BBK Unplugged

They say old habits die hard, but die they must

● Friday April 10 marked the 27th anniversary of the assassination of Chris Hani.

It is a date that conjures up images which pull at the heartstrings and brings throbs of pain.

The harrowing memory of the lifeless body of the leader of the SA Communist Party is vivid.

A small black, green and gold flag was placed on the body of the uMkhonto we Sizwe chief of staff lying in a pool of blood after his body was riddled with bullets from the gun of Janusz Walus, who shot the ANC leader as he stepped out of his car.

“Hamba Kahle, Mkhonto,” sang a group of ANC leaders who had gathered at his Dawn Park, Boksburg, home as his corpse was put in a yellow SAP van by policemen in camouflage.

His death had the potential to plunge the country into a civil war, coming as it did during the height of negotiations to free the country from the shackles of autocracy to the promise of democracy. It was April 10 1993.

Saturday April 11 2001 set in motion another memorial.

This time there was more than one victim being remembered.

The victims were not high-profile politicians.

They were neither commanders of the military wing of an armed force nor communists.

They breathed not their last breath owing to bullets from a far right Polish immigrant.

The people who perished on that particular Wednesday night left their homes very much alive and returned in coffins.

They were soccer supporters.

They were football fans.

Call them what you want.

What I know is that they were lovers of

In the end, rows of bodies covered in maroon blankets lay motionless behind the goalposts

the beautiful game of billions which showed its ugly side during a stampede the aftermath of which left 42 corpses.

It is a memory I battled with for a few weeks after.

The 43rd person died in hospital making the number of people who lost their lives at the Ellis Park disaster in 2001 one more than the 42 who were killed in similar fashion in Orkney in 1991.

That day will forever linger in my mind.

Sitting in the media tribune, it became apparent that something was amiss in the eastern stand.

People were burning newspapers, waving them in a bid to attract attention.

I tapped colleague Ray Nxumalo on the shoulder and said that we needed to find out what the commotion was all about. I was not ready for what met my eyes. Scores of people were squashed like sardines as they pushed forward in a ferocious wave.

Some were screaming.

Some were crying.

Some were silent.

Not because they had lost their voices. Because their bodies were being lifted over a perimeter fence. One by one.

And the list grew and grew and grew. In the end, rows of bodies covered in maroon blankets lay motionless behind the goalposts.

What unfolded is an unwanted file you don’t want stored in your memory bank. It was a scary, scaring moment.

The only other being a thin-as-a-rake thug forcing me to go on all fours while pointing a gun at the back of my head during a hijacking right in front of my gate with the whole episode playing out right before my children.

Such was their shock, they told me later, they felt like their eyes were going to spring out of their sockets.

Yesterday was a day we remembered a tragic event in our football.

Some of the contributing factors to the commotion like late-coming, poor traffic control and the slow flow of people through the turnstiles are still with us.

They still lead to some matches starting 15 or 20 minutes late. Old habits die hard. But die they must.

Twitter: @bbkunplugged99