In paying tribute to Steve Biko I cast my mind back to two specific moments in my life.

It is a hot summer day in September 1971. I am 14 years old and in standard 7 (grade 9). I am sitting at the diningroom table in our tiny matchbox of a house in Riverlea, south of Johannesburg. The heat is almost worse than the homework I am struggling with. The front door is open for some relief. Our wire gate swings open and I hear footsteps approaching. This is exactly what I need – some distraction. It's probably one of my friends coming to chat. I don't know yet who it is but I will know any second now as the footsteps make their way up the small stoep.

It's a policeman, blond and blue and white like the South African flag, and barely out of his teens.

‘Hullo, can I help you?’ I say.

He ignores my greeting. ‘Where's Van Wyk?’ he barks in Afrikaans.

He must mean my father! What has my dad done wrong?

‘He's in the bathroom,’ I tell the young cop.

He wastes not a moment more but turns on his heel and goose-steps to the bathroom – where he bangs on the door barking out our surname.

Suddenly there is consternation in our home. Curious, big-eyed siblings peep out from rooms and Ma comes to see what's the matter.

‘Get out of there!’ the cop demands.

Within seconds my father flies out of the bathroom, clothes sticking to a wet body, steam rising from him, rubbing a towel through his hair.

‘Fok!’ says the cop, stepping back from my father, ‘jy's nie die Van

Wyk wat ek soek nie!’ (You're not the Van Wyk I want). He flounces out of the door, leaving behind, in place of an apology, his rudeness and the smell of his sweat.

Fast forward ten years to a hot Friday morning in January 1981. I am married and my wife Kathy has this very morning given birth to our first son. I am still in Riverlea, sitting with my two best friends in my mother-in-law's tiny yard celebrating with a bottle of wine.

The grass is green, the garden is in bloom, a peach tree is so laden with its ripe fruit that some of its branches lean into the neighbour's yard.