The Ghost of Samuel Cetswayo: Based on a True Story

By William T. Pollock

Set almost entirely in South Africa during the apartheid years, The Ghost of Samuel Cetswayo is an impelling and remarkable story, linking many individuals, their political and social aspirations, and how their personal lives and actions have impacted upon the lives of many others, in particular a young Xhosa speaking man, and a Scottish born expatriate; two innocent men not remotely associated.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Mar 19, 2009
• ISBN: 9781456791322

William T. Pollock

Scottish born, William T. Pollock has lived for the most part of his teenage and adult life in South Africa. After completing his education, he entered into the electrical engineering field, and progressed from there into project management before pursuing a career in small business development. Bill currently lives in the United Kingdom, working as a consultant in the e-business services industry. Based on a true story, The Ghost of Samuel Cetswayo is Bills first, in a planned series of books.

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© 2009 William T. Pollock. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage or retrieval system without the permission in writing from the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 4/22/2009

ISBN: 978-1-4343-7125-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4389-4920-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-9132-2 (ebk)

Visit www.williamtpollock.com

Contents

Notes by the author

Dedications

In memory

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

The flashbacks …

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

The flashbacks continue …

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

The flashbacks are always there …

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

The flashbacks, my nightmares …

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Part Two

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Two years later …

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Six weeks later …

Chapter Thirty

Notes by the author

Whilst I am not a writer of books, this work endeavours to piece together and document the direct, and indirect events that led to my financial ruin, and my emotional breakdown in the nineteen-nineties. It is a story that I have wanted to tell for such a long time; I have written this for my own comprehension of the circumstances, for my own sanity. This is my account of many events, some of which are taken from the scribbled, and often indecipherable pages of my diaries, others are those that come directly from the pages of history, and many that only came to light through my search for answers in my own struggle for survival. Further, it attempts to describe a group of individuals, and their actions surrounding the March, nineteen sixty massacre in South Africa, and in particular the terrible events immediately thereafter; all of which are in a strange way related to my own adversity. Primarily, it is the story of Samuel Cetswayo, a truly brave, and humble man who was never in a position to document his account.

I have made every effort to keep footnotes within this book to a minimum, however, it has not always been possible. The footnotes are important points of reference and/or language translation, and are often critical in helping the reader understand the context in which my story has been written. With respect to the historical and political content throughout, and in particular my first chapter, I can make no apologies; from my perspective it really is necessary for those who may not be familiar with the diversity of South Africa and its people, and in particular their difficult evolution through the pre and post apartheid eras.

My apologies to the great Afrikaner, Xhosa and Zulu nations for any unintentional inaccuracies in the use of your native languages.

Lastly, I sincerely appreciate that you have found the time to read my long, and often complex story. To those that still have a personal interest in my whereabouts, be assured that I’m still around, but you will be pleased to know that my diaries have now been destroyed.

William T. Pollock, 2009.

‘… to discover the truth is one thing, to find the courage to disclose it, is another … but then, if you are alive and well, why would you ever want to?’

The lady on the train, 2000.

Enkosi Sammy, sibonane.

Dedications

This book is dedicated to my mother, and to my great nephew.

Dalzella Pollock

10-12-1927 ~ 20-06-2003

‘Your suffering has ended mum, we wish you eternal peace.’

Callum C

20-09-2007

‘A new life, and a new beginning.’

In memory

William Walker Pollock

01-11-1923 ~ 19-09-1944

‘Fell in battle at Oosterbeek (near Arnhem, Holland) during

Operation Market Garden, 17-25 September 1944.’

Janet Pollock

30-09-1925 ~ 03-12-2002

‘ Sweet dreams, my apologies for not showing my face sooner.’

Harry Erasmus

‘Ek wens dat ek die kans gehad het om jou vroëer in my lewe te kon ontmoet. Rus in vrede my goeie vriend.’

Acknowledgements

A special thank you to Shirley Ann, for your support, motivation and enthusiasm, and not least for helping me with my spelling. Hopefully you will always be a part of my life irrespective of where we both find ourselves in the future. My love to Katie, my dearest little companion.

To Roger and Denise G, for trusting in me, and giving me the confidence to trust in other people again.

Thank you to the select few who have had to put up with my endless drafts of often incoherent thoughts as I slowly pieced this story together: To Deti B and Michelle S, who’s feedback in the earlier days was so much appreciated. To the editorial team: Jo J, Jean R, Shirley J and Johanna C, your proof-reading skills as I approached the final chapters were invaluable.

My acknowledgement and gratitude to the following people, and organisations for their kind permission granted to me to use the quotations in this book, respectively:

[1] To Archbishop Emeritus Desmond Tutu for the use of one of his many quotations which is particularly appropriate to this story; and,

[2] To the Nelson Mandela Foundation for the use of the quotation taken as an extract from a speech made by President Mandela at a reception hosted by President Clinton at the White House, Washington DC, United States of America, in September 1998.

