Unleash The Devil

Chapter 5

Final Letter From Keith

We all have our ups and downs, our own story to tell. This is mine. Many others have worse hard-luck stories. Rather than pity the beggar on the street with missing limbs, give him a slice of brown bread once a year at Christmas or Ramadan, from your luxury sedan, please!

This cathartic, mediocre letter is based on the true-life experiences of a middle-aged recluse who wishes to live but is disillusioned and trying hard to end his life.

Nothing special about this story. You wouldn’t notice me stand out from a busy crowd, I couldn’t believe I have ever fired a rifle, and I could be just a beggar trying to make it through the night. Still, it gives some insights as to my state of mind at this moment. I hope one person reads it and finds insight into the life and soul of a mentally- and spiritually ill bachelor who took some knocks along the way.

I have resolved to depart this world in a hurry, there is a sense of urgency, getting all my thoughts down on paper before I die.

But where to begin, how do I begin to tell the story of a world bigger than my own? I’ve been to outer space, to inner space and found no refuge, comfort nor solace in either. I am a spiritual refugee with no place to call home, running and hiding from the truth I cannot find.

If you are a religious believer, you might conclude that I have the mark of the beast, Lucifer imprinted in my soul after reading all this. It’s a sombre story, perhaps best for the eyes of criminal psychologists in lock-up psychiatric institutions.

In this story may be parallels with your own life experiences. I have used poetic licence and borrowed phrases from songs and literature which I have interwoven into my epic saga. Some would call it plagiarism, but in truth, we are all guilty of stealing other people’s ideas and building upon them.

I smoke 3 packets of strong cigarettes a day in a slow but deliberate form of suicide, as I do not have the extreme courage that others have to take their own lives.

And don’t believe the heartless bullies that tell you suicide is the easy way out for weaklings, it takes balls of steel to kill yourself. Smoking is my suicide solution (according to Wikipedia, 80–90% of people with my mental illness are heavy smokers and die younger partly due to suicide).

I had already tried other lethal forms of self-destruction but couldn’t pluck up the guts when it came to the final moment. I now risk death by long, slow lung cancer, emphysema or a disabling stroke, but hopefully just a quick heart attack.

My life has no meaning, and I live without feeling. I have a diagnosis of late-onset schizoaffective disorder, which is rare, and I display all the symptoms of this disease in the mind that you might wish to read about on Wikipedia or elsewhere. A combination of paranoid schizophrenia and bipolar disorder, formerly known as manic depression. I take daily medication for my condition, but I am still going down. The strings in my brain are broken, and they say I went crazy when I burned myself trying to touch the sun. I verged on the wrong side of the moral fence by becoming a psychopath in my quest for love and dignity.

Love was a viper, it stole my soul. Shockingly true.

But let me leave you with just one thing before I say hello and goodbye: a message of hope and reconciliation for humanity:

A plea to end the hate, misery and war and to be kinder, gentler to one another.

I seek no fame, glory, nor profit from this tale and will remain anonymous until Judgment Day or eternal nothingness comes. Consider this message to be both a symbol of despair and an exemplary supreme sacrifice to resuscitate my dying planet and the people, animals, flowers, trees and birds on it. Read on, if you are bored enough like I am… but beware, it’s sometimes quite substantial, with offensive language and depression and for adults only. I am not unique, offbeat human beings on the wild and crazy perimeter of society related to the words in this memo, a no-holds-barred account of a life, interpreted within a greater context of the human spirit and not my self-serving, narcissistic tendencies.

But I’ve had a good life, despite it all. I can’t complain if I die young. Despite everything negative that happened in my personal life, I was privileged overall. After all, who gets to travel to 43 countries, taste all sorts of exotic/delicious foods, listen to loads of awesome music, enjoy the company of loving pets, engage in mind-blowing sex and marvel in the creative genius of master synthetic organic chemists such as Robert Burns Woodward and Elias James Corey? Me, that’s who! Heaven and Hell have been my life.

In 1989, I had saved enough money from part-time jobs during my university studies to go on my first overseas adventure. I backpacked around France, Spain, Italy, Greece and Turkey. I almost vanished in Turkey when I foolishly entered some underground tunnels alone, and my torch died; I almost didn’t get out alive. In Madrid, my backpack was stolen when I was sleeping outside on a castle wall, and I had to continue my journey with nothing but the clothes I was wearing plus my money.

