A Quest for Justice

By Mzukisi Ndara

It’s a proverbial battle of David versus Goliath. A senior government employee has been embroiled in a bitter battle against one of the country’s largest financiers, Wesbank. His Story is mired in alleged fraud, corruption and misconduct. The Grahamstown High Court this week dismissed with costs an appeal by Wesbank, a division of FirstRand – for the third time – against earlier rulings made in favour of Mzukisi Ndara. In the pursuit for justice, Ndara has approached several high-ranking politicians, Parliament as the custodian of the country’s laws, the Hawks and the courts. But 15 years into the battle, the matter has yet to be resolved. And some dockets containing vital evidence have gone missing. Ndara has now turned to the Director of Public Prosecutions as a last resort.
– Long and Winding Road for Justice: Bulelwa Payi; Weekend Argus, March 19, 2019

Based on your statement, together with police evidential material and the circumstances of this matter, Wesbank and or its employees breached the contract in the form of misrepresentations and acted in violation of various statutes as alluded to in your reports.
– National Director of Public Prosecutions (NDPP) Advocate Shamila Batohi; September 24, 2019

Your story needs to be told for business and government to understand they can’t keep turning a blind eye to their people who believe the end justifies the means regarding profit making.
– Professor Thuli Madonsela; June 4, 2020

A seventeen year journey of sheer guts and resilience... - Dr Charity Hove October 6, 2021

It is a baffling, bewildering and unsettling story best summarized by your insightful self-observation (Part One: page 31), ‘my inner desire for truth’. You write with fluency and power, the first part of your account, embracing your earlier life, is amusing, wry, entertaining and in parts engrossing. The later parts make for more challenging reading, because of the anguish of the cumulating injustices, delays, lawyerly and institutional disingenuousness and evasions you suffered. Your account is truly a Dickensian tale of the law’s delays and obscurities, of lawyers and journalists’ evasions, with very occasional light points of courage, loyalty and competence.
– Retired Constitutional Court Justice, Edwin Cameron, September 6, 202

• Language: English
• Publisher: Digital On Demand
• Release date: Oct 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9780620990653

Book preview

Dedication

To the memory of my paternal grandparents – MaTshangisa Daisy, MaConjwa Margaret and Nimrod Ginyibhulu Ndara,

To the memory of maternal grandparents –

Margaret Nomanage and Nkosi Cremmer Zingisa Sangoni (Ah Mthawelanga!)

For my parents – Nomfundo Princess (nee Sangoni) and Reverend St. John Page Thozamile Ndara.

For my fiancée, Thembakazi Candice Mashalaba.

For my siblings, Mtwakazi, Sipho and Vatiswa.

For my children, Mtunzi and Mihlali.

For all crusaders for justice.

To the Glory of God.

Prologue

When I was 16 years old my family thought it strange that as a teenager I would give my allowance to strangers. It was something my friends criticised me for when my family barely had resources. It is a thread woven throughout my existence. Giving people the benefit of the doubt has cost me jobs, threatened my sanity, and has nearly cost me my life.

This book is about the blind and courageous cost of empathy - when standing in the shoes of another person causes you to ignore your worth and value. Although I am unapologetic about my hope and belief in the good of others, I am now fully aware that to do so blindly can lead to catastrophic circumstances.

From the beginning of time, humans have taken advantage of others, but it’s the people who forgive and continue to believe in good who stand triumphant, believing with the greatest level of divinity. Albert Luthuli, Nelson Mandela and Desmond Tutu were all attacked and villified for their positions and beliefs, but despite the personal attacks and threats to their safety, they refused to turn on the very people who would wished ill on them, they forgave and continued to fight with grace.

History is replete with monumental figures who sought to demonstrate the values of human solidarity, peaceful co-existence, love, truth, freedom, and common destiny. Leaders from beyond our shores, from Mahatma Gandhi to Mother Teresa, from Martin Luther King Jr. to Barack Obama; South African heroes and heroines such as Oliver Reginald Tambo, Adelaide Tambo, Walter and Albertina Sisulu, Robert Mangaliso Sobukwe, Thembisile Chris Hani, Winnie Madikizela Mandela, Helen Suzman, Beyers Naude, Bantu Stephen Biko, Helen Joseph, Allan Boesak, Frank Chikane and many others.

The African philosophy of Ubuntu teaches us the human trait of putting others before self, and all these iconic figures without exception have demonstrated this in their lives.

