Crashed
Melinda Ferguson
WHAT THEY SAID ABOUT SMACKED:
“A truly courageous hero, you’ve got to hear this woman’s story.”
– JOHN ROBBIE, RADIO 702
“It’s real and shocking. It’s Trainspotting meets Hillbrow. It’s a story you won’t soon forget and a lesson you never should.”
– COSMOPOLITAN
“This is a story of tremendous courage that plunges into the alleys, veins and valleys of a drug addict, emerging victorious.”
– NKHENSANI MANGANYI NKOSI, STONED CHERRIE
“A remarkable solo journey, plunging to hell and beyond and then soaring to redemption and life.”
– DARRYL ACCONE
“An inspiration. Made me cry.”
– PATRICK HOLFORD, THE OPTIMUM NUTRITION BIBLE
“A gritty tale that will shove itself right up into your perfect little world and scream, ‘Hello, I am addiction.’ The question is do you want to face it?”
– KELLY ANSARA, IT’S A BOOK THING BLOG
“Smacked, it’s one hell of a ride.”
– MICHELLE MCGRANE, LITNET
To Mat
Acknowledgments
To my darling sons James and Daniel who have lived through five books with me and the year of The Crash, and still love me. I adore you to the end of the universe and beyond.
Thank you my dear friends Val, Martine, Kate, Peta, Megan, Pumla and Daryl as well as my brother, Neil and sister, Joanne – for always seeing me through with love.
To my ex-colleagues Zama, Zinhle, Lerato, Mokgadi, Farrah, Refilwe, Thami – we went through some rough seas but sunshine days are upon us. You are always in my heart.
Kaya FM, Sagie Moodley and The Joy Ride, thank you for revving right by my side.
To all those in the motoring industry who gave me their much-needed love and support: Lesley Sutton, Denis Droppa, Ferrari at Viglietti Motors, Chanelle Zackey, Liana Reiners, Christo Valentyn, Aurelia Mbokazi, Mabuyane Kekane, Toni Herbst, Glen Hill, Rella Bernades, James Siddell, Tracey de Late, Minesh Bhagaloo, Megan McDonald, Shirle Greig, Andile Dlamini, Stuart Johnston, Joeline Dabrowski, Edward Makwana, Clynton Yon, Kerrie Roodt, Lindsey Pieterse, Adell de Vos, Tasneem Lorgat and anyone else I may have overlooked – thank you.
Bridget Impey and Maggie Davey – thank you for believing in me as a publisher and writer. I still sometimes pinch myself when I see my imprint logo on a book cover.
Thanks Sean Fraser for being a great editor – your eye was always on target.
Owen Blumberg, my amazing attorney who got me out of some very, very hectic places. Thank you thank you thank you.
Thank you to Lili and Nic for opening up your beautiful hearts to me.
Now for the Love of my Life, Mat. You have walked through this book, held my hand and my heart and on all the days I’ve misbehaved and tantrumed, been precious and stupidly “artistic” – you have been right at my side, word for word, page by page.
When I met you Nick Cave’s “Are you the one I’ve been waiting for?” kept playing wherever I went. I know for sure that each day that I wake up with you, that the answer is, yes.
That I feed the hungry, forgive an insult, and love my enemy … all these are undoubtedly great virtues … But what if I should discover … that the poorest of beggars, the most impudent of offenders are within me, and that I stand in need of the alms of my own kindness – that I myself am the enemy who must be loved – what then?
– CG JUNG, MEMORIES, DREAMS, REFLECTIONS
CHAPTER 1
Crashed
I suppose my own internal crash – spectacular as it was – all started with a little red car. The Ferrari.
Spring Day, 1 September 2013, was my 14-year birthday clean and sober and this was the year I had planned to celebrate it like never before. That night I’d given a talk at a Narcotics Anonymous Parkhurst recovery meeting, during which I could hardly contain my exuberance when I told the group that, within a few hours, I would be collecting one of the biggest gifts I could ever have imagined receiving in recovery. A rare R3.2-million four-seater Ferrari California to review for the day.
I hadn’t actually believed Ferrari would honour my request to take out their Cali, but they had – with a gracious smile, in fact. Higher-power stuff, I grinned to myself. As a motoring journalist, I was blessed to drive hot new wheels on a weekly basis, but the Ferrari was in another league all together.
This was a convertible GT, packing 338kW of V8 power, and as I signed the indemnity forms at the dealership the following morning, it felt like a pure poetic universal blessing. What a reward for staying on my journey of recovery for a whole 14 years; what better way to pat myself on the back – give that girl a round of Bell’s, figuratively speaking of course – than by being handed the keys of a R3.2-bar gleaming red Italian super car in which to cruise the streets of my hometown? Even if it was only for a day.
I didn’t read much on the forms I signed; I was on far too much of a buzz. I half heard that the car was insured, but in the event of an accident I would be liable for 10 per cent excess. No sweat, baby. But I did manage to pay attention when the guy told me to have the vehicle back by 4 pm, at which point the insurance would cease. He also warned me not to activate Launch Control, which would normally be used for track driving, as insurance wouldn’t pay in the unlikely event of a crash. I smiled. For a moment I felt like I was on an aeroplane listening to the prerequisite emergency safety instructions. Crash landing. I grinned and nodded in agreement to everything he was babbling on about as he showed me how to switch her on and off and how to adjust the seats.
It was just after 9 am when, roof down, long hair gleaming in GHD glory – I had had it done the previous day to complete my über-cool super-car look – I drove out of the dealership on William Nicol Drive, Johannesburg. I had never experienced anything quite like this. Zero to a hundred in 3.5 seconds, with a growl that swallowed the tar, I felt like the Queen of Wheels, on top of the world.
As I pulled up at The Magazine’s Sandton office there was a flurry as friends and staff swarmed round in a frenzy to take photos and touch the Italian beauty in her glorious red aluminium flesh.
I stood back like a proud pet owner, a parent who had just birthed the Saviour, a Buddha babe. The new Dalai Lama. It felt like my entire life had been leading to this moment. Fuck The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari – mine would be bigger. I could see the title of my next bestselling book: From Homeless Farm to Ferrari … I had arrived.
I turned the key in the ignition of the Cali and gave her a little rev. The crowd roared in approval. I then parked her on the rooftop parking, where I could keep an eye on her, my beloved machine, from my desk. Man, was I just loving this, revelling in the moment.
Throughout the day, the compact sports car took up a lot more time and energy than I had bargained for. Just as I would seat myself behind my desk and try to get the day’s work started, someone would ask for a ride and, before I knew it, four of us would be squeezed into the car and I’d be coasting around Sandton, ogled by every motorist and pedestrian who crossed our path.
By the time I dropped my son and his cousin at home – I’d picked them up at school around lunchtime to give them the coolest experience of their lives – I was well and truly exhausted. At this point, all I really wanted to do was chill, but the clock was ticking toward the agreed return time and, as I stood up from my desk to make that