Hold the black arm bands: The sad closing chapter in Peter Roebuck's life exposed by his final victim

And so, finally, the truth is out. Broken not by the South African Police, who witnessed the suicide of cricket writer Peter Roebuck, and not by the cricket writers, who continue to eulogise about their dodgy colleague.

Ultimately, the awful truth comes from the man last abused by Roebuck, the former Somerset captain convicted of common assault against three 19-year-old South Africans in 2001.

When Roebuck threw himself 70 feet to his death out of his Newlands Sun hotel window on Saturday night at around 9pm, he did so after being confronted by two policemen and a 26-year-old called Itai Gondo.

When I dared to question the nature of Roebuck's death and his proclivities in life, I was widely condemned for homophobia and scandalous innuendo - though many appreciated a more honest obituary than the ones being written by his fellow cricket writers on Monday morning.

Gondo puts that shameful minority in their place. He explains how he was lured into a meeting via Facebook by the articulate former Millfield and Cambridge graduate, a man granted a position of status as a cricket writer and commentator by unquestioning ABC and Fairfax executives despite his 2001 convictions.

Gondo describes himself as a "penniless refugee" from Zimbabwe who knew one of the "adopted sons" who live at Roebuck's "cricket coaching" home in Pietermaritzburg.

Roebuck, 55, soon started signing his messages to Gondo "dad" as he lured the vulnerable 26-year-old in to his clutches with tales of how he looked after his "17 adopted children" and how he would help Gondo through university.

Gondo, with no knowledge of Roebuck's previous convictions for caning young men in his care, wasn't too worried when Roebuck apparently agreed to the meeting by saying "Okay my boy, bring stick in case I need to beat you!"
A two-hour meeting at a Cape Town hotel followed before the inevitable. Gondo claims Roebuck "pinned him to the bed and launched a sickening sex assault" according to the Sun newspaper in London.
Gondo, who was not paid for his revelations, said the attack finally came to a halt when his telephone rang. He claims: "I was in shock and told myself that it couldn't be happening."

Gondo then tells how Roebuck apologised on Facebook the next day. He sent this message: "Worried bout u, hope u ok". Gondo responded: "One day the long arm of the law will catch up with your evil misdeeds."
Gondo, traumatised by Roebuck's attack, then reported the incident to the police, bringing a charge of sexual assault. When the police arrived to question him, Roebuck called a friend for legal help - and when his colleague returned, Roebuck had departed through the window.

A source close to the investigation in Cape Town, quoted by The Sun, said: "Gondo needed money to go to university. He is not gay and is not a sex worker. He contacted Roebuck after a friend said he might sponsor him. But he said Roebuck pounced on him.

"It has left him traumatised. He got away but was so shocked it took days for his girlfriend to talk him into going to the police. Roebuck was about to be arrested when he jumped from the window."

This morning, Gondo reveals he is having counselling after the horror of his past week. The police say they are examining Roebuck's lap top computer to confirm the facts.

Clearly Gondo's statement to the Sun will rile Roebuck's vociferous defenders. They will say Gondo is a rent-boy, out to make money. They will claim he is an agent of Robert Mugabe, send to finish Roebuck, a critic of the Zimbabwean regime. They will insist Roebuck was thrown out of the window by the notorious South African police - but it truth that sort of thing ended with Apartheid.

Others will claim Roebuck did nothing wrong before he leapt to his death, that attempting to have a relationship with a 26-year-old man is no crime.

And of course, they'd be right. Caning is not strictly against the law. Neither is propositioning friends on Facebook. Assaulting them, attempting to control them, using you status as a famous cricket commentator to force them into a compromising situation is what I'm on about. Especially when you have convictions for similar offences against vulnerable young men in your care.

So those - like Kevin McCallum of the Johannesburg Star earlier this week - who suggested Roebuck's parting is a time for a wailing and gnashing of teeth are, to my mind, utterly wrong.

McCallum suggested both South Africa and Australia should wear black armbands for the man who captained England just once - to an embarrassing one-day defeat against The Netherlands - even after I'd send him a heads-up over Roebuck's dodgy past.

Last year, Rodney Hartman, the doyen of South African cricket writers and a leading light behind the hosting of the 2003 Cricket World Cup, was not even granted that privilege following his - natural - death. Today in the press box at The Wanderers as the second Test gets underway, many of those who commented anonymously on this blog, calling me all the names under the sun, will squirm uncomfortably at their key boards.

I suspect some even knew about Roebuck's past, his modus operandi when it came to social contacts. But they chose to stay silent and rave about his "brave, fearless, scathing" cricket writing.