There is also the unique group of patriots without whom no account of South African history is credible and complete, those who have embodied selflessness, generosity of spirit, resilience, and immense courage in order to set up the edifice of freedom we enjoy today. The Rivonia trialists who spent the prime of their lives languishing in Robben Island for decades: Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela, Walter Ulyate Sisulu, Govan Archibald Mvuyelwa Mbeki, Ahmed Mohamed Kathrada, Elias Mathope Motsoaledi, Denis Theodore Goldberg, Raymond Mphakamisi Mhlaba, and Andrew Mokete Mlangeni. True to the letter and spirit of a struggle that continues, all these distinguished sons of the soil upon their release carried on their quest for justice.

In writing this book, I pay homage to the sacrifices they made, and to all crusaders for justice who fought to bring an end to the oppression of one by another. Aside from the fact that we were fellow students at the University of the Witwatersrand in the turbulent eighties, Archbishop Thabo Makgoba encouraged me to document my journey in the form of a book. Apart from the dizzying heights he has scaled in his chosen vocation through God’s grace, in broad terms, we have shared a similar geographic journey, from our student days in Johannesburg through to Makhanda (formerly Grahamstown) and ultimately to Cape Town. During an impromptu meeting at the OR Tambo airport lounge in transit, he encouraged me to tell my story, giving me a copy of his book Faith and Courage: Praying with Mandela, which had just been published. A true inspiration.

I have also been inspired by Professor Thuli Madonsela who fought courageously against people who vilified, labelled and plotted against her, but refused to back down. Not only did she speak truth to power, but also kept her head high while her name was being dragged through the mud. It was a position that required vision and conviction in order to sustain her through the tough times. The world has elevated her courage and shown her value through humanitarian awards and recognition by being named one of Time Magazine’s 100 Most Influential People in the World. She has recently been awarded the French Order of Merit and the Knight of the Legion of Honour. It is the kind of faith and spiritual insight displayed by such people that has kept me going despite being vilified and stabbed in the back throughout my life.

While I was fighting for justice as a student activist at Wits, singing original protest songs, I wrote:

Killing, stealing are the talks of the day; People dying in most unusual ways;

Has it ever occurred or triggered in you;

That someday this might happen to you?

A man flashes a knife in the night;

Stabs another in the back with all of his might;

Blood splashes out, it’s not a pretty sight;

It’s a mad mad world, it’s a sad sad world...

Chorus

Are you doing anything about it?

Anything constructive to solve?

Please don’t try and go round it;

This evil crime we gotta dissolve

It’s a mad mad mad world, It’s a sad sad sad world

Lying down on a street corner;

Poor black children, they’re reading Bona;

Their future is bleak, lack of education;

System gives no sense of motivation;

You know I have this feeling, sense of retaliation;

When things get this far, with no kind of protection;

People we’re dying, the other side firing,

In this mad mad world, it’s a sad sad world.

Chorus

The song was inspired by my understanding of the power of selfish systems designed to break the back and spirit of genuine, hopeful people. As a 19-year-old opposing apartheid, I was hit by the brutal reality that not everyone fighting for the cause of freedom wants to do so without enriching themselves. I discovered that many people would abandon the cause if they could empower themselves along the way. This was incredibly disheartening, particularly when the stakes were so high. Despite this realisation, I was unrelenting in my belief in the good in humans. Throughout my life, I have simply refused to believe that the default nature in others is to be rotten.

My inclination towards the good in others was given to me by my parents. While my mother had strong convictions it was my father whose position as a church leader became the towering example. He went through his struggles which manifested through his passion for developing students of African descent. His teachings in black theology were met with resistance in South Africa, particularly in the Dutch Reformed Church (now known as the Uniting Reformed Church).

This book is a manifesto written to inspire the hopes of anyone who refuses to give up on the good in others despite systematic oppression. This is not a story inspired by impotence, but rather a warrior’s cry for a deeper consideration of the principles of abundance and possibilities that can come from the heart of any woman or man who believes in the highest hope that may be buried within a system that may have done them wrong.

Later in this book, I will recount a 17-year journey that would have killed me had it not been for the armour I wore:

Stand therefore, having your loins girt about with truth, and having on the breastplate of righteousness, and your feet shod with the preparation of the gospel of peace, above all, taking the shield of faith. And take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the spirit, which is the word of God.