An Australian traveller called me a hard bastard because I had a leathery skin from days in the sun. In July 1989, I joined the army, the apartheid-era South African Defence Force.

White males didn’t have a choice, it was two years in the army or six years in jail, or leave the country. I joined the army at Wingfield in Cape Town and took the trans-Karoo troop train with all the windows forced to stay wide open in midwinter by a permanent force sergeant’s orders. A taste of the difficult times ahead.

I did my basic training, “bush phase”, including a 30-kilometre route march with full combat kit, night ambush manoeuvres, war games and the officer’s course. I saw trace rounds of heavy machine-gun fire to light up the night sky as I was emptying my R5 rifle’s magazine into a ravine. Our trainer misjudged his aim and the rocket-propelled grenade impacted near where we, the candidate officers, were crouched. A mortar round exploded close to where we were sitting. They taught us how to lob grenades and threw thunderflashes close to where we were sleeping.

We had to relocate our co-ordinates after the bush caught fire when Mirage jet fighter aircraft dropped ordnance (live bombs) onto dummy tanks nearby.

A guy (the second shortest in the platoon) was harassing me verbally, bugging me, belittling me. Another guy, a Greek, picked a fight with me, which I won; I got him in a neck vice grip and held him down on the ground, but did not punch him. Other guys in our platoon were also fighting physically with each other.

And you could almost imagine our trainer, Staff Sergeant Spies, saying this: “Gentlemen, you’re not back home anymore. Maybe you’ve heard we’ve lost this war. Well, it’s too damned late to ask those type of questions. The enemy is the A.N.C., SWAPO and the Cubans. Minor mistakes will be paid back with major punishments. You will move by chopper and be inserted. A year from now you can call me and talk about it if you get back”.

I became a first lieutenant. Things were still quite hot politically in 1989, which was the last year of combat in the 1966–1989 Border War.

Paranoia strikes deep, a poison for my mind. Into your heart, it will creep. It starts when you’re always afraid. Step out of line, and they come and take you away.

I was redeployed to the pathology lab at Voortrekkerhoogte (1 Military Hospital) and finally to 2 Military Hospital as a pharmacy storeman. It was during my mid-week sports pass that I did private chemistry tuition to failed university students.

In love, the first cut is the deepest. I placed her upon a pedestal and worshipped her for all she was, and I believed she was the one to rescue me in loving romance from my loneliness. I looked through her shining white face, it was just a facade, a lie into her soul and yet still saw a lovely person.

I thought about her every day for the next decade, and I often still think of her. She was all women in one, to me. I also just wanted to fuck the living Hell out of her, I admit. But gently, I wanted to make love with her.

Many years later, to this day, I have no doubt that I loved and cared about her. It was her nature, rather than her stunning looks, that had captivated me. She was delicate, wholesome and sincere, a rare catch, one in a million and a once-in-a-lifetime chance. I pursued her.


In 1991, I worked off my bursary obligations to A.E.C.I. Explosives in Johannesburg. I lived next to a giant chemical factory with black Africans that took me into the black township of Soweto. It was entirely unheard of for a white person to go to their place. I drank beer with them in a shebeen (pub). My white colleagues at work thought I was peculiar. But I had a reason for living frugally in the single quarter: I wanted to save money to go travelling overseas again.

The Greek guy from the army that I beat in a fight, Costa Karvelas, had now befriended me and we socialised in the Greek community. They took me to a brothel in downtown Johannesburg (Hillbrow). One of the Greeks looked at a prostitute and said, “I’m worth a squirt”. At that time in my life, I was still relatively emotionally unharmed and innocent; and was appalled at the way he degraded her.

I did an army “camp” in 1991 and visited Jackie. I had high hopes that she would dump her then-boyfriend, an aspirant lawyer, and that I might be able to date her and eventually marry her. I waited so long for the right woman to come into my life that I was uncompromising. I turned down an offer by an attractive girl in the army who asked me, “Why don’t you just tell me you want to fuck me?”

I wanted a wholesome loving relationship, not just sex. I craved and longed for not just sexual intimacy, but spiritual intimacy, as many well-balanced and decent fellow humans do, right?

