Charles Nqakula's reflections on detention in apartheid SA

11 June 2017 - 02:00 By Charles Nqakula

On January 15 1986, General Justin Lekhanya, the head of the Lesotho army, ousted Lesotho prime minister Chief Leabua Jonathan in a military coup. Jonathan had been prime minister since 1966 and was an ANC supporter.In this extract from his book,The People’s War, former journalist, MK operative and cabinet minister Charles Nqakula, remembers his time in detention under the military regime:By April 1986, Lekhanya's Military Council had truly become a South African surrogate. The blockade was called off and business between the two countries returned to normal. Nonetheless, the threat to our presence in Lesotho from the South African security forces was by no means over. I decided to forgo my disguise, and our Regional Politico-Military Council meetings were reinstated. I convened a meeting that April where I wanted to pursue the idea of insurrection. I restricted the meeting to an hour, still mindful that we were operating underground.Fumanekile Gqiba (Ncutshe), a student at the university who worked with our military structure in Lesotho, arrived to pick up Edward Mabitsela and I asked for a lift. Gqiba noticed in his rear-view mirror that a car was following us. He confirmed he had seen the car before and that it was used by the Lesotho security forces. The same vehicle had been following his car for some time, including the previous night when he was helping guerrillas cross the Caledon River into South Africa.I was furious. I could not understand why Gqiba's "sizzling hot" car was still in use. I told Mabitsela that the vehicle ought to have been quarantined immediately we realised that it had attracted police attention. It was, of course, too late to raise these concerns. The here and now was that the police were tailing us and that something was going to happen pretty soon.My mind quickly shifted to the small bag next to me on the back seat of the car, which contained a Makarov 9mm pistol, some money and my insurrection notes. I broke into a sweat. It was an open secret that key members of the Lesotho security police were working closely with their South African counterparts in South Africa; in fact, they had become agents of the South African security apparatus.When we entered the Maseru business area, the police signalled to us to drive into the courtyard of Lancers Inn, a popular wining and dining spot close to the Victoria Hotel on the main street of Maseru. After a quick consultation we resolved to present ourselves to the police as local university students.As Gqiba drove into the courtyard I caught a glimpse of Loyiso Mpumlwana in front of the inn. The establishment was patronised by some of our comrades, but Mpumlwana did not drink. I wondered whether he had eaten lunch there. The comrade had become infamous as someone with the propensity to appear at the wrong place at the wrong time, but at that point he was a godsend.My only wish was for Mpumlwana to recognise our car and watch my actions. Gqiba had found parking on the left of the courtyard, while the police stopped on the right. I was sitting on the opposite side from the police, so was able to push the door slightly open, drop the bag on the ground and close the door as softly as I could.Mpumlwana must have worked out what was happening and walked slowly towards us. At the same time the four policemen alighted from their vehicle and approached. One of their number climbed into the back next to me. They asked Gqiba to drive to the police station and followed us.We were separated at the police station and interrogated. Two hours later the police drove us to the university for confirmation of our status. As expected, only Gqiba was confirmed as a student there and we were all detained. We found ourselves in the police cells with five other detainees, all members of [Chief Leabua] Jonathan's toppled Basotho National Party. Three were cabinet ministers, and the others the president and secretary-general of the BNP Youth League.A few days after our detention, another MK cadre joined us — Mbishi Buya (Tiba), who originally came from Mdantsane. Buya was put in the same cell as Mabitsela, directly opposite ours, while I was placed with Gqiba. The cells were locked from the outside with a steel rod that slid into a steel holder, ensuring that inmates could not push the door open.Our interrogation started on an intimidating note: we were tortured to get us to "speak the truth" about our presence in Lesotho and our operations. Using their heels, the police trampled on our toes, causing cuts and blisters. On one occasion I asked my interrogators why they were torturing us. I told them I was a South African who was in exile as a consequence of apartheid; the struggle we were waging, I told them, was against the racist regime, and I could not understand why Basotho, from whatever quarter, but especially the security forces, would do Pretoria's bidding.The answer was more trampling on my toes. My crime, apparently, was that I thought I was clever and that they were stupid. Mabitsela was subjected to excruciating torture. The flesh on parts of his toes peeled away and we could see his toe bones, while his toenails came right off.One day the head of the Lesotho security police, General Sehalahala Molapo, a relative of Leabua Jonathan, came to visit us. He asked me my name and I said I was Sandile Mtati. He asked if I was certain that was my name and when I said it was, he laughed and left the cell. I could not fathom what his visit was about. A few days later we were taken to an office in the police precinct where we met Esther Mzena, a Tanzanian advocate who was the representative of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees in Lesotho.Mzena asked after our health and whether there was anything about our conditions of detention we wanted to raise. We told her about the torture and said that we did not know why we were in detention because we had not committed any crime in Lesotho. The police had not told us why we were in detention. Without going into detail, she assured us that our case was receiving attention at the highest level. She said she would personally ensure we were released soon.We later learnt that she made a huge effort to secure our release.Other developments were a source of confusion to us while we were detained. On one occasion our interrogators dropped us off just inside the gate of the police precinct and asked us to walk to the charge office, where we were due to be interrogated. We realised that this was a trap; they were hoping we would make a run for it, allowing them to shoot us from behind while we were trying to escape. We did not attempt to run.The second incident was more baffling. One evening after the visit to advocate Mzena, towards midnight, Gqiba and I were already asleep when we heard a voice