First Two Chapters

Freedom Never Rests:

A Novel of Democracy in South Africa

James Kilgore

First published by Jacana Media (Pty) Ltd in 2011

10 Orange Street

Sunnyside

Auckland Park 2092

South Africa

+2711 628 3200

www.jacana.co.za

ISBN 978-1-4314-0119-2

Job No. 001505

Photos and design: Trevor Paul: www.behance.net/trevor_paul

Crowd photos: Boris Vahed

Set in Garamond 11/14pt

Printed and bound by CTP Printers, Cape Town

See a complete list of Jacana titles at www.jacana.co.za

Che Guevara quote on page 329 used with permission

from Ocean Press.

Chapter 1

Johannesburg, 1993

The first floor of The ageing Unified Bank Building vibrated

with the footfalls. Since Unified’s executives had moved their

offices to the white suburbs, the old headquarters had turned

into a hothouse of political activity. Rissik Street’s Sunday

window-shoppers were used to the rhythms. Freedom songs

provided musical background as people admired the latest

Toshiba boom boxes and knock-off running shoes on their

way home from church. Today dozens of shop stewards were

taking their turn in forging a new nation, a South Africa for

the working class.

Monwabisi Radebe’s feet flew above his head in this well-

practised routine. Limber hotel waiters and plump, middle-

aged female street sweepers handled the steps and sways with

equal grace. The Movement was preparing to take a decision.

They’d honed the process for more than two decades. Toyitoyi

and song provided the comforts of home, firing joyous

bullets of inspiration to the heart of the enemy. A hand-

lettered banner across the front wall reaffirmed the basic

message of solidarity: ‘An Injury to One is an Injury to All.’

The singing gradually wound down. Like thousands of

South Africans, these shop stewards from the Congress of

South African Trade Unions (COSATU) were examining the

draft of the Reconstruction and Development Programme,

or RDP, a 147-page bible for a new nation. This was their third

session. Only one crucial topic remained – nationalisation.

Though his headache was getting worse, Monwabisi

had to bring the house to consensus. This was democracy

in action: discuss an issue for hours, sometimes days, until

everyone agreed. They called it ‘workers’ control’.

‘Nationalisation without compensation is the only

answer,’ argued the thick-chested Nathaniel Mda of the

mineworkers’ union. ‘More than 69 000 miners have died in

disasters over the years. It’s time to reverse history, to claim

the gold and diamonds on behalf of the working class.’

A cohort of several dozen showed their support for Mda

with a song in Sesotho. ‘The land of South Africa belongs to

all the people,’ their voices proclaimed, ‘not just a greedy few.’

Once the quiet had returned, Monwabisi sought

responses from the meeting.

‘Nationalisation is premature,’ said Tshepo Jiyane. The

long-time shop steward for the food workers wore his usual

attire – a black cap bearing the hammer and sickle of the

South African Communist Party and a T-shirt with the

smiling face of Madiba. ‘We are in the democratic phase

of our revolution,’ he added, ‘leading a broad front of all

progressive classes, including the national bourgeoisie.’

‘The comrade is proposing we jump in bed with the

bosses!’ shouted Mda as he leaped to his feet. ‘The workers

must speak with one voice. Sifuna inationalisation kuphela.’

Monwabisi’s fist slammed down on the metal table at the

front of the hall.

‘Comrade Mda, we need order, not personal attacks,’ said

Monwabisi. ‘Take a seat.’

Monwabisi’s vision was starting to blur. The headaches

did that sometimes. He got one almost every day now, and

Panado didn’t help. Plus those small lumps in his neck weren’t

going away. He just wanted to find somewhere to lie down in

the darkness. That brought a little relief.

As Mda apologised for his outburst, suddenly the hall

shook. The deep-level gold mines under Joburg had made

tremors a way of life. Then came the blast. The workers went

silent for a second, waiting to see if the twelve storeys above

them were going to collapse on their heads. A few of them

dove under their chairs.

‘That was no earthquake,’ said Mda.

