anoet, Jolena, and Pieter at the Drakensberg Inn. It was a different context—no longer students on bicycles, but young adults reconnecting after time apart.

After that, there was another trip—a camping trip to Pilgrim’s Rest. It was simple, tents only, no real luxury, just the basics. But it reflected something of that same spirit from the cycling tours—shared space, shared experience, simplicity.

After that, we lost touch.

That, too, is part of life. Some friendships are intense for a season and then fade as paths diverge.

Beyond the people, the landscape itself left a lasting impression. Long roads stretching ahead, hills that tested your endurance, open spaces that made you aware of distance and scale. South Africa is not flat, and the climbs were real. There were moments where the physical effort was demanding, where you felt it in your legs, your breathing, your pace.

But there was also beauty in it—the kind you only truly see when you move through it slowly, on a bicycle, exposed to the environment.

You notice things differently.

You experience the country differently.

And in those moments, between effort and movement, something else also took place—not just physically, but internally.

The tours didn’t resolve the tension I carried within myself.

But they deepened my awareness of it.

And they expanded my world in ways that stayed with me long after the kilometres were done.

En route - 1995 Cycling Tour

Final Destination Scotborough, Natal, 1995

On Scotborough beach with Wilma, 1995

With Andre, 1996 Mpumalanga tour

Road scenery - Mpumalanga tour 1995

With Andre on a fake elephant - Mpumalanga tour 1995

15. Success, Pressure, and Meaning

Looking back, those four years were among the happiest and most successful periods of my life—not because they were easy, but because of what they built. The happiness was not constant or superficial. It was something deeper, something tied to growth, to overcoming difficulty, to discovering what I was capable of in a very real and practical way.

The final phase of my degree was intense. There is no other way to describe it. I wrote thirteen exam papers in eleven days. That alone gives a sense of the pressure, but the reality of it was even more demanding. There was no real break between exams. You would write one paper, go home or back to wherever you were staying, and immediately begin preparing for the next.

The pace was relentless.

Sleep was limited—sometimes four hours, sometimes less. There were nights where you didn’t really sleep properly at all. You would lie down, your mind still processing information, cases, concepts, trying to retain as much as possible before the next exam. Time lost its normal structure. Days and nights blurred into each other.

I remember sitting in front of exam papers and feeling blank, thinking, I don’t remember anything. After months of preparation, hours of study, summaries, notes, and revision, there were moments when it felt like everything had disappeared. You would read the question and feel a kind of panic—like your mind had shut down at the exact moment you needed it most.

Those moments were real.

There were also moments where the pressure felt overwhelming. Physically, mentally, emotionally—you were stretched. I relied on caffeine to stay awake. Coffee became a tool rather than a choice. At times, when sleep became difficult or insufficient, I used painkillers or sleeping tablets just to get enough rest to function the next day. It was not sustainable, and it was not something I would recommend, but at that stage, it felt necessary. You did what you had to do to get through.

Despite all of this, there was also a structure underneath it. This was not last-minute panic without preparation. Throughout the year, I had already done the work—attended lectures, taken notes, consolidated material into study guides, built a system that allowed me to revise rather than start from scratch. That preparation became critical in those final weeks. Without it, it would not have been possible.

I also remember turning to God very specifically during that time. Sitting in the exam venue, feeling that sense of blankness, that uncertainty, and praying—not in a formal way, but simply asking for clarity, for recall, for the ability to think and structure answers. And somehow, as I began writing, things would come back. Concepts would reappear. Structure would form. It felt like something beyond just my own effort.

And yet, I got through it.

One exam led to the next. One paper after another. Eleven days passed, and eventually, it was done.

I completed my degree without failing any subjects. That in itself was significant. Many students did not make it through without failing or repeating courses. I had two re-exams—Mercantile Law and Family Law—but I passed them. In total, I achieved six distinctions across my degree and maintained an overall average in the mid-sixties, around 65–66%, which, in the context of law at the time, was strong.

