The Blood Runner

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The Oscar Pistorius Trial has our full attention.  Every South African has become an expert advocate on the matter.  We sit glued to our televisions, intrigued and watching the dedicated 199 Carte Blanche channel.

We debate everything, informed by the latest evidence – balancing and swaying like children on a seesaw.

We are emotionally invested and involved. One minute we are arguing with each other that perhaps Oscar deserves a second chance, and in the next breath we are crying because Reeva will never ever have her wedding or a child.

Over the weekend we feel at a loss, because there is no court.  And when Monday comes we rush to switch on the television, in the hope that we get closer to the truth.

By now we feel as if Roux and Nel are a familiar addition to our expert panel. We shout and wave our fists at the television and threaten to put duct tape on Barry Roux’s mouth as he chips away at the credibility of the witness statements.

Even our men take turns in screaming like women, so that we can make a call as to whether we believe that Oscar can, in fact, scream like a woman.

We are in a constant frenzy, checking our social media feeds on our cell phones.  We comment on twitter several times a day.

We, as South African citizens are the jury.

At the end of it all, Judge Mapisa (formally referred to as “My Lady”) will bring down her hammer like the final gun shot ringing out across a sleepy suburb in Pretoria and proclaim the final verdict. The Blood Runner may never run again.

And we will talk about it for years to come with our grandchildren and they with theirs.

Ann Warsop 11 March 2014

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