‘Sounded like a thunderclap,’ said Monwabisi, ‘but there’s

not a cloud in the sky.’ He sent Jiyane and two shop stewards

outside to survey the street.

Members of POPCRU, the police union, took up

positions at the door to the hall, guns drawn.

‘No one must leave until we know what happened,’ said

Monwabisi.

‘Bloody Boers,’ said Mda.

Jiyane came running back inside.

‘They bombed the ANC office up the road,’ he said. ‘Fire

trucks are already there. It’s serious.’

‘We must find them where they sleep,’ said Mda, holding

a massive panga in the air.

‘The POPCRU delegation will guard the building,’ said

Monwabisi.

‘We must strike back,’ said Johannes Mtsilo, regional

secretary of the railway workers and a former boxer. He

began the musical plea for machine guns: ‘Awuleth’umshini

wami, awuleth’umshini wami.’ This time the lyrics weren’t

ceremonial. The song continued for fifteen minutes. As

Monwabisi joined in the toyi-toyi he remembered that his

cousin Mthetho, who had just returned to South Africa for

the first time in fifteen years, was attending that ANC meeting.

The joyous image of him kissing the tarmac at the Joburg

airport when he arrived was vanishing from Monwabisi’s

mind. Instead, he saw his cousin’s corpse lying under a pile

of building rubble. The killing just never seemed to stop.

The singing wound down but the house was divided on

the next step. Mtsilo and others wanted to rush to the ANC

office. ‘We need to defend our comrades!’ Mtsilo shouted,

daring anyone to shy away from their duty.

‘Rushing there will do no good,’ said Jiyane. ‘There are

already hundreds of people in the streets.’ He proposed an

adjournment, arguing that the venue was no longer safe for

their deliberations. ‘We may be the next target,’ Jiyane added.

The delegation shouted him down.

‘The Boers can’t halt the mission of the working class,’

said Mda. ‘We are COSATU. We don’t run away.’

‘POPCRU comrades to the front!’ Monwabisi called out.

‘Yizani phambili.’

Monwabisi ordered the six POPCRU delegates to set up

a team of lookouts on Bree and Rissik streets to make sure

no one who wasn’t part of COSATU entered the building.

At least it was a Sunday. The streets were quiet. Boers in their

Land Rovers and Voortrekker gear would stick out like Gerrie

Coetzee in a shebeen.

Before the POPCRU guards could take up their positions,

twenty more black policemen arrived and closed the streets

for two blocks in all directions. Meanwhile Police Sergeant

Pheto dashed into the hall and assured the shop stewards the

authorities had cut off the Boers at each and every point. He

said that at least two comrades had perished in the explosion.

‘But the workers will be protected,’ he promised. Pheto

rushed out of the room before Monwabisi even had a chance

to ask him the names of the deceased. He’d catch them on

the radio later. He had a meeting to chair.

‘We’ve waited too long for this moment to be derailed

by a few Boers,’ Monwabisi told the crowd. ‘We, the shop

stewards of the Witwatersrand, must be heard.’

‘No one needs to worry,’ Mtsilo said, glaring at Jiyane. ‘I

will protect you.’

The railway worker swung his knobkerrie in a circle as

the delegates rose to their feet with applause.

‘We stand for the nationalisation of South Africa’s mines,

commercial farms and major industries,’ read the meeting’s

final resolution. ‘We stand for justice and workers’ control.’

The delegates added a supplement that wasn’t on the

day’s agenda: ‘We stand for the prosecution of all apartheid

war criminals and murderers.’

The result satisfied Monwabisi, though it wasn’t enough

to rid him of his headache. The pain was worse than ever.

When he’d spoken on the phone to his wife Constantia, the

previous week, she’d advised him to see a doctor. Maybe she

was right.

After the workers closed the gathering with a moment of

silence and the singing of ‘Hamba Kahle’ to commemorate

those who died in the bomb blast, Monwabisi dashed up the

road to look for his cousin. He found him standing next to

one of the fire trucks wearing his usual grey suit. At least the

Boers had spared Monwabisi’s family this time around.

