Boerie Rolls on Oscar Pistorius’s Curb
No one has slept for more than three hours.
The news broke overnight, so the pack has relocated.
The tent city outside the gates of Kgosi Mampuru II prison in Pretoria has moved, leaving behind the prison’s broad, jacaranda-strewn roadside and friendly petrol station for the passive-aggressive, manicured curbs of wealthy Waterkloof. There is a redbrick wall, behind which lurks a remorseful man with no legs.
I haven’t slept for more than three hours in days.
In the last week, I’ve spent more time on planes and in airports than on real land. My commute to work began 26 hours ago, from an ill-fated family visit to Southeast Asia.
I haven’t eaten, because I’ve been live on breakfast television since 6 am.
Someone jokes: Ah, the days when breakfast was just a meal, and not a job description. Haha.
Oscar’s new prison is named Bataleur, in the way that posh houses have names. It has bay windows, a turret, and one of those sweeping one-way-only driveways, which now features a jungle of tripods and a sprawl of journalists, legs akimbo between the flower beds: a peculiar assortment of gossiping curbside garden ornaments, balancing cameras, MacBooks and lethargy.
Every time the gate opens, a bolt of panic shoots through the masses. Sometime before midday, a terrified flower delivery man arrives clutching a small pot of chrysanthemums, and is chased by a flock of shooters, running to safety behind the wrought iron.Read More