Prologue

South Africa

From the relative protection of the fertile eastern Cape, in a bid for a free and independent land, several parties of dissatisfied Dutch speaking farmers, consisting only of a few hundred men, women and children, bravely set off in different directions to make the long and arduous ‘Great Trek’ into the vast African interior … into the unknown. There they would build their farmsteads and cultivate the barren and often hostile virgin lands. It was their hope to restore an economic, cultural and political unity that would be independent of the British Empire’s controlling power and infiltration of its people.

The African interior was to reveal many very menacing threats. The mountainous region of the Drakensberg with its narrow gorges and steep rock precipices were treacherous and for so many it proved to be too difficult to negotiate with their heavily laden ox-drawn wagons which carried their entire household goods, their weapons, their agricultural implements and choice specimens of livestock. As those that had survived the ascent and the descent made their slow progress through the interior, they were to discover that the Kalahari Desert to the west of the Highveld was far more vast than their earlier reconnaissance expeditions had revealed and the bloodsucking tsetse fly made the journey almost intolerable, especially for those that had chosen to push farther north towards the Limpopo river. Neither man, nor beast would escape the often fatal effects of the malarial mosquito. With their numbers noticeably reduced, but still with great determination, the Dutch continued their journey towards the largely uninhabited central region. The many hundreds of indigenous people that they encountered along the way were displaced from their unmarked and unsecured lands. There were many skirmishes with the Africans, but these farmers were well equipped to deal with them, and they did so, very effectively.

After many months, the discovery of the seemingly endless but truly fertile land of the central Highveld, divided only by a precious and abundant supply of water, was that which many of these Dutch pioneers had prayed for, but it was at the great and painful cost of relinquishing the Cape, their homes, and in some cases their families.

Within the next two to three difficult years that followed, and as many more Dutch colonists arrived, vast farmsteads were established and soon they were reaping the rewards of the hard work and resulting yield from their well managed crops. For their own self preservation and growth, trade links with other successful Dutch farmers who had decided to settle in more northerly and in south-easterly regions were quickly established. As their farms grew so did the need for more labour to manage and harvest their rich crops. The Africans of these regions were self-sufficient in respect of food and would only work for the white farmers in exchange for something that they did not possess. They wanted arms and ammunition to replace their quickly becoming outdated weaponry. They also wanted to trade for the variety of high volume alcohol which the white men brought with them and for which they were quickly acquiring a taste. The Dutch were limited to how much weaponry they could or would want to give to the Africans. But their survival depended on the availability of a strong labour force; as a consequence it was the Dutch farmers decision to acquire labour by other means. Military style raids were soon organised in and around the more heavily populated eastern regions. Young black Africans, male and female, were forcibly removed from their villages to work on the Dutch farmlands. These children were known as ‘inboekselings’ (indentured people) and would remain as such under their new masters, until they reached their early to mid-twenties. In return for their work on the farms, the children were well fed and clothed. The Dutch were aware of the increasing divide between themselves and the regional tribes, but in their ignorance they hoped that after a few years the African children would absorb and integrate with the Dutch culture and create a class of people that would be more willing to work with them, than against them. By all accounts it did appear to be working.

By the 1850’s the Dutch farmers had acquired vast amounts of land either through a negotiated agreement with tribal leaders or where this was not possible, through seizure and dispossession. Private land ownership didn’t exist in southern Africa and the land that was ceded to the Dutch farmers by the tribal chiefs was really not that of those chiefs to give in exchange for the few hundred head of livestock that they were to receive. Other tribes who had not been consulted over the control of these lands became infuriated and soon there was discontentment amongst the African people.

Part One

Preteritus et praesto

‘… if you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor. If an elephant has its foot on the tail of a mouse and you say that you are neutral, the mouse will not appreciate your neutrality.’

Archbishop Emeritus Desmond Tutu,

former Archbishop of Cape Town

and Nobel Peace Laureate

Chapter One

Prelude to apartheid …

It had been another long and painful war. After more than two and a half years it had already claimed the lives of many thousands of people, and their livestock. War is a traumatic time for anyone caught up in it, and this one was no different from any other. The struggle had been particularly painful for the white Boer farmers who had been determined to fight until the bitter end for both of their republics that had been formally established almost fifty years earlier.