Ephesians 6 Verses 14 to 17; King James Version.

MZUKISI NDARA – Cape Town, 2021

Contents

Dedication

Prologue

PART 1

Impressionable Years

Utopia

Son Of A Pastor

Going Global

Impressionable Years

The Highlands Of Scotland

Homecoming

Privilege And Politics

PART 2

Trials and Tribulations

Pride And Prejudice

The Contract

In The Aftermath

The Beginning Of The End

PART 3

Our Constitutional Democracy

Our Fledging Democracy

Mediaocracy

Institutions Of Democracy

PART 4

Access to Justice

The East London Magistrate Court

The Makhanda High Court

The Turning Point

The Rocky Road To Bloemfontein

The National Prosecuting Authority

The Elephant In The Room

PART 5

Reflections, Life Lessons

The Role Of Political Parties In Parliament

The Game Changer

The Judgment

Divine Interventions

Acronyms

Acknowledgements

About The Author

PART 1

Impressionable Years

1

Utopia

Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans. Former Beatle John Lennon wrote these words in his song Beautiful Boy. When in May 2004 I joined the Eastern Cape Department of Health the song came to mind. With the benefit of hindsight, I could best express my first foray into government with the opening lines of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens:

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.

The vehicle sale contract I entered into in November 2004 and the attendant consequences that resulted from it would encompass every aspect of my life for years to come.

The contract was made possible by my new position in government as a senior manager. As it was a permanent position, it also came with the security of tenure of employment. It certainly had nothing to do with my perceptions of government as an employer, and more with the set of circumstances that led me to conclude a contract with First Rand Bank (trading as WesBank) and the seventeen-year journey I had to navigate personally, professionally and spiritually. The best of times stems from the fact that the position came with a handsome package for a man with a young family, with ample opportunities for growth and development. The worst of times refers to the poisoned chalice this opportunity came with, as I was drawn unwittingly into a contract that would turn my life and that of my family upside down. For the next seventeen years the transaction would take over all aspects of my life, not only negating the small steps forward I had already made but also placing me at the mercy of a bank that would ruthlessly plot my downfall using its influence and power to put me down and try to silence me. With time the bank’s power and influence proved pervasive on almost all levels of our constitutional democracy.

I settled quickly into my stride at the Department of Health, growing the communications unit from two people into a fully-fledged directorate with three sub-directorates employing ten, putting together the biggest communications team outside the Office of the Premier (OTP). All was well on the performance front, yet the biggest impact of my tenure occurred away from the world of work.

As I was new, everyone was ready to lend a helping hand, to show me the ropes of the system. While I had been appointed as head of communications, I still had a lot to learn in terms of the modus operandi - the inner workings of the government machinery. Several of my colleagues in senior management mentioned a WesBank Senior Management Scheme that afforded anyone employed at director (Level 13) upwards favourable terms and conditions when buying a vehicle. I had not paid much attention to talk about this senior management scheme until a chance meeting one afternoon with a colleague at the Caltex Garage at Retail Park Shopping Mall in East London. During a brief meeting, the Emergency Services Director Shanks Maharaj filled me in on what I was missing out on: ‘The instalment that you are paying on your car (a Nissan Almera 160) is more or less what I am paying for my car, a Mercedes Benz C- class, because of the scheme.’ Given what he had told me, there and then I decided I would take advantage of the scheme and explore the possibility of buying a better car.

Prior to this conversation, the occasional mention of the car scheme had not persuaded me in any particular direction. I was more than happy with developments on the family front and in terms of my personal growth. I had just acquired a property, a family home at one of the more prestigious suburbs in East London. Beacon Bay was and still is one of the most sought-after places to acquire property in the Buffalo City Metro.

In September of 2004, I quietly celebrated my sixth wedding anniversary with my wife Unathi in our newly acquired home. My son Mtunzi had just turned three and his sister Mihlali was all of three months. Just across the road from our house was a mini-golf course, and further down, the shopping mall Retail Park was within walking distance, with the beach a five-minute drive away. Life could not have been better.

My appointment as the first head of communications at the Eastern Cape Department of Health (ECDOH) was reported on page three of the major publication in the region, the Daily Dispatch. Headed Health appoints Public Relations Manager, the article chronicled my qualifications and work experience before joining government. My personal profile was at an all-time high, with my credit standing on par with my newly acquired status as a senior manager in government. I had a handsome overdraft, and credit facilities were consistent with what I was earning at the time. If indeed it was the best of times, it was soon to be the worst.

