My dad was a handsome man; dark skinned, a sharp dresser with sharp facial features that lurked moodily under a shock of thick black hair. At 26, newly qualified as a teacher from Sastri College in Durban, KwaZulu Natal, my lovely dad cut a dashing figure on the streets of this tropical coastal town. From the pictures I have of him at this age, he preferred pin striped Oxford bags, worn jauntily with suspenders – the kind that split into two pieces of leather at the end and fastened to buttons inside the waist of the trousers.He wore two-toned brogues and double-breasted jackets with two parallel columns of shiny buttons. Occasionally, a little ostentatiously I’ve always thought, he attached a fob watch (sadly lost to me in a burglary in my first month in Johannesburg 35 years ago) on a chain to his waistcoat. I used to tease him that the only thing missing from this look was a monocle, which made him laugh. I loved my dad’s laugh. It was full throated and genuine, a guffaw with his...

Subscribe now to unlock this article.

Support BusinessLIVE’s award-winning journalism for R129 per month (digital access only).

There’s never been a more important time to support independent journalism in SA. Our subscription packages now offer an ad-free experience for readers.

Cancel anytime.

Would you like to comment on this article?
Sign up (it's quick and free) or sign in now.

Speech Bubbles

Please read our Comment Policy before commenting.