carine hartman 2021

By Carine Hartman

Chief sub-editor


A man has to eat, not sniff: Courage of a lost soul

'Stuff' is not important. Living life is. Quietly, courageously, one day at a time.


I know a man. I have always selfishly avoided starting this column with I … but it is about a man. A man who rose in the online world; did his Bill Gates, Steve Jobs; used the Uber Black and drove his flashy Merc; flew wherever and whenever he wanted to. He had the world at his feet. But he sniffed angel dust. He could afford it – and still had the world at his feet. Only, he didn’t. The angel became the devil that destroyed him. The fall from power came as easy as the rise. First, the job…

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I know a man. I have always selfishly avoided starting this column with I … but it is about a man.

A man who rose in the online world; did his Bill Gates, Steve Jobs; used the Uber Black and drove his flashy Merc; flew wherever and whenever he wanted to.

He had the world at his feet.

But he sniffed angel dust. He could afford it – and still had the world at his feet. Only, he didn’t. The angel became the devil that destroyed him.

The fall from power came as easy as the rise. First, the job went; then the furnished flat; then the Merc he lived in for a while,

Then him. He became a bergie, begging.

R29 a day, that’s what he needed for a bed at a shelter and he seldom got that from hand-outs.

So a park became ‘home’ for him and his little bags with his sole possessions: a change of clothes, a jacket, spare shoes, a cup, plate, his blanket and his only luxury, a pillow.

Not a cent is sent, but grocery vouchers. A man has to eat, not sniff. Maybe the groceries were traded for something he can snort, I didn’t ask.

That was my tough lesson: don’t ask, prescribe, make plans, try and save him.

It is his choice. Only he can choose to not lose heart and soul to the devil. So I waited; maybe for that phone call all best friends dread.

But it never came. And I’m eternally grateful for the universe because this man one night lay in his park under the stars and saw the light.

He stopped messing with the angel stuff and rose like a Jesus.

Reborn. To this day.

I can’t even imagine how tough it was climbing his hill. His body took nearly a year to recover; his mind much longer.

He had to prove himself again, build trust again. He couldn’t afford to take a sick day off. They’ll simply assume he’s at it again.

Three years later he’s again doing the nerdy stuff, but on a much smaller scale. The Merc is now a scooter, the designer clothes just comfy jeans.

‘Stuff’ is not important anymore. Living life is.

Quietly, courageously – one day at a time…

I know a man – and he’s my hero.

Respect.

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