Medusa review: When fiction hits too close to home

A fortnight ago, I submitted a literary critique to the hallowed pages of the Mail & Guardian which I kicked off with an explanation of how difficult it was for me to handle the subject matter involved.

- Rodney Ghobril

Well, Gentle Reader, I present myself to you here today to let you know that this review was even more difficult.

Some background before I explain myself. I got married in 2011 and became a father for the first time in March 2013. I was blessed with a second child in June 2016. Becoming a father to two rambunctious sons is, without question, the single best thing that has happened in my life.

But parenthood is not without its challenges. In my more sardonic moments, I have to remind myself to refer to my boys as “my bundles of joy” instead of the more truthful and accurate “my endless sources of worry and expense”.

I love my sons very much and have often joked with my colleagues that, if terrorists took them hostage and demanded that I kill everyone at my place of work as a condition of their release, those mofos that I work with would be dead meat. (I would send a text warning them not to come into the office that day to the people I really like, though.)

But having kids means you’re always worrying if they’re okay or if you're doing a good enough job as a parent, or if this, that, the next thing and a bag of chips. The worry never stops. I think most parents crave release from this worry. But there is no release — not if you take being a parent seriously.

My marriage failed as 2022 gave way to 2023, and my now ex-wife and I separated.

We began a joint custody arrangement in June 2023 and I have had my sons living with me on alternate weeks since then.