Winnie Mandela (41 page)

From 1986, the juxtaposition of Winnie's world, and that of Mandela, became increasingly one of contrast. She was the overt revolutionary, angry, defiant and controversial; he was the statesman-in-the-making, steadily garnering respect and rising in international stature. There was mounting pressure on the South African government to release Mandela and bring about political change. The response to the ANC's call to render the country ungovernable saw the townships in a permanent state of siege, despite an extension of the state of emergency. Political upheaval took on a predictable pattern: black resistance rose in direct relation to the level of fresh repression, and the government response became positively Stalinist. Thousands of UDF leaders and supporters were detained and tens of thousands went into hiding. But for every leader removed from the public stage, there was another waiting in the wings. The names and faces changed, but the tactics that had begun to foil government reaction stayed the same: enforced consumer boycotts of shops, non-payment of rental and township service fees, mass protests and rallies, toyi-toying demonstrations and stirring political orations at
the open graves of fallen comrades. And there were funerals almost every weekend in the troubled townships around every major city. Church leaders became more vociferous, and one of the loudest voices belonged to Desmond Tutu, the newly elected first black Archbishop of Cape Town. Morale was further boosted by the growing success of guerrilla fighters, who had launched a campaign of successful attacks throughout South Africa. Trade unions, too, had entered the fray, creating an additional political platform, and when the Congress of South African Trade Unions (COSATU) joined the struggle, strike action became a powerful weapon in the struggle arsenal.

After being all but ignored by the international community during the late 1960s and early 1970s, Mandela was now
the
name on lips all over the world. A flurry of publicity and diplomatic activity had turned him into a celebrity – the most famous prisoner on earth. South Africa's Minister of Justice, Kobie Coetsee, had dared suggest to PW Botha that Mandela should be freed on humanitarian grounds after his prostate surgery in November 1985, but Botha would not hear of it. Two years later, with the government's back firmly against the wall, Coetsee was finally given permission to open a secret dialogue with Mandela. When Mandela's fellow prisoner Govan Mbeki, father of future president Thabo Mbeki, was unconditionally released at the end of 1987, there could no longer be any doubt that South Africa was slowly being steered onto a new course. It was not a moment too soon. The anti-apartheid movement was gaining momentum on all fronts, and June 1988 brought a sobering indication of the ANC's potential to unleash widespread chaos when a powerful car bomb exploded outside the Ellis Park rugby stadium in Johannesburg, killing two whites and injuring thirty-five. After more than a decade of mounting violence, a sprinkling of white South Africans tentatively took up the call for Mandela's release.

As his seventieth birthday in July 1988 approached, the call became a clamour. A massive rock concert was staged at London's Wembley Stadium on 11 June under the banner ‘Freedom at 70', with world-famous performers like Harry Belafonte, Stevie Wonder and Whitney Houston taking part. The concert was televised by the BBC, and millions of viewers heard a message from Mandela that had been smuggled out of prison. The South African government was incensed, and threatened to expel the BBC's correspondents. It made no difference – international support had outstripped the besieged apartheid government's influence, and its voice was steadily diminishing.

But events on the ground in South Africa's townships were grimmer than ever. Anarchy ruled, and because of her continued involvement with the youth, Winnie was directly affected. Whether as the result of police instigation or not, the Mandela United Football Club had become embroiled in a confrontation with the football team from Daliwonga High School in Dube. For months there was
intermittent fighting between members of the two teams, but the conflict escalated when the Daliwonga players arrived at Winnie's house and fired shots at members of the MUFC. Then one of the Mandela Sisters was gang-raped by Daliwonga pupils. She pointed out her attackers, and the MUFC rounded them up, took them to the rooms behind Winnie's house and beat them up. A few days later, on 28 July, a mob of Daliwonga pupils retaliated by scaling the perimeter wall and setting Winnie's house on fire. Neither she nor the MUFC members was at home. Someone called the fire brigade, but their water tanks were empty, and house No. 8115, the home of Nelson and Winnie Mandela, went up in flames.