In the second week of November 2004, I walked into a car dealership at Vincent Park in East London, checking the possibilities of trading in my Nissan Almera with the intention of buying a car through the scheme.

I had no idea what the process entailed. On one hand, I had secured a high-powered job with a mandate that included advising the Member of the Executive Council (MEC) for Health, Dr. Bevan Goqwana, the Superintendent General (SG), Lawrence Boya, and top management of the department on the strategic posture of the organisation as a brand. On the other, I was semi-literate when it came to financial matters let alone the symbiotic relationship between banks and the motor trade industry. I was in for a rude awakening.

Two car dealerships made it clear that it would not only be inconceivable but also highly prejudicial for me to conclude a vehicle sale deal with the Nissan Almera factored in as a trade-in. This was because the settlement on the Almera was still high, as at the time it was only a year old. At the first dealership, the sales agent had advised that I keep the car for at least another eighteen months before considering trading it in. Buntu Matha, who attended to me at the Audi dealership at Oxford Street, East London, suggested I try to see if I could not secure a buyer for the Almera; that way I could go on to purchase a vehicle of my choice using the government scheme. His advice worked like a charm, but only up to a point.

My uncle Mkhudlwana Mantyi had complimented me on the purchase of the Almera, waxing lyrically about some of its features. When I called him I discovered that I had a buyer. When there was a slight delay in him securing finance I was advised by a colleague to get a dealership to do the paperwork, as that approach should help expedite the sale process.

Pursuant to getting this advice, I drove immediately to Datnis Nissan dealership located at the central business district of King William’s Town to seek assistance from Sandra, the sales representative who had sold me the Almera twelve months prior. I informed her that I no longer worked for the University of Fort Hare (UFH) and had since joined government, as a result, I planned to buy a car using the WesBank Senior Management Scheme I now qualified for. As a prerequisite I wished to sell the Almera, already having a buyer. All I needed was for her to help me facilitate the deal between Mantyi and I. She agreed without a moment’s hesitation and went on to advise that she would charge a percent or two for doing the paperwork. I agreed wholeheartedly to her proposal and gave her Mantyi’s contact details so that the process could commence. And so began a journey into the unknown, into the belly of the South African beast – the kind of white-collar corruption not spoken about in everyday conversation. It would be a case that very few legal practitioners would be prepared to take on, that major political parties would shy away from.

This account was prompted by an innocent vehicle sale between relatives facilitated by a sales agent in King William’s Town. When the facilitation of the deal did not go exactly according to plan, it evolved into a murky world of dodgy dealings and underhand practices, that border on unethical conduct at best, possible criminal culpability at worst.

For an unsuspecting naïve public servant I questioned hesitantly some of the undertakings made by the dealership agents that were not honoured.

To my horror, this became an enduring nightmare from 2004 to 2021 and counting. As a result of my experience, the rosy picture of a rainbow nation, a sound progressive democracy with one of the best constitutions in the world soon faded. It was replaced by harsh, unforgiving realities that suggest access to justice is reserved for those with deep pockets or who have friends in high places. Invariably this is a journey that examines the durability of South Africa’s constitutional democracy in many respects, especially as it relates to the rights of ordinary citizens. Before I delve into the detail of my quest for justice, allow me to share some rudimentary insights into my formative, impressionable years leading up to adulthood and finding my place in the universe.

2

Son Of A Pastor

I came into this world on 17th of July 1965 at Mthatha in the Eastern Cape province branded the Home of Legends. As children of a Dutch Reform Church (DRC) leader, much was expected of us. Saint John Page Thozamile, my father, was ordained as a reverend in the church in 1970.

In the 1970’s DRC was a microcosm of South African society at large, segregated, with blacks, whites, Indians, and coloureds rarely engaging across the racial divide. The DRC denomination was a Christian home for Afrikaners and supported the system of apartheid.

My father hailed from a small town, Lusikisiki, in Pondoland (EmaMpondweni), and as a young scholar became active in politics, a predisposition that would endure throughout his life. It was reputed that he rubbed shoulders with the likes of Chris Hani and Thabo Mbeki as part of a youth vanguard that emerged in various educational institutions across the country.