Early into the African summer of nineteen hundred and one, except for the far northern region of the Transvaal, the British were now in control of the central interior, the west, east and south of the Transvaal, and the strong Orange Free State republic. For many of the Boers this was now the bitter end and hundreds of them reluctantly surrendered their arms to the British regional posts on a daily basis. By this time, the majority of the Boers had lost everything that they had ever possessed and as they fought in the veld, their elderly parents, wives and children were being forcibly removed from their farmlands to the hastily erected British concentration camps. Although they were not considered an immediate threat, thousands of black African farm labourers who had become embroiled in the war were also removed. The Boer farmsteads were destroyed and Kitchener’s scorched earth policy left them with little means of re-supplying, or further funding their guerrilla style war efforts. Those that did choose to continue to fight quickly received the news that their loved ones whom were being held in the camps were being given much smaller rations than those whom had chosen to surrender. The chance of survival over a long period of internment was quickly becoming more unlikely as each week passed, particularly for the young, the sick and the elderly. By late January of nineteen hundred and two, the extremely hot summer was exacerbating the situation in the fly infested camps. The drone of the swarming flies could be heard as far off as five hundred metres from the enclosures. Conditions in the forty or more military style tented enclosures which the British had erected for the Boer internees, and the sixty camps for the black African men, women and children were extremely inadequate for the large numbers that were being held. Their daily food rations were small and innutritious and this poor diet together with the lack of hygienic facilities led to the outbreak of many endemic contagious diseases. The critical shortage of medical supplies and the consequential outbreak of Typhoid and Dysentery led to the deaths of many thousands of internees. The stench of death and decay was over-powering.

Due to a critical shortage of tents, the British were finding it hard to contain their Boer prisoners of war and it was decided to transport them to the coastal regions where they would be held on ships off-shore. But before long, and as numbers grew, it was becoming increasingly difficult to transport and accommodate them along the many routes to the sea. It was also quickly becoming too expensive and troublesome for the British military to provide supplies to their POW’s, as well as their own soldiers. The increasing attempts of other Boers to free the prisoners burdened their already over-stretched and unprepared soldiers. At extreme cost the British government decided to ship the POW’s to other colonies where camps could be quickly and cheaply erected to accommodate them. Amongst other countries, thousands were sent to Saint Helena, Portugal, Ceylon and India. The Boers were filled with rage and hatred for the British, but by the middle of May, the majority of these farmers no longer had any choice but to surrender. The Boer leaders reluctantly indicated to the British Command that they were ready to come to the table to negotiate a peace deal.

After many days of exhaustive negotiation in the small southern Transvaal town of Vereeniging, the content of a treaty was agreed upon. The end of the Boer War was imminent. The treaty was officially signed at Melrose House in Pretoria, on the thirty first of May, nineteen hundred and two. During July of the same year, the British government somewhat unwillingly released the ‘Casualties of the Second Anglo-Boer War 1899-1902.’

Its edited version read:

British Soldiers (Killed in battle): 7, 792

British Soldiers (Succumbed through disease): 14, 208

Boer Soldiers (Killed in battle): 6, 000 – 7, 000 (approx.)

Boer Civilians: (Succumbed): 20, 000 – 28, 000 (approx.)

Native Africans (Succumbed): 14, 000 (approx.)

Within the next eight years the two existing Boer states of the Oranje Vrij Staat (Orange Free State) and Zuid Afrikaansche Republick (Transvaal) agreed to come under the sovereignty of the British government and monarch. They were joined with the long established British Cape colony and Natal, and became self-governing colonies of the British Empire. In May, nineteen hundred and ten, the Union of South Africa was established.

Directly after the Second Boer war many of the Dutch, known as ¹‘bitter-einders’, still had a passionate desire to continue their war. Many had chosen exile rather than sign an undertaking to abide by any terms as set out in the peace treaty. As the years passed, their hatred and discontent increased and for them there was never to be an acceptance of a British presence or involvement in South Africa. Many felt that the £3m British pay-off that formed part of the treaty as an aid to the reconstruction programme never could be a big enough apology for the atrocities committed by them during those earlier years. Nor would there be any discussion of Native Enfranchisement. However, some of the exiled Boers eventually returned to South Africa and made a commitment to abide with the terms of the new union … many returned only to wait for the most suitable opportunity to restart the old quarrel.

At the outbreak of the Great War (1914-1918) the diametrically opposed Dutch, together with an increasing number of allies, revolted against the government. A revolt that was provoked by their government’s support of the British and the sending of South African troops to take the German controlled South West Africa. It was quickly suppressed by the unionist government and those involved were imposed heavy fines and sentenced to imprisonment. Although the first Prime Minister, Louis Botha, was a highly respected and prominent politician, he was becoming more widely viewed as being too conciliatory with Britain. He had many problems to face during this time. The black Africans were becoming impatient as neither the Union’s ²Afrikaner governors nor the British government made any further commitment or entered into any discussion about the Native Enfranchisement issue which had been promised as part of the treaty of nineteen hundred and two. They were quickly beginning to feel repressed and segregated as their civil liberties eroded away.

There was also a discontented Indian labour and an agitated white work force to contend with, and Afrikaner nationalism was on the rise especially after Botha’s involvement and collaboration with Britain over South West Africa. It really was a complicated political time, not helped by the aggressive opposition from James Barry Munnik Hertzog’s National Party, who were causing him and his members of government considerable stress.

