Twenty-eight female guards were unfairly dismissed by a security company because the client‚ Metrora.
I recently had a scary dream. I had dozed off watching a Mike Tyson TV documentary, wondering if Muhammad Ali would have survived Tyson's bombs had the two met in their prime.
In my drowsiness I fantasised about being Ali but he was, for some reason, floating like a bee and stinging like a butterfly!
The next thing I knew I was in the ring with the animal they call Tyson. But then I was not Ali at his best - I was just good 'ol Charlie Mogale.
I tried to do the Ali shuffle but my knees were jelly.
By the grace of God I suddenly found myself sprawled on the canvas while the referee counted me out, hearing my son at ringside pleading for me to stand up and fight: "Come on, pa! Are you scared of him? Fight back ... stand up!"
So I stood up and submitted to even more pummeling. Each time I tried to swing my hands, they flailed uncontrollably in the air while Iron Mike feasted on my battered frame.
The only way I earned a reprieve was when I woke up needing to go to the toilet. After that I refused to fall asleep again until I had flushed my mind of anything to do with the boxing game.
I still count my blessings that it was only a pugilistic nightmare.
Now some neighbour of mine years back got the whipping of his life from a youngster who klapped him in front of his own family - and believe me, this was no dream.
He was a particularly short guy and on the day of his big fight he had sent his son on a shopping errand - and ended up being mugged of his dad's change by one of the tsotsis playing dice nearby.
The young fellow ran home crying and told his father what happened.
Bra Mancane (not his real name) jumped up from his seat, stormed out of his house and walked purposefully in the direction of the dice game, his boy by his side.
Behind him, urging him on, was his wife and daughters. This was the day papa would fix some bastard.
As he got to the tsotsis he slowed down, reality apparently dawning on him.
While he was still deciding what to do the thug who had done the mugging lifted his head and realised instantly that he now had to face the wrath of the boy's father and family.
It was not to be.
"En nou?' the thug demanded, preparing to pounce.
"My son says err ..." - he did not finish his sentence. The tsotsi pounced on him, struck him down, emptied his pockets and then calmly returned to his dice game.
Bra Mancane, badly dishevelled after rolling in the dirt, limped back home with his distraught family by his side.
His loyal wife even tried to give him comfort, saying, "S'ka wara, Papa. O tla mo thola." (Don't worry my dear. You will get him).
The lesson is clear: never dream you are the Greatest, and never start a fight you can't finish on your terms.