Spudcaster

I consider myself somewhat of a superhero, Superman, to be exact. I trawl the streets by day, sniffing out news and helping to set the agenda. By night, moonlight, I like to tell the stories that won’t make it on the news agenda. Crime is rife in South Africa. Ours is said to be the rape capital of the world, although many might argue that our statistics are skewed. Be that as it may, every South African knows someone who has been a victim of crime. Not a unique stretch by the world imagination, I would gather. I have covered multitudes of crime scenes. I have seen the burnt out cadaver of a shack fire victim. That image haunts me to this day. But the Northcliff murders struck a chord with me. It spurned me to seek out the true face of crime. I covered this particular crime as a journalist. The who: three family members. The what: three bodies found burnt out in a field. The when: on a Sunday night. The why: Money. The where: Johannesburg, South Africa. It was rote journalism. Sensationalist. Utterly meaning