Dragons & Butterflies: Sentenced to Die, Choosing to Live (76 page)

During the days and nights leading up to 27 March 2003, the day they were due to be transferred back to their home country, the Nigerians couldn’t sleep. All they talked about was their transfer. Their excitement was tangible. They were all busy gathering their things together and packing their bags. Some packed only basic essentials and a few sets of clothing, while others took their DVD players, movies and MP3s. After all, they were still going to prison in Nigeria and not about to be released altogether. Even so, they were one step closer to freedom. And anything was possible in Nigeria, a country where corruption was as rife as it was in Thailand.

That Tuesday morning, 321 Nigerians made their exodus back to the land of their birth. Two aeroplanes were chartered to transfer them back home. About 30 guys, many of them dressed in traditional attire, walked through the gates of Building 2. The balance was made up of prisoners from other buildings and also from Klong Prem. Irrespective of skin colour or nationality, we were all brothers. I had forged strong friendships with quite a few of the Nigerians, and I shared their joy. I hoped and prayed that now a window of opportunity would open for the South African government to follow Nigeria’s example.

After the Nigerians left, the prison quietened down considerably. It was something of an anticlimax, I suppose. The number of foreigners had dwindled, and, where foreigners had once dominated in football, this was no longer the case.

The owner of the gym had managed to get onto the transfer list. When he left, he gave the gym to another African, Dikor, who was from Mali. I was a member of the gym, and, although I paid my monthly fee of 100 Thai baht, it hardly ever worked out that I got full value because I played football on most days. If I did weight training two months out of the year, it was a lot. Dikor, who spoke fluent French, was a very good friend of Simon, the French Israeli guy.

In September we heard that Catherine Mnyengeza, who was serving a 35-year sentence at the women’s prison, had tragically passed away. She was still in the prime of life, and we were friends, corresponding regularly. She was nine years into her sentence when she died. If South Africa had had a prisoner transfer treaty in place, she would have been eligible for transfer after four years, paroled and would have received proper medical attention. She would, in all likelihood, still be alive. Our embassy had done nothing to help Catherine. In fact, as far as I was concerned, they had murdered her. Her tragic and sudden demise cast an ever greater shadow over us South Africans and the uncertainty of our fate. In her honour, I painted a vase with orchids, which I have dedicated to her memory. In a letter I subsequently wrote to President Mbeki, I asked him: ‘How many of us must meet the same fate as Catherine before you take the necessary steps to repatriate your citizens?’

It seemed that Catherine’s death had, in fact, rattled our government. On 6 November I was informed by the authorities that I should prepare myself for an audience with the Director of the prison on the 10th. I had no idea what was going on. That morning, when I walked out of the gates of Building 2, there were balloons and Thai and South African flags lining the road that led from the main gate. My heart was pounding. What the fuck was going on? Was I going home? I wished and I prayed. I was escorted by two guards to Building 14, which was the university building. The Director at the time was Mr Pittaya Sangkanakin, whose goal in life seemed to be to rid the prison of corruption and drugs. He had built a television studio in Building 14 so that prisoners could learn to be camera operators. The studio made it possible to televise live events – mainly our annual football competition. Teams were no longer allowed to take supporters with them because drugs would be exchanged and distributed to the other buildings during matches. Prisoners could now watch every match on a big colour TV in the dining rooms of their own buildings. Alternatively, for those who had private TVs, they could watch the games in the comfort of their houses.

When I arrived at Building 14, I was told that my embassy would be coming, so I sat and waited. Eventually, the ambassador, attaché, consular officer and a delegation of South African government members arrived. It was all very formal. I was introduced to the Commissioner of Corrections, Mr Linda Mti, who informed me that the purpose of his visit to Thailand was to exchange ideas and discuss policies between the respective departments and to review the possibility of a prisoner transfer treaty between our countries.

We were ushered into the studio, where the conversation was being televised and broadcast live to the buildings. We discussed different aspects of prison. I couldn’t believe this was happening. Here I was, sitting in on talks on the fate of South African prisoners with members of the South African government and the Prison Director. My hopes reached an all-time high; this was by far the greatest breakthrough we could have hoped for.

For days afterwards, I couldn’t sleep. My head was buzzing with visions of my arrival at Johannesburg airport. After my visit that week with Jai, she emailed the good news to my family back home. I emphasised that now was the time to keep up the pressure and to get as much publicity as possible regarding our predicament.

Birthdays in prison are the most depressing days of the year, and I always became melancholy when mine came around. I was growing old alone – not exactly what most people envisage for themselves. People got married, had kids and then grandchildren. That was how things were normally done. Why had my life turned out so differently? Why do the choices we make have to determine our lives?

On 15 October 2003 I ‘celebrated’ my tenth birthday behind bars. I was 43. I had asked Jai to bring me 17 Big Macs, which she did, and I shared them with my cellmates. The guys were grateful and wished me well. The only meaning my birthday held for me these days was the knowledge that my family were thinking of me possibly a little bit more on 15 October than on any other day.

