A true story of murder and the miscarriage of justice.
“Likewise, every good tree bears good fruit, but a bad tree bears bad fruit. A good tree cannot bear bad fruit, and a bad tree cannot bear good fruit. Thus, by their fruit you will recognise them.”
Fruit of a Poisoned Tree by Antony Altbeker is about one of the most sensational legal cases in South African history, the Inge Lotz murder trial. The book explores the murder of a young Stellenbosch master’s student; the prosecution of her boyfriend and the exposure of police fabrication and investigation.
On March 16, 2005, Inge Lotz was found brutally murdered in her apartment around 22:30 by Christo Pretorius after receiving a call from Lotz’s friend. The discovery he made was gruesome and extremely violent: Lotz had multiple stab wounds in her neck, chest, and ribs. She had been beaten with a hammer on her head. Her forehead was crushed inwards, leaving behind the flesh hanging on her face. According to the investigators, there was no sign of forced entry, and all her valuable items, such as her laptop and cell phone, were left untouched. This means her attacker was known to her.
Her boyfriend, Fred van der Vyver, quickly became the prime suspect. Although he had an alibi, the evidence found on the scene proved otherwise. His fingerprints were found on the DVD she had been watching the afternoon of the attack, a bloody shoeprint matched Fred’s Hi-tech shoes, and lastly, the hammer used to crush her skull was found in his car.
The trial became an exposé in which the defence and the prosecution were trying to discredit each other. Fred was charged with her murder but was later acquitted because it had been discovered that there was dishonesty from the prosecution. So, the case went cold, and Inge did not get justice.
A friend of mine, Mmathapelo Agatha Motlhale, recently passed away. She, too, fell victim to GBV at the hands of her step-uncle. I remember how much she would complain about him constantly terrorising her and her mother. To the point of getting a protection order, which did not last long. He violated the protection order rules one day and tried to attack her mother. While protecting her mother, she slipped and fell. While on the floor, he trampled on her leg with enough force that broke her ankle. When she reported the incident, he was arrested but was not held in custody for long. Upon his return, he kept terrorising them until he got her mother arrested.
The description of the brutality of the murder really shocked my nervous system. I just kept wondering what type of rage and hatred a person would have to have in their heart to commit such an atrocity. To make matters worse, these crimes are usually committed by people we love and trust. Strangers are less likely to kill another stranger in the manner these crimes are committed. It is so unsettling how the danger is almost always in the same house or family as these victims.
Since her murder, femicide and gender-based violence (GBV) rates have increased drastically. Unfortunately, these murders are committed by intimate or family members of the victim. Still, the justice system continues to fail women.
Unfortunately, during the court cases and living in hotels in fear of her step-uncle, she got an infection on the broken ankle, which resulted in her death. The step-uncle may not have killed her directly, but he influenced her cause of death. Had justice prevailed and the step-uncle arrested, her leg would not have been broken in a scuffle, she would have never had an infection and died.
This book reveals a profound miscarriage of justice and serves as a chilling indictment of the professional bankruptcy and systemic rot within the South African criminal justice system. Just like Inge and Mmathapelo, many other women were failed by the justice system. Many of them would have been alive if the system were just and fair.
FEATURE IMAGE: Fruit of a Poisoned Tree by Antony Altbeker Photo: Naledi Maraisane
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Bleeding every month against our will is already too much to deal with.
South Africa treats sex like a public health crisis and periods like a personal problem. You can walk into almost any campus clinic, any bathroom, any office, and find a bowl of free condoms. No questions asked. Try finding a free pad. Sex is a choice; bleeding is not.
This is not just a South African oversight, but a continuous pattern rooted in a system that has historically centred male bodies as the default. Male needs are treated as public health priorities, and female biology a private inconvenience.
The hypocrisy is costing South African girls their education, according to Dr Lydia Chibwe from the University of Pretoria, roughly 30% of school-going girls in this country skip school each month. That means missed classes, stifled opportunities, and compromised dignity.
I have noticed something rather absurd: I can access free condoms more easily than I can access pads. And those condoms are usually made for men. Which is odd because sex is a choice, periods are not. A simple walk into most female bathrooms on campus, and you will not find a single dispensing machine for pads or tampons. If there are any, they are always empty. If your period arrives unexpectedly, or if you just cannot afford products that month, you are on your own.
In the South African economy, sanitary products have become a luxury that many girls cannot afford, so they resort to toilet paper, newspaper, or even socks, which are not designed to sit against the body for hours, catching blood. Not only is that undignified, but it is a health risk that can cause infections, rashes, and toxic shock syndrome.