Prime minister Botha was a highly intelligent man and recognised the value of reconciliation. In a sincere attempt to bring about stability, he ordered the release of the imprisoned ‘bitter-einders’ just two years into their sentences. He hoped that they could all work together and concentrate on building a stable constitutional system, a new national party. It was to take longer than anyone had ever envisaged, and it wasn’t until three years after the Second World War (1939-1945) that the white supremacist ³’Herstigte’ National Party came to power; it was by a slim majority, and made only possible through an earlier coalition with the otherwise insignificant Afrikaner Party.

It may not have been intentional at that time, but due to the fact that there was a great number of party members and an increasing number of people within the minority white population who considered the rights of the Africans as a lesser importance, the foundation of apartheid was firmly laid.

South Africa was rapidly changing and within a year of the Reformed National Party coming to power the ‘Mixed Marriages Act’ was instituted. This was to be the first of many laws purposely devised to separate the white South Africans from the black populous. By nineteen fifty-eight, and the election of the white Hendrik Verwoerd, South Africa was completely engulfed in the philosophy of apartheid. There was opposition to this new government’s policies, but it was having little effect in the political and economic climate. Since fifty-six, the African National Congress (ANC) had been working within the law against all forms of racial discrimination in South Africa and they were committed to a country that ‘belongs to all’. In June of the same year, the ANC held a peaceful demonstration. The demonstration was supported by many other anti-apartheid groups and it was during this time that the Freedom Charter was devised and approved. The demonstration led to the arrest of one hundred and fifty-six anti-apartheid leaders and the infamous ‘Treason’ trial which would last until nineteen sixty-one followed.

After fifty-eight there was another push in the struggle against apartheid. Many of the African National Congress members had become impatient with the peaceful response to the white government’s laws; there was now an increasing urgency to resist the new laws. In particular the ‘Native Laws Amendment Act’, which required all black South Africans to carry a pass that restricted their movement in white urban areas. Failure to produce the pass book on demand by the police was a punishable offence. Known as ‘Africanists’ this select break-away group from the ANC followed a philosophy that a more racial, forceful sense of nationalism was needed to mobilise the masses. This led to the birth of the Pan African Congress (PAC) in April of fifty-nine, an exclusively African organisation which its founder, Mangaliso Robert Sobukwe had hoped would lead the battle against apartheid. Within a few months they had structured a strategy of mass action which would involve strikes, boycotts, civil disobedience and non co-operation against the National party government.

By Christmas the ANC were close to completing their complex campaign of demonstration that they were planning to start at the beginning of April nineteen sixty. However, the newly formed PAC rushed ahead and announced a similar demonstration to start ten days earlier, effectively hijacking the ANC campaign. The PAC and ANC did not agree on policy, so it seemed very unlikely that they would co-operate in any manner.

On the sixteenth of March, Mr Sobukwe wrote to the commissioner of police, Major General Rademeyer, stating that the PAC would be holding a five-day, non-violent, disciplined and sustained protest campaign against the pass laws, and that it was their intention to commence their protest on the twenty-first. During a press conference which was held that week, Mr Sobukwe made a short but clear statement to the people of South Africa, and also to the world.

⁴‘I have appealed to the African people to make sure that this campaign is conducted in a spirit of absolute non-violence, and I am quite certain they will heed my call. If the other side so desires, we will provide them with an opportunity to demonstrate to the world how brutal they can be.’

For many individuals, this was just to be the start of a lifelong nightmare.

Chapter Two

Beloved country …

The Southern Transvaal, March 1960

It was just after 5.40am on the twenty-first of March, and the southern Transvaal township of Evaton was unusually quiet for that time on a Monday morning. It was normally bustling with people making their way by taxi, bus, bicycle, or by foot to the white urban areas where virtually everyone worked; the ones that did have work that is.

Twenty-two year old Samuel Cetswayo checked his watch for the third time in the minute or two that had just passed. He was anxious about the morning and was praying that the people would heed the call to demonstrate and protest against the pass laws that had been introduced by the apartheid government only a few years earlier. It was comforting in the fact that the streets were much quieter than normal. In his mind he felt that they had already waited too long. He was also anxious of the fact that Winston Mboweni, his comrade and the husband of his sister, still hadn’t rendezvoused with him. He unconsciously rotated the gold ring on the pinkie of his left hand several times.

It was almost 6am when the large, black, forty-nine Ford Tudor, pulled up in a cloud of red dust beside him. As the dust settled, Samuel walked around the front of the vehicle to the driver’s side. Winston who was driving the sedan was battling to lower the window and Samuel could hear his colourful curses. The window suddenly gave way and fell into the door cavity with a rather fatal crashing sound. Winston pushed open the door and stepped out onto the dusty street. They embraced each other.