Apart from the loss of Winnie's furniture and personal effects, the fire claimed an irreplaceable treasure – family photographs, letters, and the layer from her wedding cake that Winnie had preserved for half a lifetime. She was devastated. For two days, she said not one word, shed not a single tear. The only home she had shared with Nelson was destroyed – not by their oppressors, but by the very people for whom it had stood as a symbol of resistance and courage.

Mandela was equally shocked by the news, but he was adamant that no charges should be laid against the arsonists, and that the matter should be resolved by the people of Soweto. The Reverend Frank Chikane, who had witnessed the fire, was concerned that there might be further violence, and approached several influential figures, including Cyril Ramaphosa, Sydney Mufamadi, Sister Bernard Ncube and the Reverend Beyers Naudé, to manage the situation. They formed what became known as the Mandela Crisis Committee, and vowed to disband the MUFC.

Being back in Soweto had not brought Winnie the contentment and fulfilment she had longed for while in Brandfort. More than ever, she was a target of the security police's covert dirty tricks and spies, and her life had become mired in controversy and alarming rumour. After the fire, she moved into a luxurious mansion in Diepkloof, said to have been built and furnished with funds raised by an American entrepreneur, Robert Brown, who had close links with Boston University, where Zeni and her husband had studied thanks to scholarships, which Brown evidently arranged for them. Far from disbanding, the Mandela United Football Club moved with Winnie. The members were said to have assumed responsibility for her safety, and became known as her bodyguards, but township residents were making serious allegations against them, charging that they had become a vigilante gang and were out of control. The club coach, Jerry Richardson, had served some time in prison and was rumoured to be a police informer. Residents claimed that boys who refused to join the MUFC were intimidated, and some said they feared for their lives. Some accused the MUFC of operating like the mafia, which no member was allowed to quit. By far the most disquieting rumour was that Winnie was not only aware of the MUFC's reign of terror, but might even be involved.

When Nelson was apprised of the club's unsavoury reputation, he told Winnie he wanted it disbanded, but, in a rare display of defiance against his wishes, she ignored him and made no attempt to curb the behaviour of its members. Winnie's own behaviour was becoming ever more reckless and erratic. She wore her khaki outfit at every opportunity, and it was common knowledge that she had begun to harbour MK fighters in her home. Her alliance with the MUFC was about to immerse the ANC in a grave political crisis, and for the authorities, rumours of the difference of opinion between Nelson and Winnie and the prospect of a rift between Winnie and the ANC, were a gift.

Meanwhile, Mandela was slowly being prepared to rejoin the world beyond the prison gates. He was allowed more visits, given unlimited access to newspapers and permitted to watch films, which he loved. James Gregory started taking him on secret excursions in and around Cape Town, always accompanied by armed guards. Mandela understood that these trips were either meant to reacquaint him with the country prior to release, or to dangle the prospect of freedom as bait and lure him into making rash concessions to the government. The population at large knew nothing of the activities taking place behind the scenes, and the political turmoil continued unabated under a permanent state of emergency. South Africa reinforced its reputation as a police state as the numbers and activities of the SAP were expanded, and soldiers were permanently deployed in the townships.

At the beginning of August, Mandela fell ill. Following his prostate surgery, he had not returned to the top-floor cells at Pollsmoor that he had shared with his comrades, but was housed instead on the ground floor, where he had a ‘suite' of three large cells all to himself. However, the accommodation was damp and dark, and for the first time in twenty-five years, he was alone. No one noticed that he had become listless and developed a nagging cough, but when he started vomiting on 4 August, he was taken to Tygerberg Hospital, where tuberculosis was diagnosed. Winnie was furious, and blamed the prison authorities for neglecting him. The government was alarmed. Kobie Coetsee personally monitored the situation, and a Swiss specialist was summoned to treat Mandela. On 21 August, the London
Sunday Times
aptly summed up PW Botha's dilemma by reporting that for the South African government, ‘the only thing worse than a free Mandela, is a dead Mandela'.