In December 1991, I had saved enough money to go travelling and quit my job. I came to Cape Town and bumped into Jackie by chance. She invited me to a music concert, and I was over the moon with anticipation.

In the event, she had acquired a new flame in her life, another hunk, and my heart sank as she ran up to him and kissed him.

A few weeks later, I dated Jackie and took her to a cosy backstreet restaurant in Muizenburg and set off a dazzling fireworks display for her on a scenic mountain pass overlooking the ocean. We looked at each other but never kissed, although she fleetingly touched my leg and said I’m so “different”.

About one year later at that same spot, I was standing naked at midnight in winter, shouting at the angel above for help as I tried in blackness to commit suicide by jumping off the cliff. Jackie had rejected me in love and gotten back together with her lawyer boyfriend.

I took the bullet very hard indeed inside my heartland; it very nearly destroyed me, wiped me off the planet, it shredded me inside. “When no hope was left inside on that starry night, I tried to take my life as lovers often do”.

I wrote to Jackie every single day during the months I was gone on my overseas adventure and she wrote back, telling me that she was missing me “stacks”. I started to obsess about seeing her again. After all, I knew that she liked me a lot because she told me she “cried a lot” the night before I came to say goodbye before going on my overseas adventure.

Besides being a horny and virile young man with high testosterone levels and an overly-active libido, I also had a heart that needed a soul mate. And so when I finally opened Jackie’s letter on the steps outside American Express in Bangkok, I was dreading the worst news possible to me: the death of my relationship with her. And indeed, she cut me off, wanting to remain just good friends. It was either him or me and she chose him. He would win, I would lose and so I was born to sing the blues. How could it be that happiness for him could be grief for me? She once told me that you only make a handful of close friends in life (I was one of her friends). I was devastated, mortified, heartbroken. I would have ripped my face off to have this woman. You might rightly say that I had a chronic nervous breakdown and a radical change in personality. I felt hollow and empty, as if I had lost my soul by the rejection.

My life lost all meaning without her love. As that song goes: “I can’t live if living is without you.” I knew that I had lost my only chance in love and would never live so profoundly ever again. That is true, and I have never lived back. The spark in me, the will to live, died. I had become a lost soul. I became very suicidal, not just suicidal ideation but actual intent, and it lasted for the next six years. It changed the direction of my life forever. Black and white flipped over in my mind. What was love became hatred. The two are just mirror images of each other; opposites, Yin and Yang. I either had to kill her or myself. You read about this sort of stuff in the newspapers, crimes of passion and love triangles, but never think it could happen to you until it does.

I channelled my destructive emotion inwardly instead of towards her, telling her in a letter that it’s not her fault. But it nearly spiralled out of my control, as I once phoned her up and hinted at rape and murder, although I did not directly threaten her. You know, you can’t stop the hurt inside when love and hate collide. It could’ve ended in a real-life tragedy for both of us, a murder/suicide, but I only just managed to reign in my feelings and restrain my emotions.

I visit prostitutes. Shocking, perhaps, and desperate, low-class and immoral, yes. But I felt I had little choice to get out alive other than to poke hookers instead of making love to the woman of my dreams. I frequented many of them, over 200 in the next few years. I fell from divine grace and lowered my idealistic, romantic standards and became a secular slut. It was a massive decision for me and it stressed me terribly. After all, I was selling my soul for paid sex. Paying for “it” was the giant life-step I had to take to survive.

If I couldn’t have romance and love, I’d have to settle for raw, hardcore and even low-class sex. And I did. Inescapably and half-willingly, I found myself sucked down into the dark underworld of prostitution. I settled for less, and that became the story of my life. I went the other way. I was bonkers, nutty: someone at an end-of-year function told me to “go away” because I had become evil, and I pushed over a tray of drinks in the crowded room and stormed out. I blew over one hundred thousand rands, excluding the cost of driving to the hookers. It was a dark and lonely experience but a potent addiction.

I had become detached from my own soul. I became an indecent sex addict, visiting brothels as much as seven times in one day. But it didn’t take away the pain of not having love. I just became unhappier. I craved intimacy which sex alone cannot provide.