From 1970 through to 1977 we moved as often as my father responded to callings from various congregations to lead them. Thozi, as he was affectionately known by friends and family, began his ministry in the small Afrikaans town of Middelburg Cape in the Karoo in 1970. He then moved to Paterson, an hour’s drive from Gqeberha (formerly Port Elizabeth), the biggest city in the Eastern Cape Province. In ‘73 we moved to Beaufort West, and after Transkei gained its supposed independence from South Africa in 1976, we left the country. As the second-born of four and the eldest son there was a silent but tangible pressure on me. My mother was a princess as well as a teacher. She was the first-born of eight, to Chief Cremmer Zingisa Sangoni of Qokolweni.

My mother’s name Nomfundo means one who loves education, and her middle name was Princess. Starting as an Assistant Nurse, she became a certified teacher after my father was ordained. Every time we moved she was able to secure a job as an educator. One of her greatest strengths was to inspire others to see their vision for their future.

My parents were a solid, hard-working team. Whenever we would set goals for the family, my mother was the one who anchored us. When I was ten years old our parents sent us to Qokolweni, a rural area ten kilometres outside of Mthatha, to be in a more stable setting for schooling.

In most parts of the country, the political environment was unstable and this provided us with social cover. One day my younger brother Sipho disappeared for some time to be with his friends, and Mama sent me to fetch him. Even with a casual jog, it took me thirty minutes to reach him.

I stressed to him that we needed to get back urgently, but it made more sense to hang around at the river playing, swimming, and having fun with his friends.

On our return, we walked briskly because we both knew that Mama was upset as it had now been well over an hour since my departure. When we arrived back she greeted us with a stick. As she punished Sipho I looked on, thinking that it must be painful, glad that I was not in her firing line. But then she turned to me and asked why I had taken so long to find him. She stressed that I needed to learn to follow her instructions.

Before I could respond I felt the stick hit my upper thigh. Once she had finished disciplining us she walked out of the hut. Sipho and I were both crying and we sat there in silence. We both learnt at an early age not to disappoint her.

Growing up as children of influential and significant parents meant we had to look the part. With my mother being a member of a royal house, my father a reverend, we were expected to act and dress well. During weekdays after school, we were compelled to dress more formally than most of the other kids.

I was eight when we lived at Emnyameni location, part of Paterson, We were under strict instruction not to allow anyone into our small, gated area. One day, a local man tricked us into allowing him inside the gate while my parents were away. As he was talking to us inside the yard, my parents arrived home, and seeing them he ran away. My father chased all of us around the house, ensuring he caught us to discipline us.

To be fair it wasn’t all about punishment at home. We were rewarded wonderfully if we performed well. A couple of months after being disciplined I showed them my positive school report in Standard 2 (Grade 4) and as a special reward, I was treated to a rugby match between the visiting all conquering British Lions against an Eastern Province side played in Gqeberha on 25 May 1974. My father valued the discipline of sport, and at that moment it was clear to me that life was about balance, that if you worked hard you would be rewarded for success, but if you messed up there would be consequences.

My father maintained a loving and stimulating culture in the home.

People were often surprised by how much fun we seemed to have. Tata would play the organ and sing. One of the songs that stuck with me was ‘ Lafik’igongqongqo labatya bonke, kwasala wamnye owaseThali’ (There came this big giant that ate them all and only one survived and he was from a place called Thali). My father came alive when playing, swaying from side to side as his fingers caressed the keys. My parents could have produced a CD together. Mama sang a beautiful soprano, with my father complimenting her voice with his classical tenor. Listening to their harmonious renditions, the opening scene of Shakespeare’s 12th Night came to mind: If music be the food of love, play on.

On one road trip from Middleburg Cape to the rural area in the Transkei where we were schooling, they sang a song that made such an impression, it still helps to get me through tough times - Nkosi yam uzubagcine uzubalondoloze (Lord look after them and keep them safe).

Adjusting and assimilating to different environments became a part of my early childhood DNA. Moving from a township to a rural area could be a challenge. In a township, you didn’t roam around much, but in a rural area, going from your home to school could mean a 5 to 10 km walk. Going to tend the cattle was not a whole lot shorter. My brother and I were seen as weaklings by other boys in the village. We were viewed as city boys who lacked rural know-how, like the way to milk cows. My grandparents were pivotal in helping us understand what I would call ‘rural basic etiquette’. From small things to big things such as knowing how to position the rope that stabilised the cow to ensure it didn’t kick when milking is in progress. These types of rural activities were foreign to us, but upon reflection were some of the most critical times during my formative years.