After being treated at Tygerberg Hospital, Mandela was transferred to the Constantiaberg Clinic, a private hospital, for a period of convalescence. When he was discharged on 9 December, he was not taken back to Pollsmoor, but to the Victor Verster Prison at Paarl, twenty-two kilometres from Cape Town. The government was no longer taking any chances with his welfare, and instead of being placed in a cell, Mandela was installed in one of the largest and most comfortably furnished houses normally occupied by senior officials who lived on the sprawling prison
farm in the heart of the picturesque Cape winelands. Every possible convenience was at his disposal – a well-tended garden, swimming pool, television,
en suite
bathroom, even a personal chef, Warrant Officer Jack Swart, who prepared all his meals. The man who had spent more than a quarter-century in cold, dank prison cells was suddenly living in luxury – but he was still a prisoner, and all contact with his comrades had been cut off.

 

As for Winnie, the curtain was about to go up on a drama that would shake her life to the core, and reverberate around the world.

Two schools of thought developed around the crisis that enveloped Winnie as 1988 drew to a close. One held that she had either become mentally unhinged as the result of a relentless twenty-five-year campaign against her, or had always been fundamentally evil, but had managed to hide this, and was, in fact, guilty of everything she was accused of – and more.

The other theory was that Winnie posed a serious threat to those in the ANC whose philosophy differed from hers, and that the only way of neutralising her considerable power was to pile up enough damning allegations against her to ensure that she could never become president of South Africa. This would involve a complex – but not impossible – web of lies and intrigue. Winnie's naivety and trusting nature were well known, and she was therefore vulnerable. It would be easy to trap her in a situation where she was surrounded by spies and criminals who would lie at the behest of the highest bidder and implicate her in deeds that would shock not only the nation, but the world.

Winnie steadfastly denied all the accusations against her, and on occasion said she was satisfied that the truth would one day be known, hinting that the full story had not yet emerged. She never felt the need to exonerate or explain herself, and eschewed invitations to talk about the upheavals of her recent past. Against that background, the official record of events was largely assembled from allegations and testimony against her.

One of the young ANC activists, Lolo Sono, was closely involved in providing assistance to MK guerrillas who needed temporary shelter. When one of them was killed in a shoot-out with police, Lolo was accused of being a spy. On Sunday 13 November 1988, Winnie went to his father's home in her minibus. Lolo was in the vehicle and had obviously been physically assaulted. She told his father, Nicodemus, that Lolo was being taken away. Nicodemus pleaded with her to leave the injured youth with him, but he later testified that she seemed particularly aggressive, not at all like the Winnie he knew, and she refused. She left, and Lolo Sono was never seen again. Five days later, Nomsa Tshabalala – one of the Sono neighbours – discovered that her son Sibuniso, a friend of Lolo's, had been taken away by young men who had come looking for him. He, too, disappeared.

The list of Mandela United victims was getting longer, and some of them reported their assaults to the police. Peter and Philip Makhanda were taken to Winnie's house, and after being beaten up, the letter ‘M' was carved into Philip's chest and the words ‘Viva ANC' into one of his thighs, as well as on Peter's back. Then battery acid was poured on the open wounds. They escaped, and both boys told the police that not only was Winnie present, but that Zindzi had also taken part in the assault.

Sibusiso Chili and Lerotodi Ikaneng had refused to join the Mandela Football Club. When members of the club attacked Sibusiso, his brothers went to his rescue, and during the ensuing fight they killed a football club member, Maxwell Modondo. Ikaneng arrived on the scene when the fight was over, but was nevertheless seized and branded by the MUFC. Later, club members attempted to murder Ikaneng, and attacked the Chili home with firebombs, killing a family member.

Xola Mokhaula and Mlando Ngubeni were shot in cold blood by Oupa Seheri, another Mandela United member, who made Xola's mother and sister watch while he killed the boy.

The turning point was the abduction of Kenneth Kgase, Thabisa Mono, Pelo Mekgwe and Stompie Seipei.

The Methodist Mission House in Orlando, known as the manse, was run by Father Paul Verryn, and offered sanctuary to teenage boys and young men, much as Winnie's house did. In mid-December, Stompie Seipei, aged fourteen, arrived at the manse after staying for a while with prominent human rights lawyer Arthur Chaskalson's son Matthew, who worked for Priscilla Jana, another well-known attorney, who had acted for the Mandela family on several occasions.