Though the shop stewards were convinced that nationalisation

was the correct path, their resolution ultimately lost

out. The Consultative Business Movement and the leading

black commercial associations backed ‘socially responsible

entrepreneurship’. The final draft of the RDP advocated a

‘thorough democratisation of South Africa’, but made no

promises about nationalisation.

Monwabisi and the other shop stewards were disappointed,

but they accepted the decisions of the democratic movement.

What was more important than the result was the process.

People had given their lives for this democracy. In the new

South Africa everyone, including workers, would have their

say before government took decisions on vital issues. The

process of developing the RDP would be the model for the

future government led by the ANC. For once the workers

could say: ‘The future is now.’

Chapter 2

Brooklyn, New York

27 May 1994

The sounds of Hugh Masekela’s ‘Bring Him Back Home’

echoed through the rafters of the enormous church

basement. South Africa’s famed jazz trumpeter had come to

St Luke’s to celebrate the downfall of apartheid. Just a month

earlier millions of South Africans had gone to the polls. Not

only had they brought Nelson Mandela back home, they’d

elected him and his party, the African National Congress, to

head their first democratic government.

With his quiet dignity and elbow-swinging, arthritic

dance style, the world’s most famous political prisoner had

graciously received the sceptre of power from the National

Party’s F.W. de Klerk. The handover was not just a South

African moment. Mandela and the black majority of his

country had become global symbols of freedom.

Hundreds of well-wishers attended the event at St Luke’s.

They listened as keynote speaker Mthetho Jonasi, the ANC’s

Deputy Representative to the United Nations, claimed the

night for the ‘freedom fighters of North America, those who

put their bodies on the line in solidarity with our cause’.

Joanna Ross and Peter Franklin fell in that category.

Joanna looked much the same as she did that Thanksgiving

Day in 1985 when she and Peter had chained themselves

to the front door of a Buffalo bank that had invested in

South Africa. A crowd of three dozen chanted ‘Freedom

yes, apartheid no’ while the police carted the couple away.

Mthetho and his cousin Monwabisi Radebe, who was visiting

from South Africa, led the lively chorus. Joanna and Peter

spent the weekend in the Buffalo City Jail. Their romance

blossomed in that brief interlude of shared martyrdom.

Joanna’s straight brown hair was still neatly combed,

reaching slightly below her ears. Her weepy brown eyes had

just begun to sprout a tiny wrinkle or two around the edges.

Unlike most of her friends, Joanna hadn’t gained a pound

over the years, maintaining her wiry, almost gaunt physique.

In fact, her life hadn’t really changed much at all. She

remained the persistent conscience of the community, gently

proselytising shoppers, pedestrians and neighbours about the

latest human rights atrocity in the world. For the last seven

years she’d spent a month of her summer vacation from her

job as a school librarian doing counsellor work at a camp for,

as the brochures called them, ‘wayward inner-city youth’.

Nearly a year had passed since Peter and Joanna’s

break-up. Though she rarely talked about it, Joanna was

still heartbroken. She blamed the separation on Peter’s

trip to Washington, DC. He’d been arrested there with

Whoopi Goldberg and Stevie Wonder in a protest against

US investments in South Africa. After that he started to

belittle Joanna’s penchant for second-hand clothes and what

she called her ‘vow of poverty’. He talked of becoming a

‘role player’ in the cause of social justice, not a screamer at

the margins. His personal ambition disturbed Joanna. She’d

always thought their love was based on a certain humility, a

lifestyle in harmony with the poorest of the poor.

Though on this occasion Peter had jettisoned his now

trademark suit and tie for a yellow ANC T-shirt, he’d long

since abandoned any traces of his old activist appearance.

The shoulder-length blondish locks which Joanna once loved

to brush had morphed into an executive cut that would blend

seamlessly into any corporate boardroom. His reddish Abe

Lincoln-style beard had disappeared altogether, revealing his

smooth, almost boyish cheeks.

As they met amid the sea of celebrants, the two

exchanged tentative hugs, labouring to share the excitement

of the occasion. They recalled the half-cooked instant

mashed potatoes of the Buffalo City Jail and the three ants

Peter found floating in his morning coffee.