‘You’re late!’ Samuel stated. ‘Is everything okay?’ he added with a concerned voice.

‘Yes, everything is okay ⁵umkhwenyane, stop worrying, it’s all arranged and the people are massing as we speak,’ he answered with a big grin on his face and slightly out of breath. ‘This is Tito, Tito Khoza,’ he said as his passenger got out of the passenger side of the ageing Ford. Samuel and Tito only gave a respectful nod to each other.

‘This will be a day that will be put into the pages of history Samuel …’ Winston stated rubbing his hands together as if he was suddenly feeling very cold.

‘… an end to this law where we carry a document to state that we are African and cannot go where all other men go …’ Winston stopped abruptly as the sound of two heavily armoured Saracen personnel carriers, supported by three military Land Rovers, pulled into the dusty street some three hundred metres from where they stood. This was more than the usual routine patrol which had passed at 5.30am Samuel thought. The police patrolled the townships at least four times per day, they were a common site, however, since Robert Sobukwe’s press release last Wednesday, the patrols had increased significantly.

‘Where is Mathew?’ Winston asked Samuel.

‘You tell me, he should also have been here fifteen minutes ago!’ Samuel answered somewhat irately, and slightly sarcastically. ‘He has been causing me some concern lately,’ he added.

‘Do you think that he would have gone straight to Mama’s?’ Tito suggested as he walked around the vehicle to join the conversation.

‘The plan was to meet here to assess the situation before going to mama’s. I wish we could all stick to the plan, that’s what plans are for!’ Samuel stated with sudden anger in his voice. ‘Anyway, mama doesn’t know him and she wouldn’t be expecting anyone that she does not know,’ Samuel continued with a slightly more calm tone of voice. ‘Something is not right!’ he quickly added.

‘Well this plan is about to change!’ Tito stated whilst nodding in the direction of the ⁶SAP Saracens that were slowly progressing along the road in their direction.

‘Okay!’ Winston said quickly. He then suggested that they go immediately to mama Mabandla’s place, they certainly did not want their identity to be checked and even worse to be picked up on some stupid loitering offence. There was still so much to do on this day.

The three men got into the car. The orange illuminated trafficator barely managed to lift out of its slot as Winston pulled slowly away from the kerb. It was important that they avoided attracting any suspicion from the policemen. They drove to mama’s place which was just on the outskirts of another township called Sharpeville. It took them about twenty minutes; it was almost 6.30am when they arrived. It was a cool, early autumn’s day and it was bordering on cold, Samuel remembers thinking how blue the sky looked that morning.

Mama was a large lady who looked a lot younger than her sixty one years suggested. She came out of the brightly painted two roomed house and greeted the three men as they arrived. She was smiling from ear to ear; Samuel had never seen her do otherwise. He smiled and hugged her fondly. Once inside, mama chased the children outside to play. How many were there? Ten, twelve, maybe more? Even though she no longer had any of her own at home, mama was always surrounded by the township ⁷abantwana. Everyone loved her, especially the children, and Samuel in particular.

The small kitchen-cum-living room was very warm and the entire room smelled of a combination of burning wood and sweat. There was also the faint smell of mama’s brewing ‘Root muthi’ which could heal any ailment known to man. The three men sat at the large table that almost filled the entire kitchen space. Mama placed four mugs of hot steaming rooibos tea on the shiny red and white checked tablecloth.

‘The ANC and others failed in fifty-six and they certainly achieved very little with the fifty-eight campaigns. We won’t fail today, we can’t!’ Winston stated as he continued his earlier speech. There was great determination in his voice.

‘All our planning over the past months … this is the day when all African men will stand up and be counted … the day for all African men to leave their pass at home and present themselves for arrest,’ he added loudly as he stood up to light his previously rolled cigarette at the wood burning stove.

‘Is it confirmed how many will march on the police station at Evaton?’ Tito suddenly asked Samuel. Samuel shook his head from side to side and raised his eyes trying to come up with an accurate figure. Before he could, Winston answered on his behalf.

‘Fifteen thousand in Evaton, maybe five thousand here in Sharpeville, the people of Sebokeng and further lying townships will march into the heart of the white steel town of Vanderbijlpark. Mathew was to confirm the actual numbers and make sure that everything was going according to plan this morning … but many, many thousands will come, I’m sure of it!’ he said as convincingly as he could.

‘The prisons couldn’t cope if they had to arrest all of these people,’ Samuel stated whilst looking for some kind of reassurance. Mama laughed.

‘The prisons will quickly fill up; the country will come to a grinding halt. Who will do the manual labour of the white man?’ she asked whilst waving her chubby extended index finger in the direction of some far off land. ‘They will abolish this pass law before Friday, hear what I say!’ she added. All three men smiled.