I lost my father to suicide and nearly also my mother. People bullied me for being short my whole life. A sensitive soul from the day I hit the ground, I was in urgent need of some tender loving care, some affection, and I wanted to give it back as much as I received it. I sunk in my warped, depressed state to the most extreme depths of sexual depravity and debauchery. Engaging, for example, in double penetration (sandwiches), facial cum shots, heterosexual anal sex, 69 positions and even more. I even slept with a black woman just once.

I slept with women prostitutes of many nationalities, South African, Chinese, Thai, Bulgarian, Romanian, Russian, American, German, French, British, Italian, Turkish, Spanish, Mozambiquan. I sank to the depths, I attended some orgies, and there was a dried-up snakeskin at the front-door entrance to one of them. The homeowner was seemingly a Satanist.

It was a case of strangers, waiting up and down the boulevard, their shadows searching in the night street light for people living to find emotion hiding, somewhere in the night. I felt like the original Buddha when the river of life spoke with him, saying “You will grow tired; you will die”.

I battled for years to shake off my bad habit and depression, to “Leave Las Vegas”. I was visiting numerous psychologists and psychiatrists and was taking anti-depressants like Prozac and Tricyclics. But nothing helped. The sickness in my soul had corroded my mind and I had become a rotten apple, a curse on society. After all, it was the 1990s in South Africa, a time when the AIDS pandemic was nearing its peak. Promiscuous people were taboo. I could have spread diseases, although 85% of the time I used a condom, but I engaged also in oral sex. As of 2013, I am H.I.V. negative.

I was living it up and down in hell as a hedonist after working hours. My professional career progressed. I truncated my master’s studies to work in the mining explosives industry and visited some opencast and underground mines. I completed my masters part-time and graduated in 1996, although it was a mediocre dissertation because I was in a suicidal frame of mind, not thinking straight. I blew up two laboratories in my twisted frame of mind, being unable to concentrate and focus. Fortunately, nobody was injured.

I also visited 15 states in the U.S.A. as well as Namibia and Vietnam in 1997. At a German beer festival in Jo’burg with some friends, I collapsed onto the ground and started crying for no obvious, apparent reason. A big guy in the crowd that had gathered around me laughed at me and asked if I was dead. I ran towards him to attack him, then at the last second, I ran away.

My subconscious mind was a war, unstable and fragile. I hallucinated when I heard the Devil and felt his presence in an old farmhouse in Zimbabwe during a company team-building trip to go white-water rafting near Victoria Falls on the Zambezi River.

A rude and bullying woman at a party suit-and-tie company function sarcastically asked me publicly in a circle of colleagues, “Why are you so small?”. She never knew that I immediately left the reception, removed the swimming pool hosepipe from the townhouse complex pool where I was renting, drove to a quiet place and tried to gas myself to death in my black BMW car.

Afraid to be seen womanising in public places and fear being humiliated in front of her by strangers. I was so distraught from my general life and stressed that I was taking too much sick leave at work for my mental illness.

I quit my Johannesburg job in 1998 because I wasn’t coping in my personal life. I spent 8 months unemployed, during which time I visited Bali in Indonesia and ate at restaurants every second day with a friend.

I had by now degraded so low I was picking up street prostitutes because of massive debt from my bad habit, and they were cheaper than high-class call girls.

The serpent of depression had poisoned my mind and I, the unrequited lover, had become venomous, toxic. The demon within was spitting hatred to all my loved ones around me. I plunged into the abyss with my enemy, the assassin from Hell strangling me and summoning me to take my own life. Naked I was sent back into life for a brief time until my task is done.

I drifted out of thought and time and wandered far on roads of which I will not speak. I threw down my hateful enemy, and he broke the mountainside where he smote it in his ruin. I was alone on the hard horn of the world and every moment of pain seemed like an eternity, an ice-age of the earth.

Love was a viper, it stole my soul. Do you understand what I mean by that? I mean that by falling so deeply in love with a woman, I ended up selling my soul for bought-sex after being rejected.

I got a job in Jo’burg and started piecing my life together again, slowly but surely. It took me years to heal the wound within and to mend broken relationships caused by my negative thinking.


