Imagine that you are a male Caucasian growing up in war torn Rhodesia. You wonder if your father will survive each army posting as both you and him now count the dead amongst friends, relatives and neighbours. You see nthe beaten look in his eyes as he returns after each posting. The African wave of independence is on the run. Nationalism is the go word. The former colonies have taken up arms against the government headed by your kith and kin. The country is in flames. Your father's armoured personnel carrier hits a landmine. He and his troop jump out, straight into a deadly booby trap of anti personnel mines. Two years after the war ended your father dies of his war wounds. Imagine that you later become a journalist, when part of a former guerrilla army starts riding shotgun against the state, how would you react now that you can read, write and speak two of the major languages? You walk a tight rope as you report the bare facts on the ground. A whole tribe has risen against its brethren and shots are being fired. As the government moves in the army to quell the rebellion, attrocities are what you report on. The government loves to hate you. They would give everything to silence you. Your star rises, and rises and rises and then .........Imagine that years later you fall from grace. Beer, women and intransigence knocked you down. You got sucked and flashed out into the sewer pipe by your newspaper, girl, friends and society. Will you ever return to the lime lights or the pedestal?