outside our cell window - one of our police interrogators was calling us. He had managed to raise himself and was peeping through the bars of the window. He told us in rapid, hushed tones that he did not have time to give a full explanation but wanted to warn us that our lives were in danger. He told us the South African security forces had threatened to enter Lesotho and capture us because we were wanted back home for "terrorist" activities.The big surprise was when he slipped two hand grenades through the bars and said we could use them if we were attacked. He left immediately.We knew that South Africa had recruited agents in Lesotho, especially among the security forces. When we were arrested the police officers included one we called Jasonti. We all knew that he was an agent; if we told him anything about our work in Lesotho, the security forces in South Africa would get to know about it. And we resisted the torture by our Lesotho interrogators just as we would if our torturers had been South Africans.One day, as we were being dropped off in the cell area, Mabitsela asked for a broom to clean our cells. Later that day a broom was delivered — and this would turn out to be very useful.Whenever we came back from interrogation, the police would put us back in the cells and close the doors from the outside, using the metal rod. At the top of each door there was a small opening with bars that no human being could squeeze through.One day, Mabitsela asked Buya to hoist him on his shoulders to the level of the opening above the cell door. He then poked the broomstick through the bars, and after numerous attempts succeeded in lifting the rod and opening our door. We then opened the doors of the other cells and spent time together each day. But we slept in our separate cells at night without closing the doors and locked ourselves in early the following day, so that the police would find us in that condition.We were able to analyse the questions we were being asked during interrogation, and put together plans on how to deal with the police who were interrogating and torturing us. We identified those responsible for the torture and those whose questions were more intense and probing, and those who appeared to sympathise with us. We named the worst torturer "Dust Coat", because that was what he always wore.We also told our comrades about the policeman's visit and showed them the grenades. We agreed that he was not among those who were interrogating and torturing us, but we did not trust him and were wary. He was a security policeman after all and may have been sent to trap or even kill us. What would happen if the police came the following day and searched our cells? We reckoned we would be charged, found guilty and sentenced to long jail terms.The other possibility was even worse. Suppose the grenades were booby-trapped? We could be killed while trying to use them, or even while handling them. We agreed we had to test the explosives, particularly the detonation mechanism. If the grenades were booby-trapped to prevent the unscrewing of the detonator, even this could cost us our lives. But we had to do something.I had received extensive training in military engineering and wanted to do the checking, but Mabitsela said Buya would have to do it. I believe Mabitsela did not want someone in my position to be killed. Buya, as a loyal and committed soldier, agreed to do the job. He left the cell and walked up to the locked gate at the end of the passage. I was impressed by his bravery; he knew his life could easily be snuffed out if the grenades were booby-trapped, but he accepted the assignment without flinching.We remained in the cell to avoid splinters from any premature explosion. But we were very tense. Buya cannot have been out of the cell for longer than three minutes, but the wait seemed like forever and a day. We were all thinking that we might have sent Buya to his death, but at the same time understood that death was our constant companion in the struggle for freedom. As the regional leaders, we had already sent many cadres into South Africa and some had died in confrontations with the enemy.There was no explosion and Buya came back to the cell. So the grenades were not booby-trapped and could become tools in our hands. But whichever way we looked at it, we could still die. If the enemy broke into the cells and tried to capture us, we would use the grenades to kill some of them. But the enemy would also throw grenades in our direction and we would also be killed. We were ready for that.Another surprise was coming our way. At midnight the next day our policeman came back and this time gave us an AK-47. We checked the firearm in the same way as we had the grenades and found it was safe. Our confidence grew and we felt the game was changing in our favour. We could shoot our way out of the cells and escape. Dying in the process was still a possibility, but the odds were not so overwhelmingly against us now that we had an AK and two grenades.Our chief representative, Ndlovu, was given an opportunity to meet us, and he told us the ANC national leadership was aware that we were in detention and was negotiating with Lesotho for our release. Lekhanya's government had also been approached by the South African government, Ndlovu said, to hand us over because we were the brains behind "terrorist" acts that were taking place in South Africa.Ndlovu's briefing helped us tremendously. He also corroborated our policeman's story and our confidence in him grew. We were not interrogated again after the sessions with Mzena and Ndlovu. The policeman who armed us visited us again in the police cells to tell us we would be released that day and to ask us to return the firearm and grenades he had given us. We duly returned the weapons.Later that day we were taken to the Maseru airport for deportation to Lusaka. At the airport we met a number of ANC comrades, including my wife Nosiviwe, and Yvonne, Mabitsela's wife. My daughter, Phumla, was also there.The security police must have kept tabs on her or were told about her by their informants. She told me that she was detained in security police cells in Ficksburg, close to the Lesotho border, and that the security police showed her a photo album containing a picture of a dead man with wounds to his body. "They asked me to concentrate on the face and not the body. It was your face," she said. "They told me you were dead, that they had killed you as you attempted to enter South Africa. I cried uncontrollably and refused to answer their questions."When she was eventually released and returned to Lesotho to resume her studies, she learnt that I was alive in detention in Maseru.• This is an edited extract from "The People's War" by Charles Nqakula, (R250) published by the Mutloatse Arts Heritage Trust and Real African Publishers..

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