I sold my tiny flat and bought an upmarket apartment with a garage and garden in Fourways. Around this time, 1999 to 2004. I visited the UK, Denmark, Switzerland, Bolivia, Ghana, Mali and the Philippines, taking a trip deep into the Amazon jungle and travelling on the world’s statistically most dangerous road.

I was becoming increasingly unpopular for daring to open my mouth when told, literally and repeatedly, to “shut up”, “look busy” and “fit in or fuck off”.

I am not a leader, just an observer. I never follow, which is why I don’t own a castle. I was ousted, retrenched on the basis of being incompatible. I tried sending out my CV with no joy, so I then embarked upon setting up my own proprietorship. To cut a long story short, it failed despite great effort and making sound decisions. I had products, but nobody wanted to buy them. And I didn’t have the working capital to set up a chemical manufacturing plant.

I became increasingly desperate. I had dogs to feed and a bond to settle. I was all alone in this predicament and isolated; I became increasingly paranoid. I had split from my family and friends, and then I broke from myself. During this period, my karma, all the stresses of my life got to me, and my mind expanded into the realms of insanity, sometime between June 2004 to February 2006, when I became psychotic. I had terrifying delusions and hallucinations. I was intensely aggressive; violence was bursting out of me, and there was badness on my breath. My mind popped its cork. I went mad. I kicked and punched the living daylights out of my boxing bag and was shouting and screaming as someone possessed. I smashed bottles in my garage. My neighbours told me they were terrified and called the cops. I assaulted some people, put my fist through a hardboard wall in the gym and had a showdown with a massive bodybuilder, carried a steak knife in my pocket and threw a beer bottle into somebody’s face. I hid knives under carpets and windows out of fear that people were trying to kill me, persecutory delusion.

I stopped my car in the fast lane on the highway, tantamount to potential first-degree murder, a criminal mind. Somebody bashed into the side of my car and I just kept driving relentlessly. A cop held a gun to my head and I shouted at him to hand me the weapon as I wanted to end it all.

I banked at A.B.S.A. bank, shouted at all-and-sundry to settle their debt, then faxed proof-of-payment to the Devil to undo my debt to God. I imagined that both Al Qaeda and the American C.I.A. were trying to assassinate me; I thought President George Bush had a hotline wired into my telephone. I fled my car into bushes at night, believing an armoured personnel carrier filled with Russian Black Ops (Special Forces) were arriving to kill me. I thought that car number plates were encrypted secret messages for me. I posted crucifixes of red masking tape onto the windows of my house and car to protect me from danger, from evil. Convinced I could see the serpent slit-eyes of those destined for Hell in the Rat Race, and I believed I could smell when I was in danger. A foreigner with a dark history tried murdering me with a screwdriver. I smeared my blood all over my body and face, then beat my car with a large hammer.

I stole a boerewors sausage from a chain store, beheaded it and ate the snake raw in a parking lot. I was a psycho-killer robot machine hellbent on survival. I believed that I was both Jesus and the Devil in the same body. I suppose we all have that in us, good and bad, but mine accentuated.

I saw a vision, an apparition, of Mother Teresa dressed as an angel in white robes under the veil, her face was like that of a black witch. I saw images of shrivelled-up black human bodies in Hell. I heard voices calling me the Devil. I also heard persistent knocking noises in my head which I thought were assassins at my front door coming to put a bullet into my forehead. I was terrified and took refuge in a church; I was exhausted and fell asleep there.

The dark side overcame better angels of my nature. I become unsound. I’ve been in cop vans a couple of times now and arrested and injected to sleep by four tough guys and awoke in a forensic (police) hospital outside Krugersdorp, Sterkfontein. There were punch-ups in that place. I have schizophrenia (later thought to be schizoaffective disorder) and that I need to take daily medication for the rest of my life. I was shocked and frightened. What had happened to me? I was not the quiet, gentleman people once knew.

After observation, I was discharged and shortly thereafter, moved down to Cape Town. I stopped taking my medication, refusing to believe I had an illness.

The same thing happened three times over. The cops sprayed pepper into my eyes, forcibly shoved me into the back of a police van. Drove me around town at night threatening to kill me and dump me in a black township; and told me there were rumours that I was going to disappear into thin air off the record books. They said: “Yes, tonight you are going to die” and also threatened to kill my pet and dachshund dogs by chopping them into tiny pieces. They cocked their pistols and said, “yes, we are going to kill you”, ready for the kill. It seemed that everybody wanted me dead, me most of all.