For balance, you should now read http://www.crikey.com.au/?p=259676 - but note the author himself back-tracks on the murder allegation in his own comments section. I do not judge Peter Roebuck. I am simply attempting to present the alternate version - the grubby side - of a grim suicide.

And Roebuck, let's face it, is not fit to fire up my old Rand Daily Mail colleague Hartman's lap top. End of.

"Unavoidably detained" by the South African Police in Potchefstroom. A World Cup saga worth reading.

THE South African security police have just brought me back to my room in Potchefstroom. I thought I was never going to make it. I have shown them my British passport. I am now a free man. Phew.

For those who doubt the veracity of the security at this World Cup, rest easy. I thought I would never see another football match about an hour ago. That’s not a criticism, it’s a compliment.

Problem is, I tried to wander in to the grounds of the Potchefstroom University High Performance Centre, where Spain – the favourites – are due to train before they kick-off their first Group G game against Switzerland on June 16.

They arrive on June 11, a little later than the rest. I wanted to do another of my classically amateur “World Cup base” videos for YouTube, see where Cesc Fabregas was going to stay for a month, sample the atmosphere of one of the finest high-altitude training centres in the world.

Then Arnold struck. He stopped me at the gate. I was in a suit, video camera in hand. “Sorry sir, you can go no further.”

Fair enough. Then his pal Plaaitjies turned up. In Afrikaans, his supervisor ordered him to put me in front of the closed-circuit television camera. He said this was “baie belangrik” and added “hou hom daar”.

Problem is, I can speak the local language. He was saying it was “very important” and “hold him there.” Despite the near-freezing Highveld winter evening, I started to sweat.

My driver Samuel, from the Lemon Tree guest house, turned up to get me. By then the local police had turned up. I was in serious trouble. Then the security police joined them. And two burly lads from the High Performance Centre.

Look I wasn’t arrested. They didn’t read me my rights. But I was certainly “unavoidably detained”.

Now I know how men with beards feel when they walk through airports. I tried to usual smooth talk, telling them how wonderful their country is, how I’d written an entire page on African football in the local Johannesburg Star that very day. Then the phone rang. The local radio station, 702 wanted to talk about the day’s pre-World Cup goings-on. Oops. Later.

Then the fateful question: “Your passport please sir.” And of course, I’d left it in my room. South Africans always have their identity documents on hand. I was lost. It was a life-term for sure.

I showed them my press card from the now-defunct London Lite newspaper, valid until next year. Not good enough.

I eked my passport number out of my mobile phone. Not good enough.

A bloke called Sam started making phone calls. I was escorted to see my driver and told him to go home. God, it was like South Africa when I was a kid. Full of dark secrets and whispered Afrikaans threats.

But these weren’t the same sjambok-wielding monsters of my youth. The picture above is just a stock pic. I didn't dare take a snap while I was there!

But by now we were all getting on famously, despite the tension. I explained I could speak Afrikaans and knew a bit about the place. The big bearded bloke assigned to guard me explained that, just last week, some “men with tattoos” had visited the centre claiming to be from “International Intelligence”. They were nothing of the kind. They’re still tracking them down.

Spain’s multi-millionaires will soon be here. No chances can be taken. And of course, they’re right. But God, it was cold.

An hour slipped by. I found myself enjoying the conversation, whilst apologising profusely for not phoning ahead to check my visit was okay. We talked about the old South Africa, the new Rainbow Nation... and the importance of recent events in Soweto, when the Pretoria Bulls and their notoriously conservative fans were forced to move their Super 15 rugby final to South Africa’s most notorious township. And it went off like a dream, all races drinking, celebrating together.

We talked about crime, the changes in the country. We discussed football – Plaaitjies reckons the Dutch will win the World Cup, Alfred was sticking to South Africa.

Then they escorted me back to Room 17 at the Lemon Grass guest house. Fellow guests were a little bemused as I led Sam, not a bloke to be trifled with, into my room with a cohort. I showed him my passport.

He leafed through it slowly. “Okay,” he said, “It all checks out. Carry this with you at all times in South Africa. I’ll call you in the morning, show your round.”

With that, they were off. I was a free man. But take my advice, don’t take any liberties with the South Africans if you’re coming out. They’ll be all over you. But as long as you stay polite and carry your passport, you’ll be fine.

But I can’t seem to get my heart-rate down to under 100.

For classically amateur videos, try http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sAousno69rI or http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XjzwzNhaeTM