‘At ten o’clock today we will be on our way to liberating our people, our beloved country!’ Tito said excitedly. ‘The people must just keep their promise today, and join our hands and our hearts together,’ he suddenly added in a slightly concerned tone.

‘Mama, mama!’ one of the small children shouted as she ran through the open doorway. ‘The street is full of people!’ Mama clasped her hands together and looked up to the sky; there were tears in her eyes. All four adults walked out onto the small covered porch. The wooden decking moaned and strained under their weight. Samuel stepped into the dry, dusty front yard, which, apart from mama’s sparse flowers along the fence and a small but well maintained vegetable patch, had very little to offer the eye. Samuel, with some of the children, waved at the people moving past the house on their way to the meeting place. Many of the people waved back, the mood was cheerful. The people were smiling; some were even dancing and singing as they made their way along the dusty road. Samuel had a sudden overwhelming feeling that this was to be the day that would be instrumental in changing the way that African people lived in this country.

‘There is hope for the future!’ he said out loud and as he turned to address the others behind him, as he did he took in the sight of mama’s small holding; it was colourfully painted, but even so, it was really not any different from most of the township homes on this particular side of Sharpeville. It was constructed mainly of odd sized bricks and wood with an almost flat corrugated tin roof. The rusty corrugated sheets held down by large stones and rocks placed at strategic points across its expanse. In addition there were several extremely large watermelons ripening under the African sun, all adding to provide a restraint to the flimsy roof. The house that Isaiah and Daniel had built many years ago, built with their own hands and it had only taken them three weeks. He knew in his heart that one day this mere existence would be in the past, there was a prosperous future for everyone in this rich and promised land.

‘Come on … move closer, I want to get a photograph of you all together on this historic occasion!’ Winston shouted out.

At 7.15am Major Willem Viljoen of the Vaal military command in Meyerton, gave the order to dispatch two convoys of armoured vehicles to the Evaton and Sharpeville townships. Three other divisions from the Sasolburg military base were dispatched to provide support at the Vanderbijlpark police station.

By 9.10am, three hundred heavily armed soldiers and policemen, many with dogs, had positioned themselves on the west side of the Vanderbijlpark cemetery about five hundred metres from the Sharpeville boundary. The first offensive, a row of seventy-five men, stood with batons and shields at the ready to quieten any outburst from the massing crowd. There was silence as they stood with their backs against the twenty-five Saracen armoured vehicles awaiting their next instruction. There was a strong smell of diesel in the air mixed with the sweet smell of freshly cut grass. There was also the faint smell of freshly turned earth. Shortly before 10am a crowd of about five thousand Africans had gathered in Sharpeville. At the same time, approximately four thousand people from the nearby townships marched, without any sign of aggression or confrontation to the police station on General Hertzog Street in the centre of Vanderbijlpark. They were met with little resistance. Their mood was happy and cheerful.

A mass of many thousands had now gathered in the streets surrounding the police station in Evaton. The noise from the chanting crowd was deafening. The young Afrikaner policemen were extremely anxious about the situation. The senior officer on duty immediately called for back-up, there were far more people than anyone could ever have anticipated.

⁸‘Izwe lethu, izwe lethu!’ the crowd began to chant over and over again. ‘Izwe lethu!’ in a constant barrage towards the fifty or so policemen whom had bravely positioned themselves in the Evaton police station grounds. An ageing Sikorsky S55 Whirlwind helicopter circled overhead for only a few minutes before elegantly dipping its nose and swiftly moving towards the central business district of Vanderbijlpark.

‘Izwe lethu, izwe lethu, izwe lethu!’ they chanted. Suddenly two Impala jets screamed overhead. Protestors, and even some of the younger policemen threw themselves to the ground. There was a momentary silence as the jets disappeared into the distance. Then came the roar of the after burn. The crowd slowly got to their feet again.

‘Izwe lethu, izwe lethu!’ The chanting got louder.

Within one and a half minutes both jets screamed low over the gathering crowds in Sharpeville where the reaction was quite different. The crowd started to panic and there was total chaos as people ran into each other. The most senior officer gave the command to charge. It was a brief, but brutal baton charge, but it did manage to disperse the main body of people. Unfortunately it left one of the protestors dead. The armed forces then moved quickly through the streets towards the Sharpeville police station where the bulk of the people were reported to be gathering. Several scuffles broke out, and in what followed, a police officer was pushed to the ground. Forced by the sheer mass of people who were surging from the rear, the front row of the crowd lurched forward. It was at this point that one of the young police officers panicked and opened fire. This young policeman was unknowingly in the process of changing the future and he was soon to become a historically unnamed character in the unfolding events.

The crowd started to flee but many were unable to do so due to the mass of people around them. There was nowhere to run. In the panic which ensued many more police officers opened fire. They continued to fire into the crowd indiscriminately, and by 10.42am, sixty-nine of the protestors lay dead in the streets, around one hundred and eighty had bullet wounds, amongst them, many were seriously injured.

