STOP KILLING OUR KIDS

An open letter to the troubled jongmense in the Mother City

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AS I’M writing this, Alistair Izobel’s rendition of My Broetjie my Bra is vibrating through my ear canal and straight into the depths of my soul.

Love the pace the guitarist next to Alistair brings to the Taliep Petersen and David Kramer classic.

The song hits deep. Always has. It takes me back to my days as a laaitie.

As a kid growing up in the late 80s, early 90s, the opening lyrics of this song, “He never knew his dada”, pulled me in from the word go.

See, like many of you out there, I lost my father when I was very young. Five months old, to be exact. I never met him. They say I look like him and apparently I have the same sense of humour.

Other than that, I don’t know much.

That story is not unique though, and I’ve seen in the lives of others what a huge negative impact the absence of a father can have on children.

Anyway, that’s where my parallels with the song stops — after the opening line.

But for some of you reading this, the song resonates at a deeper level. Maybe “your mama never kissed you, no one ever loved you, you ran away from home” and started a life ‘on the streets’.

I sympathise with that.

But my broetjie, MY bra, it’s not too late to change your ways. As long as you're breathing you still have’a chance to change the course of your eternal destiny.

It starts with who you see as role models.

There is no shame in living a good, honest life without the nuutste Nike tekkies and all the bling.

Pride