Hollywood showdown in Nkandla: the day Zuma went to jail

On July 7 2021, former president and noted chess player Jacob Gedleyihlekisa Zuma realised he was out of moves and conceded defeat to police by agreeing to go to jail.

Zuma had failed to comply with a Constitutional Court order to appear before the state capture commission. 

Building up to his evening surrender, journalists, photographers and camera crews dotted the hillside opposite his Nkandla compound. 

The day was hazy with predictions about what would become of the only life the 79-year-old had known — the ANC. 

It was a baptism of fire for all, those seasoned and those wet behind the ears, with no pool to offer respite for what would follow. 

Unscripted, raw and set under Zululand’s blistering winter sun, Hollywood would have died to see it unfold. 

Shortly after 10am, murmurs among the watchdogs began to surface ... the country's outspoken top cop Bheki Cele was said to be heading to Nkandla. 

It was shaping up to be a bloody showdown as Zuma’s pride and Cele’s arrogance would take centre stage along the winding roads of KwaNxamalala. 

Hundreds of men and women in blue were deployed to the region, Cele having adequately prepared for war after unrest days earlier when Zuma’s supporters spat in the face of Covid-19 regulations, threatening bloodshed should hands be laid on Msholozi. 

Zuma had until midnight to surrender to police — an ultimatum unprecedented for a former president had been laid bare: “Hand yourself over or we will come get you."

Throughout the day police vehicles passed Zuma’s homestead as members of the Umkhonto we Sizwe Military Veterans’ Association (MKMVA) stood guard outside his gate. 

Confidence fuelled one of the drivers of these vehicles to attempt to gain access to the compound. The overzealous motorist and his crew were blocked by MKMVA members and sent packing. 

Amid rumours and fake news, attention shifted to across the street, but this time it was not MKMVA members hushing away police. 

Noses in the air, journalists picked up a scent. 

“Klipdrift. No, no, no, that’s definitely Richelieu,” one of the reporters shouted out. 

A man donning a yellow golfer, a traditional Zulu headband (umqhele), and sunglasses stumbled out of a vehicle. 

Slurring, he made several calls to those in the region. 

Edward Zuma, Msholozi’s eldest son, had evidently wasted no time in getting wasted — he was ready to lay down his life for his father, or simply lay down. 

Snickers among the media soon turned into snarls as many realised it was only 11am and, more importantly, South Africans were under an alcohol ban. 

The day progressed to a tune only those in the media could appreciate — a classic melody the country’s journalists have become accustomed to when covering politics: “Hurry up and wait ... ”

Every so often Edward would blurt out an inaudible word, followed by a flurry of tongue clicks and shaking of heads by those who knew him. 

Another police vehicle made a grand entrance. An unmarked Hyundai H100 packed with heavily armed officers. They pulled into the driveway of Zuma’s compound. 

A similar scene to earlier began to unfold as their hopes of entering were dashed by a handful of MKMVA members “serving and protecting” the former president. 

As the sun set behind a hill, it brought with it a bone-chilling cold that seemed to set the tone for an 11th-hour bid to have Zuma’s arrest warrant rolled over until Friday. 

Darkness descended, leaving journalists to illuminate the foreground on which history would be made. 

Lights, camera, action — all eyes focused on every moving vehicle in the area, blue lights being the curtain call for Zuma. 

Chants and struggle songs were heard from three women near Edward’s vehicle, warmth seeping through their veins as a result of that elusive liquid gold. 

News surfaced that a letter to the Constitutional Court had been drafted by Zuma’s attorneys, a last-minute plea as his gasps for freedom slowly started to fade.  

At 10.30pm, an hour-and-a-half before the former president’s deadline for surrender, a stream of red lights and sirens made their way from the bottom of the valley. 

A private ambulance pulled into the driveway and was immediately blocked by Zuma’s die-hard supporters. 

MKMVA members surrounded the front of the vehicle. 

The driver, a paramedic, was rattled — knobkerries and sticks swinging in the air as loud whistles echoed through the air.

Edward, still standing, mades his presence felt as he approached the driver. 

“Who sent you? Who?” Edward interrogated the driver, who inched his window down ever so slightly to converse. 

“We are here for Zuma, a doctor inside called us.” 

To which Edward replied: “No, they must tell us first, suka (go away).” 

A few minutes later provisions were made for the ambulance to enter the homestead. 

At 11.15pm, under a clear night sky flickering with stars, a nine-vehicle motorcade rushed out the driveway. 

A journalist saw Zuma in the second vehicle, a black BMW X5 with windows tinted darker than the midnight sky. 

Screeching wheels saw the motorcade set off down the road and into the abyss — Zuma would be heading to his new home, ironically one his administration developed, the Estcourt Correctional Centre. 

Before the clock struck midnight, exhausted journalists made their way out of Nkandla, having documented history that would result in a wave of pandemonium in the following days.

The ANC had toiled with forbidden fruit and in the coming days KwaZulu-Natal and Gauteng would be cast into chaos as an insurrection would see tens of thousands embark on mass looting, citizens left to defend their suburbs while police turned a blind eye.