Manxeke Sangoni used to tease me about my awkwardness when it came to the chores I had to do in a rural setting. In that regard, he was a natural and extremely driven. We grew up in neighbouring homesteads. Since our families were related we joined forces in herding cattle, milking cows, and tending to the livestock in the grazing fields. Manxeke’s whistle served as my early morning alarm, and it was one that I came to dread. It would be close to five in the morning when I would hear the faint sound of his whistle. For him, it was not so much that he was waking me up, but more an expression of joy as he warmed to the tasks at hand before we prepared for school. Older relatives milked the cows and we served as assistants. The diligent Funisile Mshotana, the studious Dumisa Zidlele, and the suave Sakhumzi Nohiya took turns coordinating and managing the mandatory morning chores.

My maternal grandfather Nkosi Mthawelanga ruled over an area that contained approximately twenty thousand people, but he had no airs about him, with genuine humility. He handled Inqila (community or village meetings) with amaphakathi (his advisors) in a calm and dignified manner. You never heard of chaos brewing. Growing up I cannot recall a single issue of social injustice, whether it was murder, rape, or petty crime, save for the occasional occurrence of teenage boys fighting. Occasionally, you would overhear adults talking about a stabbing that had occurred in town. It would be such a big deal, practically unheard of in the village.

Looking back I remember the serene surroundings, in the distance boys herding cattle back home while girls fetched water from the nearby river.

There was order, respect, tranquility, humanity, and humility. Growing up there I also felt a certain intolerance for people who did wrong, Inqila, dealing decisively with members of the community who wronged others. At this relatively tender age, through the guardianship of my grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, and many others who were part of this joyous extended family, eQokolweni, the spirit of ubuntu, fellowship, compassion, and solidarity was imbued in me. Those were beautiful days of innocence, naivety, and honesty.

My father had grown up approximately 200 kilometres from Qokolweni, at Bukazi locality. While the village was a mere 10 kilometres from Flagstaff, administratively it fell under the town of Lusikisi, 35 kilometres away. My father grew up there, schooling at Palmerton High School. He was the fifth of ten children born to Nimrod and his wives, Matshangisa Daisy and Maconjwa Margaret. Nimrod’s first marriage lasted twelve years and ended sadly with Matshangisa’s passing. He later married Margaret. In chronological order, my father’s siblings were Nontsikelelo, Nontando, Thembinkosi, Mxolisi, Nkosinathi, Bulelwa, Liziwe, Thokozile, Mpondokazi, and Bongani.

Nimrod was a celebrated figure in the community. He occupied a position of leadership as the principal of various high schools in the area, most notably Gqubeni and Mzintlava Secondary schools. A devoted educator, passionate community builder, a revered and gifted choirmaster who won numerous awards and trophies in local and regional school choir competitions.

The Ndara family’s clan name is Sukude, Ntlane, Mkhondwana, Gxarh’eliphezulu. Whilst Nimrod settled his family at Bukazi locality, he grew up in a village called Xurhana a stone’s throw away – this is the family’s flagship homestead. We are a family that espouses love, compassion, laughter, solidarity, and fellowship. Hailing from eMampondweni -

Mpondoland, we are imbued with a strong sense of right and wrong, a belief in being direct and frank. At the same time we are unassuming people, there is no malice in our make-up. We simply have a strong conviction and belief in what is right and just. We subscribe to the golden rule, do unto others as you would have them do unto you. These traits are not the exclusive preserve of the Ndara family. They are characteristics of the Sukude clan generally, of which Ndara is a part.

Among the Sukude brethren, Reverend Ndara is not the only man of the cloth. The late Reverend Mbuyekezi Rubuluza was an ordained Methodist minister, based for a period at Mthatha, leading the Frere congregation.

My wedding took place at this church, as did Sipho’s.

No one held the name of Thozamile in higher esteem than his cousin Reverend Rulubuza. Whenever he came calling, he had an unmistakable, warm and endearing smile that oozed warmth, love, and fellowship for his brother. The other valued member of this special trio is the Reverend Wytcliff Bhekizitha Nombekela, who is now a canon in the Anglican Church. A gifted orator who has been a constant presence, the proxy of AmaSukude – a standing representative of the clan officiating in all significant Ndara ceremonies.

