KINGSLEY MAMABOLO | Through a glass (of scotch) darkly

At the height of the Cold War, successive US administrations viewed the ANC and other liberation movements as surrogates of the Soviet Union and the socialist bloc, and used this association with communist countries to justify continued support for the apartheid government.

US policy was influenced by the Cold War to the extent that the ANC and its leaders were branded as terrorists. This resulted in a refusal to provide the movement — and by extension, the oppressed people of South Africa — with any support whatsoever. This was the attitude of the US and some European governments, despite their public “criticism” of racial discrimination and apartheid.

The Nixon administration based its policy on the infamous “National Security Study Memorandum 39″ report, requested by national security adviser Henry Kissinger. The report concluded: “The whites in South Africa are here to stay and the only way that constructive change can come is through them.”

Needless to say, it is difficult to see how the authors came to the conclusion that the racist white minority regime was capable of bringing about any form of change to the racial discrimination that they’d so painstakingly structured and put in place in the first instance.

The ANC for its part maintained that apartheid and racial discrimination was an affront to humanity and violated human rights across the board, and was totally unacceptable. Human rights violations affect all and should be a concern of all humanity, regardless of their political or religious affiliations.

The ANC was itself a mass movement, a platform for those fighting against the violation of people’s rights, regardless of their inclination towards a particular socioeconomic system.

The bankruptcy of the policies and approaches adopted by the US administration and Western governments towards the ANC and the people of South Africa became evident in the refusal of the public in those countries to embrace them. In many, the ANC and the people of South Africa enjoyed unqualified support from NGOs, public figures and communities.

Over time, it became clear that the US government had undertaken an assessment and come to realise that the growing support enjoyed by the ANC within South Africa made change inevitable. Based on this, it resolved to get closer to the ANC and try to understand it better. Suddenly, our missions in different parts of the world were receiving visits from US representatives.

While serving in Dar es Salaam, I received a call from an official, a Mr Pound, from the US mission. He wanted to pay us a courtesy visit. We made an appointment, and he came over and — after a discussion that focused on the situation in South Africa — he extended me an invitation to dinner at his house.

Before accepting Mr Pound’s invitation, I made certain that my comrades knew and that everything was done transparently. At the time, the environment was such that one could not afford to be seen associating with the Americans without the knowledge of the comrades.

In a meeting that was attended by, among others, Mendi Msimang, the most senior member of the office team, we resolved that I should go ahead and accept the invitation.

The objective was to find out what the interest of the Americans was — particularly with their renewed attempts to engage the ANC.

I agreed with Mr Pound to meet at the Kilimanjaro Hotel, from where I would follow in my car, and he would lead as we drove to his residence. As I drove behind him, I began having doubts about dining with him. I was not sure that the decision we took at the office was the correct one.

The comrades expected me to get information from Mr Pound, but I did not trust that I was properly trained to accomplish such a task. I knew that he had very likely been trained by the CIA. He would more than likely be better trained in eliciting information from me than I was from him.

We embarked on the long, winding road bordering the beautiful Palm Beach suburb and the sea on our way to his residence. The evening breeze was cool, ultimately bringing relief to the unrelenting heat that we experienced during the day. His residence was quite a distance, and as we drove the doubt increased and insecurity crept in. The fact that he seemed to be staying so far out of town did not help to calm my nerves.

“Where in the world is he taking me?” I wondered.

I was about to make a U-turn and abandon the whole mission when suddenly I saw a board with huge, printed letters that read “Mr and Mrs Pound”, indicating the location of my host’s residence.

He ushered me into his house, apologised that his wife and children were not around to welcome me as they had gone ahead of him to the US for their annual holidays, and said he was going to follow soon. My eyes were darting to all corners of the house, nervously taking in the surroundings. After settling down in one of his settees, he asked what I’d like to drink. “Scotch on the rocks,” I said nonchalantly, giving an impression of sophistication and a false appearance of calm and relaxation.

He excused himself and went to the back room to mix the drinks.

As soon as he left the room, my mind was racing. Why is he mixing the drinks in the other room? My overactive imagination wondered whether there was something else he was adding to the drink, perhaps in the hope I would loosen up and be off guard.

When he came back, my eyes focused on the drinks, particularly the glass he put in front of me. He had also poured himself some scotch. In my glass, he’d poured a double tot — enough to float a duck — and added a couple of ice cubes. As I scrutinised the drink, I could have sworn that I noticed some powder lying at the bottom of my glass, but in my state of mind at the time I could not be certain.

It appeared that everything was done in the back room. When the sweet melodious slow music meant to create a conducive atmosphere came to an end, he stood up abruptly to replace the cassette with a new one. I had not taken a sip of the whisky, suspecting that something was lurking in there. I took advantage of his momentary departure to swap the glasses. I took care to place the glasses on the water rings that were created by the cold drinks on the surface of the small table mat and waited.

I observed him carefully as he returned to his seat, looking for any indication that he noticed the changes I had made to the arrangement of the glasses. His face revealed nothing; he glanced calmly at the glasses and looked straight at me with a smile. The man was well trained, as I had suspected. If I had not scrutinised his face closely, I would have missed that fleeting look when his face expressed shock at the realisation that I had changed the glasses. This expression of shock and anger came and disappeared in a split second, then he quickly relaxed and smiled.

I sat there trying to figure out what might have made him realise that I swapped glasses. I had, I thought, done so flawlessly, without leaving traces. What had I missed or done wrong?

I took some time to scrutinise the glasses again and soon realised how my host was able to notice that I swapped them. Looking carefully at the glasses, I noticed that he had put much more ice in my glass than he had in his. The ice had created more bubbles in my glass than in his. I figured that only a trained eye would pick out such a difference because generally people would not pay attention to such minute detail.

The atmosphere changed; there was an awkward moment of silence, despite his quick recovery. I knew that on the inside he had to be seething with anger, perhaps even struggling to come to terms with the fact that I could suspect he could be capable of such an act. I was embarrassed. I thought that the man must be thinking very poorly of me, probably asking himself, “What an amateur; what diplomat would invite a guest only to poison them in one’s house?”

I broke the silence and started, “Mr Pound, I …”

“Please, call me Phillip,” he retorted.

“Phillip, I must confess that I have not really felt comfortable so far, and you must have noticed that I, eh! ... I mean we’ve got to be honest with each other … you’ve got to admit, this is awkward, it’s not an ordinary visit.

“We, in the ANC, and the people of South Africa in general, have always considered your country as a friend to our enemy. So, you can well imagine the question in my mind is, ‘What is the real motive for inviting me here this evening?’

“What is it that has changed in US policy to now accept that it is appropriate to associate with those your government has always regarded as terrorists?”

The honest explanation of my odd behaviour must have melted his heart. He relaxed, gave a hearty smile and mumbled something about his government’s keenness to understand the ANC. The administration in power had recognised the overwhelmingly popular appeal the ANC had among the masses of South Africa.

After this discussion, Phillip did his best to make me feel comfortable. With the whisky flowing and the delicious food, I also began to relax and started chatting a little more freely.

When it was time to leave, after a pleasant visit in which we had the opportunity to get to know each other — and by then we were on first-name terms — Phillip commented, “Well, Kingsley, I hope you enjoyed yourself. As you can see, I did not try to poison you or anything like that. I hope we can remain friends, and hope to meet you again when I come back from my holidays.”

It was, I believe, Phillip’s way of letting me know that he was aware I had swapped the glasses. I left his residence and assured him that I did enjoy my visit and his company. Later, I briefed Baba Mendi and other comrades about my dinner with Phillip.

Kingsley Mamabolo, former activist and accomplished diplomat