There is a shift in conversation in Africa. At a regional level, the African Coalition for Menstrual Health Management has been pushing for menstrual health to be recognised as a human right, not a private issue. In Kenya, two days of paid menstrual leave for employees was introduced in December 2025.
Conversations about allocating national budgets for sanitary products in schools in the above countries are being had. Yet, South Africa has only removed Value Added Tax (VAT) on menstrual products.
Condoms displayed on the table in the Campus Health Clinic reception area. Photo: Naledi Maraisane
Access and cost aside, women and girls still have to deal with the pain.
Period cramps are not just ‘discomfort’, but they can be so severe that you pass out; I know, because it has happened to me. The pain is unbearable, and yet, in South Africa, we do not get sick days for it. There is an expectation to sit in lectures, meet deadlines, and show up to work while our uteruses contract like they are trying to escape our bodies. We push through because “that is just what women do.”
Add cultural stigma to that, and it gets worse. Many girls are taught that periods are dirty, shameful, and not to be discussed. So, they do not ask for help. They do not ask for pads. They just disappear for a week each month and fall behind.
We are always fighting to belong in spaces that were not built for us. The last thing we need is to be shunned for bleeding against our will every month. We should not have to work and study through agonising pain, while still struggling to afford and access basic menstrual products and services. If society can make space for free condoms, it can make space for free pads. Because equality does not start when we stop bleeding, it starts when we stop being punished for it.
FEATURE IMAGE: An empty sanitary pad dispensary box located in Solomon Mahlangu’s basement female bathrooms. Photo: Naledi Maraisane
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I should have listened to my intuition when it told me to stay home.
On April 15, 2026, we went on a class trip to Kgosi Mampuru II Prison in Pretoria. The main attractions were the museum and the gallows. The museum was fine. Necessary, even. The Correctional Officer told us about uniforms, rehabilitation methods, and workshops where prisoners learn poultry and woodwork, among other things. She explained the difference between the A-group and the B-group, and how, after six months, social workers and psychologists decide who gets to walk unchained, but supervised, and who gets to work.
She told us dinner is at 14:00. I remember flinching. Dinner at 14:00, then nothing until 08:00 the next morning. I cannot imagine that hunger. But I understood. This is discipline. This is a consequence. From the description, the food sounded unappetising, but when you have lost your freedom, food is grace. The museum was an educational experience.
Then we hiked to the C-Max section; the walk there was long.
At the gate, the other correctional officer, Mr. Kgomo, asked, “Does anyone have physical challenges?” Silence. “Spiritual challenges?” My hand went up before I could stop it. I am spiritually gifted, which means I feel things other people cannot. Energies cling to me. They make me sick. I do not talk about it. People do not understand, and what they do not understand, they demonise. But I could not lie. Not there.
The Gallows, a place where apartheid legalised murder.
Once I stepped over the threshold, it hit me. A weight, sudden and violent, pressed into my chest. My head split with pain. My ears rang. My eyes burned. I knew, instantly, I had made a mistake. That place is not empty. It is crowded. It is full of ancestral rage, betrayal, and grief. I could smell blood, though the floors were scrubbed clean. I could not see them, but I felt them; the men whose fate was already decided. They walked in alive and left in boxes. I could hear the cries of people who died fighting so I could have freedom.
The echoes of ancestors who never got named. Lost souls pacing because no one came to claim them. I felt my stomach turn. I wanted to leave and cry. But I could not. Not there. Not with classmates watching. Not when being gifted is already something people whisper about. So, I swallowed it, and I carried it. The same way those men had to carry their pain.
Days later, and I’m still sick; my spirit has not settled. My body aches in places medicine cannot touch. Death does not scare me. But historical death fuelled by hatred, oppressive laws, and a system that weighed a Black man and found him disposable, scares me.
I found Mr. Kgomo extremely insensitive when he said, “God loves us all,” basically preaching about forgiveness. That to me sounded much like he was justifying the brutality imposed by the apartheid government.
You do not have to understand what it is like to experience a room full of souls pressing against your chest or understand generational trauma freezing up your blood. Just understand that it happened.
They died so I could be free.
FEATURED IMAGE: A portrait of Naledi Maraisane. Photo: Alaistair Russell
Since her announcement as the Democratic Alliance’s mayoral candidate for Johannesburg, Helen Zille has dominated national headlines. In this bonus episode of We Should Be Writing podcast, hosts Lulah Mapiye and Bonolo Mokonoto dissect a media meet-and-greet with the mayoral hopeful. From her extensive political résumé to her controversial public utterance, we examine why the Democratic Alliance has chosen Hellen Zille as their candidate for the 2027 local mayoral elections. Additionally, […]