The distinguished cleric would perform all his assignments with utmost humility, pride, and dignity. As an orator he would move all of us with a flowing rendition extolling the virtues of our forefathers, distilling the ancestry of our clan in the most beautiful manner. As a family, we are always grateful for his love and brotherhood. The Dweba family at Flagstaff – also of the Sukude clan – hold pride of place in our family lineage. Tata had a close relationship with uBawo Magunyana Dweba – an upstanding man who carried himself with dignity and of utmost integrity.

The Dwebas have always been dear to us, with mutual regard, respect, love, and affection between the families that has endured for many years.

It is in this vein that I have always approached my interactions with others with innocence, naivety, and absolute trust. For me engaging with another member of the human race is like looking in the mirror. With the benefit of hindsight, I have come to appreciate that nothing could be further from the truth. While your intentions as an individual may be noble and benevolent, the human race is varied, diverse, intricate, and totally unpredictable. Goodwill may very well be one’s point of departure, but to expect reciprocity as a matter of course, is foolish, as betrayal and malicious intents are often at play.

As the Bible teaches, seek ye first the Kingdom of God, and all other things shall be added unto you. In the words of Mahatma Gandhi: ‘You must be the change you want to see in the world’.

At Bukazi and Qokolweni both sets of grandparents were devout Christians, attending church service on Sundays became part of our routine. Back at the home of my maternal grandparents at Qokolweni, church attendance, school activities, and domestic chores were all performed within a radius of around seven kilometres, apart from when we would go to a neighbouring village to participate in a soccer tournament.

Going to town for us was a rarity, once or twice in a six-month period at the most. So when in 1977 there were murmurs about my siblings and I going overseas to join our parents in Europe, it all seemed slightly surreal and fanciful. I had not even been to Johannesburg, so going overseas was like a trip to the moon. We were far too anxious and afraid to be excited.

Some memories are no more than a distant blur but I distinctly recall when we had to make a trip to Mthatha to apply for our passports. In charge of this process was the renowned Mthatha-based lawyer Chris Bodlani, Uncle Temba’s friend. We were bundled into the back of a van without a canopy. The Sangoni matriarch, our grandmother Nomanage was in charge of the daily operations at the great place (komkhulu). Her abundant energies were always focused on the job at hand, what needed to be accomplished, and making sure it was done.

‘Khwelani nizakubalate sanukumatha maan!’ (Get on board, hurry, you are running late, don’t be so slow!). As she pushed us to get a move on she gave us a bottle of Coca-Cola and threw a loaf of brown bread as the van started pulling away. uMakhulu had little patience for children who seemed lethargic or absent-minded, she instilled in all of us a sense of purpose and urgency. I have yet to find anyone of that generation so adept at multi-tasking. She would be sitting on the edge of her seat, holding one of her multitude of grandchildren with her left arm, gesturing with her right, and in between sipping her cup of morning tea. In her twilight years, with so many children and grandchildren in tow, she was not able to keep up with who everybody was. When there was an event she could often be heard enquiring ‘ngowuphi ke lo?’ (Whose is this one?). If the event was a celebration of some sort, without prior notice or rehearsal she would summon all of her grandchildren. Branding them ‘the Bombers’ she would instruct them that as part of the programme they would have to show everybody what they were made of. Makhulu simply would not take no for an answer, so we would have to render a musical item.

In 1976, prompted by political changes sweeping the country, Transkei not an exception, my parents went on a three-month tour of Europe to explore the best study opportunities for foreign students with dependent children. With their scholarships confirmed they travelled to England in May 1977 to prepare for their studies and our relocation. Politically things were moving fast. My parents were travelling on South African passports, but us kids travelled on Transkeian passports since Transkei had received its supposed independence from South Africa the year before. So off to the United Kingdom we went – Mtwakazi, Sipho, Vatiswa, and I. After months of seeking funding, my parents were able to secure resources not only for their education but to eventually allow us to join them. Only once we returned from the United Kingdom would I fully appreciate the extent of their sacrifice in order to advance our family’s educational goals.

We grew up privileged as children, not because our parents were well-off. We were privileged because our parents were trendsetters, bold adventurers, visionaries, who broke new ground. Ours was a close-knit family founded and anchored on christian principles and values embodied by our parents. Upon receiving the 2017 Best Actress Award at the DSTV Viewer’s Choice Awards, my sister Vatiswa dubbed it the Page and Princess Award. A fitting tribute to a couple who not only celebrated excellence but pursued it in all facets of their lives.