I got two pieces of disturbing news around this time. The first came via my sister: my stepbrother Wessels had committed suicide. He’d stuck a shotgun in his mouth and blown his head off. Fuck, he must have been a deeply disturbed soul to do something so drastic. I was shocked. The second piece of news was that Bertie Lubner had had a quadruple bypass. I was sad to hear this; in my view the man was a saint: he was fighting for my release and now he was fighting for his life. Bertie was devoted to my cause, but still with the understanding that I was innocent of the crimes I’d been accused of. I felt very guilty for having deceived such a decent man. I wanted to tell him the truth, but I couldn’t bring myself to. We twist the truth to protect ourselves, and so I remained silent.

Whenever renovations were done in Bangkwang, you could be assured that the Director would be pocketing most of the funds allocated for the project. In 2004 the foreign and Thai visit rooms were upgraded. We no longer needed to shout to our visitors through the two sets of bars and a walkway about a metre and a half wide. Glass partitions were erected on the visitors’ side and telephones were installed. It was a far better system and it made our visits more pleasant; at least now we could have a conversation without everybody hearing what we were saying.

Plans were also under way to demolish Building 1 and to put up an American-type high-security building with state-of-the-art surveillance systems, closed-circuit TV, electronically operated security gates, etc. But first Building 5 had to be renovated and transformed into a high-security block to accommodate all the death row inmates from Building 1. Prisoners with sentences below 33 years would be moved to the provinces, while the lifers would be split up and absorbed into the other buildings. During the demolition of Building 1, besides the noise of machinery all day long, a blanket of dust descended on Building 2, making our lives miserable, not to mention it being a health hazard.

With the group transferred from Building 1 was an Israeli named Shlomo Cohen. He had murdered his wife in a Bangkok hotel, chopped her into pieces, and then attempted to put her through a blender. When this didn’t work, he put her dismembered body parts in a suitcase, which he threw in a river. His case had been extensively publicised on Thai television, so we knew about him and expected to see him at Bangkwang sooner or later. As a fellow Jew, I welcomed him to stay with me. Although I thought his crime was a most heinous one, who was I to judge him? The drugs I had transported would have destroyed, and maybe even killed, many people. I was no better than a murderer myself. The only prisoners I would discriminate against would be the paedophiles.

Shlomo turned out to be your typical Israeli, but he was a nice enough guy. I was no longer making use of my Chinese chef; ten years of his oily food had almost killed me. I was now cooking my own meals. Shlomo immediately took over the cooking and introduced me to some tasty Israeli dishes. He was also quite the comedian, and at first we got on pretty well.

Shlomo stayed with me for three months, during which time he told me his life story. He left out the details of the murder of his wife, about which I never asked. I don’t especially like Israelis; for some reason I never have, and I imagine I never will. After a while, Shlomo started getting on my nerves. Actually, the man was beginning to drive me insane. It didn’t matter what the subject was; he always knew better. He wore thick-rimmed glasses, and one of his eyes was slightly squint, so it looked like he was forever staring at me. It gave me the creeps, besides which I couldn’t help imagining him cutting up his wife – all the blood in the bath, on his hands, and possibly even on his glasses and face.

One day we had an argument and I asked him to leave my house. He seemed baffled. I added, ‘Fuck off, already.’

But Shlomo was the type of guy you couldn’t remain angry with for long. He came from a big family, and his three siblings took turns to visit him every year, so he was not short of anything. Obviously, though, he had his own demons to deal with, and I could see he was a troubled soul. The murder of his wife, the mother of his two sons, haunted him every minute of the day. Love is a strange animal, and it can bring out the worst in any man. In the cell, Shlomo slept at the opposite end of the room to me, but in fact the guy hardly slept at all. He was pale and grew thinner by the day. I was sure his conscience troubled him immensely. One night I went to sleep early. I drank a lot of water during the night and, as I was also a restless sleeper, I would visit the toilet often. Around 11.30 I noticed Shlomo was fast asleep; then again, around 1am, on my next visit to the toilet, I saw that he hadn’t moved. He was still in exactly the same position. Much later, after tossing and turning and being unable to sleep, I thought I would check on him. He still hadn’t moved. Rather odd, I thought. When I got up at 4.45am, he was in exactly the same position. It was very strange, but I thought I would first do my morning ablutions routine and finish davening
Shacharis
before I took any action.

I strolled over to his bed and shook his leg, softly calling his name: ‘Shlomo, Shlomo.’ He too didn’t budge. What a heavy sleeper, I thought, dead to the world. Then a Dutch guy, Mikhail, who was an amateur Thai boxer, came over to Shlomo’s bed. He too was concerned, and I told him I thought something was seriously wrong. Mikhail said he had seen Shlomo counting out a handful of pills on his bed last night. Well, then, it was obvious: Shlomo had taken an overdose. We could see he was breathing, but there was not much we could do except wait till they opened our cell.