In Valkenburg psychiatric hospital, I spent time with murderers, rapists, psychopaths, manic depressives, attempted suicides, people with schizophrenia, a 50-something combat veteran suffering from flashbacks and nightmares; and others. Somebody smeared his face with faeces. Sick people and I were one of them. I was broken mentally in that place, tamed, pacified and thwarted with pills.

I have the symptoms of schizophrenia. Weight gain, sedentary lifestyle, heavy smoking, lack of motivation (avolition). Boredom, loneliness, emotional outbursts (crying), insomnia, lack of enjoyment of life (anhedonia). I used to weigh a muscular 76 kilograms; now I am 116 kilos with a body mass index (B.M.I.) of 44. Fat, morbidly obese! I have now recognised that I do have an illness, and I have taken medication for five years and am seemingly stable and healthy now.

They tell me I’m schizophrenic. Still, sometimes I wonder if it’s just some bizarre and undocumented burnout-related stress disorder. I’m a type-A personality, an alpha male, and like to live, burn, burn. I’m going to be applying for a government disability grant.

I was unemployed for 6 years, and my life wasted away; I suffered severe anxiety, panic attacks out of fear of ending up on the streets, which I did for a while as schizophrenics so often do. I lived out of my car and in a sleeping bag in a caravan/trailer park. The anxiety was so severe that I could feel electrical spasms in my stomach, like bolts of life-sapping energy in my suicidal death throes.

I was so tense that my hands were shaking and my voice was shrill, high-pitched. I tried suicide using an aesthetic and a black garbage bag, like what my father did.

I slowly picked myself up, dusted myself off and started all over again. I eventually got a job in a one-horse village in Austria, then as a technical sales rep and visited Australia, Austria, Finland, Sweden, Norway, Germany, Switzerland, Turkey and the Sultanate of Oman. The multi-national company made me an offer to work in Frankfurt, and I went there with a massive salary but quit after 5 weeks of boredom, inability to perform and loneliness.

I came back to Muizenburg in Cape Town and after a month resolved to write my story because I have nothing else to do with time. I’m a stranger in one of my old hometowns, a nobody. Nobody knows me anymore. I’ll fade away, vanish into the ether of the cosmos.

General Douglas Macarthur said that soldiers never die; they fade away. It’s no use playing doctor to my disease. My friends know that I’m in trouble, and what I’ve been through, how my mind was deep-roasted, and my soul crucified. It’s not sad. Am I normal; am I right or wrong? You be the judge.


When I try to sleep at night, I can only dream in red; the outside world is black and white with only one colour dead. I’ve been running down a dusty road, but I don’t think I’ll ever make it home again. The truth is out, the sins told. The race runs, the book reads and begins to show. The people who have crippled me, I want to see them burn. The gates of life have closed on me, and there’s just no return. I wish that the hands of doom could take my mind away. And I don’t care if I don’t see again the light of day. Got no religion, ain’t got no friends. Got all I want and I don’t need to pretend. Don’t try to reach me because I’ll tear out your mind. I’ve seen the future, and I’ve left it all behind.

Once I was a lover
And I searched behind her eyes for her
And soon there’ll be someone
To tell her I was just alive
And though she has forgotten
All of my rubbish dreams
I find myself searching
Through the ashes of my ruins
For the days when I smiled
And the hours that ran wild
With the magic of her eyes
And the silence of my world
And sometimes I wonder
Just for a while
Will she ever remember me?


Look into my eyes, and you’ll see who I am. My name is Lucifer, and please take my hand

Nobody is more shocked than I am over what has happened in my life. Once upon a time, I was a bloody human being. For the love of Christ, before you judge me, have some sympathy for this Devil! Don’t judge a man until you’ve walked in his moccasins.

Keith Wilson




Experience in Explosives, Fertilizers, Heavy Chemicals and Author. Love People, High Tech, Space and Afrikaans/English Translator.

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Mattheus Frederik

Mattheus Frederik

Experience in Explosives, Fertilizers, Heavy Chemicals and Author. Love People, High Tech, Space and Afrikaans/English Translator.

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