It was also important to understand the standard. Law was not a degree where distinctions were easily given. We were told early on that in some subjects, simply passing was an achievement. That context mattered. It gave perspective to the results.

I also remember the frustration of coming close—marks like 71%, 72%, 73%, 74%—just below distinction level. Missing it by a single percentage point. It happened more than once. There was a particular kind of tension in that, knowing you were capable of more, knowing how close you were, and yet falling just short.

But even with that, there was a sense of completion.

More than the results, it was what it represented.

I had done the work. I had endured the pressure. I had balanced study, work, and a full social life. I had moved between different living situations, managed my own finances, and still maintained a high level of academic performance.

I had proven—to myself—that I was capable.

And that mattered more than anything else.

Final Reflection

Those four years did not simply prepare me for a profession. They changed the direction of my life in ways that I could not fully see at the time, but which became clearer as the years unfolded. They rebuilt something that had been shaken earlier in my life. They gave me back confidence—not as an abstract idea, but as something proven through effort, discipline, and experience. They reshaped my identity, not in one defining moment, but through a series of lived realities—lecture halls, long nights in the library, early mornings on a bicycle, shared meals, friendships, pressure, choices, and consequences.

I arrived at university coming out of the army—disciplined, focused, determined to prove something to myself. I left with something more complex. I had experienced both structure and freedom, sometimes in tension with each other, sometimes in balance. I had learned how to work hard and how to let go. I had pushed myself academically and discovered that I was capable of more than I had believed during my school years. I had also allowed myself to live—to form friendships, to go out, to laugh, to make mistakes, to explore the world beyond books and expectations.

There were many layers to those years.

There was the discipline of study—the long hours, the structured approach, the effort to consolidate knowledge into something manageable. There was the pressure of exams—thirteen papers in eleven days, the exhaustion, the moments of doubt, the reliance on whatever it took to keep going. There was the quiet satisfaction of results—not perfect, but earned. Six distinctions. A strong average. No failures. Proof that effort, when sustained, produces something real.

There was movement—constant movement. Between Mountain View and campus. Between Sunnyside and wherever I found a place to stay. On a bicycle, in a car, sometimes on foot for hours. Learning to adapt, to manage, to live without needing fixed comfort.

There was Katie—the old Corolla—carrying me through those years, linking my childhood to my present, steady in a life that was otherwise constantly shifting.

There were friendships—Jason, Carel, Chris de Jager, and others—each representing something different. Energy, stability, companionship, shared experience. There were late nights, simple moments, kitchens filled with the smell of fried eggs, conversations that meant nothing and everything at the same time.

There was work—jobs that paid little but taught much. Waitering, retail, security, driving cars across the country at speed. Learning responsibility not as a concept, but as a necessity. Supporting myself. Understanding the value of money, time, and effort.

There was also love.

Meeting Karen de Beer in my final year introduced something deeper—something that went beyond friendship and experience. It brought stability, connection, and the possibility of a different kind of future. And yet, I chose another path. Not because what I had was lacking, but because something in me was still searching. That decision, shaped partly by vision and partly by fear, became one of the defining moments of those years. It opened one life and closed another.

There was faith.

Present, sincere, but not fully integrated. Sundays filled with worship, reflection, and a genuine desire for God. The rest of the week filled with choices that did not always align with that desire. A tension that I carried without resolving. A sense that something deeper was there, even if I was not yet ready to live it fully.

And through it all, there were moments—small and significant—that pointed to something beyond my own control.

A foot slipping off a bicycle pedal at exactly the right moment.

A car accident happening seconds ahead of where I would have been.

Protection that I did not earn, but received.

Looking back now, I can see that those years were not random.

They were formative.

They were a training ground—not just academically, but personally, emotionally, and spiritually. They taught me how to endure, how to adapt, how to choose, and how to carry the consequences of those choices.

I worked hard.

I made choices.

I experienced life fully.

And through it all, whether I fully understood it at the time or not, there was a sense—sometimes clear, sometimes subtle—that I was being guided, protected, and sustained.

This was not just education.

This was transformation.