Samuel, Winston and Tito had taken up the rear of this peaceful protest. It was their job as runners for the PAC to observe only and to report their findings later that night to one of the regional commanders who would personally visit them.

They were approximately two kilometers from the Sharpeville police station when the two low-flying jets screamed over their heads. The noise from their engines was deafening. The thousands of people in front of them dropped to the ground like flies; Samuel’s first thought was that the jets were spraying some invisible poisonous chemical to kill or debilitate, just like the crop sprayers he had seen as a teenager on the farm in the Orange Free State.

Winston, even though he carried too much weight, was on his feet first, he reached over and pulled Samuel to his feet and quickly pushed him into the doorway of the small spaza shop. Tito almost crushed both of them as he jumped into the doorway. They heard the first gun shots far off in the distance. The mass of people suddenly turned around and like scared Wildebeest they stampeded in all directions. Within seconds the buildings on the opposite side of the street disappeared in a cloud of red dust. More single gun shots ran out, and then there was the sickening sound of rapid fire. After what seemed like several minutes there was a break in the crowd. Almost simultaneously the three men jumped up from their crouched and protected position, and ran into the street in the direction of mama’s house. Many of the people, to avoid being crushed, had taken to the side streets. In their desperation to get off the street they charged into shops and houses along the route. Little in their path avoided destruction. Even the fields were full of men, woman and children trying to escape the mayhem. Many of the women and children were screaming. This day was not going according to plan; it was turning into a nightmare. It took the three men nearly twenty minutes to reach mama’s house, first running, then walking, then running again.

Mama was standing on the small front porch of the property surrounded by her children, many of them sobbing and clinging onto her long apron. There was fear and confusion on their tiny faces.

‘Everyone inside!’ Tito commanded as they scaled the flimsy chicken wire fence that surrounded the smallholding. Samuel was last in and slammed the door closed behind him.

‘God pray for us this day!’ mama cried.

At midday the streets were almost deserted. Over the next couple of hours parents came to collect their children, bringing with them some of the news of the events of that morning. There were stories of many deaths and injuries, but there was no explanation of why it had happened. Slowly the house emptied of children.

Mama noisily shifted the pots and pans from the crudely constructed kitchen work surface and then from some deep, secret cavity she produced an unopened bottle of ⁹Klipdrift. She poured herself and the three men a generous amount of the brown richly coloured liquor into four of the many mugs that had been standing drying next to the galvanised tub-cum-sink.

‘Enkosi mama,’ Winston said as he was handed the mug. Tito and Samuel didn’t say anything; they were too shocked to enter into any form of conversation.

‘Will Petrus still come tonight?’ mama asked directing the question at Winston.

‘Yes, that’s the plan, irrespective of today’s outcome your son will be here,’ Winston answered very quietly but confidently.

‘What will happen now Winston?’ Samuel suddenly asked as he came out of his own little world, stirred by the medicinal properties of the brandy. ‘We don’t have much to report, do we?’ he added.

‘Petrus will tell us what to do; he will know what to do,’ Winston said. ‘We will overcome this day, regroup and look at other ways of getting rid of this abhorrent pass law,’ he added with disgust in his voice.

‘What happened today?’ mama asked yet again. No one answered, no one really knew what had happened. They momentarily sat in silence.

‘We have so much work to do, how do we stop the people taking revenge?’ Tito asked solemnly and in a slightly distressed voice as the neat brandy passed his throat. ‘Will our people listen to our Congress leaders in the townships?’ he added raising his voice.

‘There will be more bloodshed before we finish this campaign I fear, we must just not lose control,’ Winston stated quite calmly.

‘The white man has little sympathy with our cause; things will become intolerable if we lose control of our people in the townships,’ Tito stated raising his voice somewhat.

‘Especially if it spills over to the white urban areas,’ Samuel suggested nodding his head in agreement with Tito.

‘Wait, wait!’ Winston shouted as he banged his clenched fist on the table causing all four mugs to momentarily lift into the air. He closed his eyes and calmly gestured with his hands. ‘Wait, just wait for Petrus ... please.’ There was silence again. No one knew quite what to say. Samuel was suddenly startled as mama turned on the small transistor radio that was balancing on the narrow window ledge. Its long make-shift wire aerial wound its way, like a spreading weed, high into the roof cavity of the house. The radio crackled loudly and then momentarily blared out music before coming down to a tolerable level of volume. Mama painstakingly ‘tuned’ into a number of stations. In silence they listened to the news which gave many different accounts of the events of that fateful day. The rest of the day was held in silent contemplation.

