Chapter 1: Humble Beginings

CAPE DOMINION

A novel by Marshal B Roaman

Copyright & Rights Notice

Copyright © 2026 by Marlon Abrahams, writing as Marshal B Roaman. All rights reserved worldwide.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, transmitted, adapted, or distributed in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the copyright holder, except for brief quotations used in reviews or criticism as permitted by law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, places, or events is coincidental and unintended.

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First published 11 May 2026.

Chapter 1

It was the morning of January 6, 2026 and the Mail and Guardian newspaper ran an article on the forthcoming local government elections in Cape Town, South Africa. It claimed that if the various political parties could ensure a good turnout at the polls, the party who succeeded best at this strategy, would win control of the City of Cape Town and the Western Cape Province.

The Cape Province remains an enigma in terms of its racial profile and political colouration. To understand it you had to have been born there and lived in the strangely unique environment.

Johan Baatjies was born on the Cape Flats during the horrendous apartheid era. His parents were spectacular under achievers who somehow managed to keep his family of 4 siblings alive until they all reached adulthood.

This morning he sat on the balcony of his 3-story mansion overlooking the splendid hills of Durbanville, the well-to-do neighbourhood in Cape Town’s Northern suburbs. On a clear day he could see all the way to the Atlantic Ocean, with the majestic Table Mountain casting its watchful eye over the Cape’s flat lands (known locally as the Cape Flats due to its topography). It was strange, he thought, that some South Africans from other provinces thought that the Cape Flats was a series of apartment blocks. When in actual fact is is an expansive, low-lying, flat area situated to the southeast of the Cape Town CBD.

According to historians the land between Blaauwberg and Muizenberg beaches was once covered by the ocean, making Table Mountain and island. When the oceans receded, the land was as flat as the proverbial pancake.

Johan was fed-up, he had had enough, he read the article and his mouth suddenly tasted bile, he thought about his wealth and suddenly realised that he needed to do something drastic about his life, about the legacy he would leave behind. At 53 years old, and still healthy and strong, he figured he still had time to achieve his goal. A goal to achieve Coloured unity, and to give the Western Cape to the people it was always supposed to belong to, the Coloureds!

Recently, the December tourist season had been marred by regular articles in newspapers of racism towards local inhabitants, Coloured inhabitants. Just a week ago, a prominent Coloured politician and leader of her own political party, was denied entrance to a restaurant by a white restaurant manager. She claimed it was a racially motivated incident, he said the restaurant was full.

“Enough”, thought Johan, things have got to change.

Johan’s financial value exceeded well over U$10bn, but, as is the norm in Africa, it had proved prudent to keep this knowledge very, very quiet. Most of his money was invested in foreign projects under vague companies registered on off-shore islands. Many of the people employed by his multi-faceted companies had no idea that they were in fact working for him. In the Cape he was known in business circles as a previously illiterate Coloured businessman who had made a fortune when he was given the opportunity to run a division of a construction company.

Johan had worked at the construction company as a sweeper, which literally meant that he had to sweep the floors in the building at the end of each day. He got the job when he ran away from school at the age of 11. His contagious sense of humour and boundless energy created an opportunity for an audience with the white owner of the company.

Peter Ackerman had a late meeting. The factory at Ackerman Construction had closed its doors for the day at 17:30 and the last of the workers and management staff had left the premises by about 18:30. It was raining hard and the Cape doctor (the local name for the vicious South Easterly wind that howled through the Cape in winter and wreaked havoc on its citizens) was blowing up a fearsome gale.

Johan had been sweeping the large concrete floor of the premises and decided to relax a while and wait out the storm. He found a copy of the daily newspaper and browsed through it, using his index finger to guide his eye along the sentences, reading out loud. He knew he had to learn to read properly, he knew that only people who could read and write became successful.

He was sitting on a bale of steel wire in one of the huge garages. A few metres away was the boss’s huge Mercedes. Black with tinted windows, the car was enormous and represented wealth, respect and power, or so Johan thought.

Peter’s meeting was drawing to a close, he’d had to have a 3-way conference call with his production manager and a supplier of raw steel from Brazil, nothing serious, just agreeing on volumes, and delivery times. He was in a good mood as he made his way down to his car.

Johan heard the boss coming down the stairs and braced himself for a sighting of the big man. Peter was tall and broad; his greying hair was thick and curly and his walk was that of a hulking giant who did not have time to look at the flowers growing way down beneath his feet.

Johan watched him get into the car. A few seconds later the huge 3 litre Mercedes engine roared to life as Peter fed the hungry engine with a push of fuel.

He engaged the reverse gear and slowly made his way out of the garage. Johan noticed that the car was…. well… hobbling a bit and it took him a few seconds to realise that the car had a left rear flat.

Peter stopped the car and got out, moving to the rear, he looked at the flat tyre and cursed out loud. Running his fingers through his hair, he felt irritated, he hated working on cars, he paid people to do this kind of thing. The thought of getting his hands dirty black with brake dust made him cringe. And who would he phone now, it was late.

“Moenie worrie nie Meneer, I’ll fix it for you,” said Johan.

“What,” said Peter somewhat startled by the scruffy looking street urchin that seemingly appeared out of nowhere. “Who are you? And where did you come from, what are you doing here, how old are you?”

“Open the boot please Meneer, I’ll fix it,” Johan repeated.

Something about Johan’s smile told Peter to open the boot and let the boy do the job.

“My name is Johan, Meneer, I work here, I sweep the floors,” Johan said to Peter has he deftly removed the spare wheel from the boot of the car.

“This is a nice car sir,” said Johan, “It must go very fast hey”.

Continued tomorrow 12 May 2026, before 12pm