3

Going Global

On this day in July 1977 we travelled almost a thousand kilometres with my uncle Temba and Hala (Aunt) by road from Mthatha to Johannesburg. We had no communication whatsoever with our parents while they were overseas. There were no cellphones then, and even access to a telephone could be difficult. Barring a telegram that cost a pretty penny, letters by post were the most cost-efficient method of communication, but even these could take forever to arrive at the allocated destination.

Uncle Temba and Hala were our key links to our parents, and they prepared us as best they could for our international trip, despite not having travelled outside the country themselves at the time. During briefings and discussions on the road trip, as an eleven-year-old, I was designated spokesperson for our ‘international delegation’.

We took off from O.R. Tambo Airport (formerly Jan Smuts) on a KLM Royal Dutch Airline bound for Heathrow Airport in London. Upon arrival in the United Kingdom (UK) my siblings and I were greeted by immigration officials who took us to a secluded room, where we were officially detained for the first time in our lives. The United Kingdom did not recognise the Transkeian passports we had travelled on; as a homeland within South Africa, it was not part of the United Nations. Luckily we were listed on our mother’s passport as dependents.

We had arrived, but with no idea, we were being held in detention. We sat in a cold, strange room for over an hour, thousands of miles from what we had known as home. The friendly KLM hostesses made us feel welcome and well-looked after, but their efforts could not offset the anxiety of children who had travelled from one of the smallest towns to one of the world’s biggest cities, London. When our mother arrived all four of us jumped up and gratefully hugged her, relieved to see a familiar face.

We settled in the city of Birmingham, in a region known as the Midlands, two hours’ drive from London, a different world from rural Qokolweni.

My first day at Archbishop Masterson Roman Catholic School was a huge culture shock after being educated in a village setting. Back home, my school was a collection of round and square mud structures, with one brick structure that served as the administration block, staff room, and principal’s office. In this strange urban setting, my new school seemed as big as an airport.

‘Sifunda nabantwana babelungu’ (We’re now schooling with white children), my sister Mtwakazi remarked. We came from a rural area where everyone spoke isiXhosa. At our new school, the white kids spoke English with an accent none of us had ever encountered before.

There were other black pupils at the school, but because we were not fluent in English and spoke slowly with a foreign accent, communication proved difficult. As African students, we needed to acclimatise. Mtwakazi and I were assigned peer guides - students in the same grade who were to make sure we adjusted to our new surroundings.

My guide’s name was Kevin Fitzgerald. He was slim with ginger hair and freckles, he loved to laugh. I was the first African student he had studied with, but it didn’t take us long to connect. At the school, there was a fair sample of black students, largely of West Indian origin. While our hopes were raised upon seeing them, most had been born and raised in Birmingham and spoke English with a Midlands accent and dialect, making it difficult to understand what they were saying. With the passage of time, this became easier, and our lives improved as we began to assimilate.

I used to look forward to mathematics. It was the one subject in which I felt comfortable because as a subject matter it was universal. Back in rural South Africa, whenever you answered a teacher’s question you would stand to conform to the rigid corporal environment – speaking whilst sitting meant punishment. So at my new school in Birmingham, each time I volunteered an answer in the math’s class I would jump up. The other kids looked at me as if I had lost my mind. To the accompaniment of laughter my class teacher Mrs Baxter would say, ‘Zuki you don’t have to be like a spring and jump each time you answer a question, you may remain seated.’ It took me time to adjust.

In contrast, this was indeed a culture shock, back home as a morning greeting the principal would wave his cane frantically at the school entrance, ready to give each and every late comer their due punishment.

Often you would enter your class with a test underway, and the icy glare of your teacher would not mitigate the pain of your still throbbing hand.

Further punishment would not be uncommon if your handwriting was not neat enough.

Yet there we were in the second-largest city in England, at a modern institution of learning, with libraries, science laboratories, and a multi-purpose sports complex. The education department was already employing the grades system that grouped children according to age.

The school provided all educational material, including stationery and textbooks, at no cost to the child. Over and above the set curriculum you were provided with ample opportunity for personal growth and development. Sports, music, performing arts, clubs, and societies were there for us to unleash our potential, to enable us to grow and blossom into free-spirited and independent minds, ready to take our place in society.

Sports and extra mural activities forced us to grow quickly. In rural schools, there had only been soccer and basic athletics, but now there was chess, drama society,