It was almost dark outside when mama wearily turned to the kitchen

and started to prepare the evening meal of mealie-meal, ¹⁰chakalaka and stew which she had been planning since early morning. Samuel stared out of the window. It was raining lightly and the streets were now eerily still. Before long, the kitchen was filled with the smell of the cooking maize-meal, the rich aroma of the mutton and the slightly sweet smell of the spicy chakalaka. It was somehow comforting as the windows covered in condensation … almost shutting out the reality of what had happened that day. Tito repeatedly checked his watch, to the point it was becoming very irritating. Each time he looked at his gold timepiece he sighed loudly. It was just before 7pm. Petrus will shortly be making his way there, Winston thought to himself. Mama was full of her own private thoughts. It was already so dark outside.

At 7.30pm exactly, a dog barked loudly and aggressively. Mama went to the front door to establish what all the fuss was about. As she pulled the door open she suddenly screamed. Her scream was so loud that both Winston and Tito flew out of their chairs … in the process, grabbing anything that they could use to protect themselves with. Samuel ducked under the kitchen table so quickly it looked like he had been sucked from this earth by some unnatural force.

¹¹‘Unjani umama?’ Petrus asked. ‘Did I scare you? I am so sorry mama.’

‘Petrus, thank the good Lord you have arrived safely my son!’ mama exclaimed. ‘Are you alone?’ she quickly enquired whilst peering out into the darkness.

‘For now, yes!’ Petrus answered. He put his arms around his mother and gently hugged her. Petrus then embraced each man in turn. He removed his jacket and threw it over the back of one of the four mismatched kitchen chairs in the front part of the room. He sat down at the table, as he did so he removed the Brazilian Rossi .38 revolver from its holster. He placed the gun in the centre of the kitchen table and then sat back. Petrus outstretched both arms and placed the palms of his hands flat on the table.

‘Oh umama, does that food smell good, or what?’ he stated with a broad smile on his face. Mama smiled before making her way back to her bubbling pots.

‘Sit down gentlemen, please!’ Petrus added more solemnly. In silence, Winston, Tito and Samuel came to the table. Mama reached for her best plates from the top shelf. Everything will be okay now, she thought to herself.

Petrus Mabandla was a tall handsome man, and at only thirty one years old he was already a fairly important member of the Pan African Congress which he had joined nine months earlier. He was well known in the townships, particularly those of the Vaal Triangle region. He had been poorly educated, however, he had a passion for the politics of his time and had gone to great lengths to learn and understand the history of his people and Southern Africans in general. He was highly regarded and respected by the township elders and was often invited to sit with them when they debated the affairs within those townships, this was totally unprecedented.

He was often outspoken at the ‘secret’ political rallies within the townships, but always maintained the ability to calm and defuse most situations, even when the people were angered by the way the white apartheid government was treating them. He had always believed that there was a democratic solution to resolving the problems that they were facing.

Although he was still relatively young, Petrus was closely involved with the architects of the Defiance Campaign of the fifties, a campaign that preached non-compliance with the intolerable apartheid legislation; in particular, the Group Areas Act and the Bantu Educations Act. Unfortunately, the campaign had forced the hand of the apartheid government, who took to banning and arresting campaign leaders, White, Black, Indian and Coloured, and leading to passing even stricter legislation. Many of his comrades and allies were already imprisoned. It was these events that had changed his mindset and it was then that he had withdrawn his support of the ANC and had joined the ranks of the newly formed PAC. He was changing the way he felt about the struggle of his people and though he was optimistic about the March ’60 campaign, he knew in his heart that should it be a failure, a different approach would have to be taken to overthrow the apartheid government. Many of his comrades already felt the need for an armed struggle … the days of just talking and protesting through peaceful marches were quickly coming to an end.

Everyone enjoyed mama’s cooking. Petrus in particular, as it had been some time since he had last visited. As mama produced the half full bottle of Klipdrift brandy Samuel found himself smiling, even as a young boy whilst he was in her care, he always wondered how she managed to feed all the children. Who was the provider of the food and drink? There was always abundance. The group had talked at length about what had happened; at no time during the meal did anyone ask about the revolver that Petrus had placed on the table. Mama was really uneasy about the revolver and it clearly showed in her facial expression each time she glanced at it. She was so against any sort of weapon.

‘I’m going to Johannesburg on Wednesday morning to meet with some important Congress leaders!’ Petrus stated. ‘Winston, in my absence,’ he added, ‘I need you and Tito to ascertain the feeling in the townships. We have to be confident that our people do not take the law into their own hands, do you both understand?’

‘Yes,’ Winston agreed. Tito acknowledged with an exaggerated nodding of his head.

‘I must tell you that Robert Sobukwe was arrested outside of a Soweto police station today … he has already been charged with incitement. We must convince the township elders that by remaining calm, even after the bloodshed of today, is our only hope of success,’ he stressed. No one in the room disagreed with his statement.

‘Good. Samuel you need to talk to the Youth Leagues early tomorrow morning …’

‘What