This is a story of twin boys – identical in appearance but in nothing else. Ashraf is all rage and action – a lover of the real. Firoze is a dreamer and reader - a lover of the ideal. The Dawood family is from Muslim Fordsburg. The father (formally at least) is a merchant and the mother a part-time philosophy lecturer at Wits. Their uncle, known universally as Ten-Per-Cent, lives in the house and shares the ginger-beer factory business with his brother. The story begins in Johannesburg but ends in the US. Ashraf is jailed in Fort Dix Prison in Texas, and Firoze is just settling in New York with his new young wife. Among the cast of characters are Mohammed Atta (of 9/11 notoriety), George Bush, a Pakistani Brigadier in Peshawar, a host of lawyers and assorted crooks of one kind or another, plus various Korean massage parlour girls. Firoze is the narrator and he tells the story while in prison – before finally tricking Ashraf into changing places. The story offers itself as an unconventional family memoir that tells the story of the fortunes of a family of crooks – the green-eyed thieves. The mother is an accomplished shoplifter; the father a master of all forms of theft – including all the suits of the Aga Khan who happened to be the same size as Dawood senior. Firoze, the sophisticated dreamer, is not much good at thieving but Ashraf lives for little else.

As a teenager, Fred Khumalo greeted his friends with a handshake and the words "touch my blood". It implied friendship and trust. The saying became his name. More than that, it became the way he viewed the world. Everything touched Fred Khumalo. Twice he was bewitched. Twice his father - the "country bumpkin" - took him to inyangas to have the "demons" banished. Twice his mother - the "city girl" - took him to a doctor to have the "fevers" cured. He smoked dagga with conmen and criminals, he pickpocketed "corpses" on the Friday night trains and worked as a gardener in the larney suburbs. He studied journalism and shacked up with whiteys in a commune, for a while the only darkie in a crazy swirl of booze, drugs and sex. And then the bloody fighting that tore apart KwaZulu/Natal in the 1980s touched his life and sucked him into a place of horror and violence that threatened to destroy him. When a friend died in his arms with the worlds "They really got me, Touch my blood. They really got me", Khumalo realised that if he was to outlive the madness, he had to run. From the journalist and Sunday Times columnist comes a startlingly honest, humorous and poignant autobiography about growing up in a time of laughter and heartache.