‘You told me you took them out and drank it anyway,’ she

said. They laughed.

‘South Africa is a buzzy place,’ he said. ‘You have to visit,

see the fruits of your labour.’

‘It’s not really my labour,’ she replied. ‘The South African

people deserve the credit.’

‘Of course,’ he said, ‘but we played our role. That’s all

I’m saying.’

Peter went on to tell Joanna how his company, Pellmar

Corporation, saw lots of opportunities for greenfield

investment and partnerships in South Africa. They’d been

undertaking similar projects in Bulgaria, Romania and the

Ukraine with great success.

‘We are a small firm but we are a game-changer,’ he said.

‘It’s a win-win situation. The needs in South Africa are endless –

housing, water, education, electricity, management at all levels.

Our people have been in dialogue with the ANC. The new

rulers, especially Mandela, recognise their capacity problems.’

Peter handed Joanna his beige business card. His name

and title, ‘Investment Consultant’, were embossed in gold

letters. She didn’t ask him what an investment consultant

actually did. A few years earlier, investment consultants were

among the kinds of people Peter referred to as ‘moneygrubbing

parasites’. She never thought someone she once

loved so much could shed his principles so easily.

She excused herself, saying she had to meet an old friend,

and went to join the queue for food. The South African

students had cooked a cow on a spit and slaughtered several

goats. Joanna didn’t normally eat meat. She asked one of the

South African women serving the food about a ‘vegetarian

option’. The woman smiled.

‘Sorry, my dear,’ she told Joanna, ‘but in Africa we can’t

celebrate our freedom with lettuce.’ She handed Joanna a

plate piled high with goat ribs, steak, collard greens and a fat

sausage they reverently called ‘wors’.

As she looked for a place to sit, Joanna spotted the frizzy

black beard of Zoltan Steinberg. He’d been in the crowd that

day outside the Buffalo bank. Zoltan was still a student, doing

research on something he called ‘alienation and worker selforganisation’.

He’d explained his topic to her a couple times

before, but Joanna couldn’t wade through the academic jargon.

‘I haven’t eaten meat in six years,’ Zoltan told her. ‘But

only once in our lifetime will we see apartheid fall.’

He chewed the wors delicately, as if gentle bites could

keep the toxins from coming out.

‘I’m getting into computers,’ he told her. ‘They’ve got

great potential for working-class organisation at a global

level. The South Africans are at the cutting edge.’

He took another bite of the wors. ‘Not too bad,’ he said.

‘Better than Denny’s anyway.’

‘Have some more,’ said Joanna as she stabbed her

sausage with her plastic fork and plunked it onto Zoltan’s

plate. Zoltan buried it under a pile of collards.

‘South Africa has the most advanced trade union

movement in the world,’ he said. ‘They put the AFL-CIO

to shame. Imagine workers who can shut down whole cities.’

‘Sounds amazing,’ said Joanna. The plastic knife broke as

she tried to cut the steak. Hot grease seeped into her fingertips

as she picked the meat up in her hands and took a bite.

‘I’ve already visited Johannesburg and met with some

leaders of the metalworkers,’ he told her.

Zoltan also had business cards. ‘I feel like a fool carrying

these things around,’ he said. ‘But everyone over there has

them, even the shop stewards.’

He opened his blue nylon billfold and shook out a

handful of cards. Each bore the symbol of a different South

African union – from the mineworkers’ pick to the open-

ended wrench of the metalworkers.

‘I’ve got a collection going,’ he said, ‘but only from the

unions. I don’t trust the ANC. Too many intellectuals. I’m

going to Brazil next. They’ve got a genuine workers’ party

there.’

Joanna decided not to touch the goat ribs. She wrapped

the meat in a paper napkin and put it in her purse. She’d

throw it away outside, when no one was watching. She was

a little bit envious of Peter and Zoltan. She’d spent most of

her life fighting for justice in the world but she rarely ever left

New York City. Maybe one day she’d go and actually meet the

people she was fighting for.

By night’s end the cow and goats had shrivelled to

gnarled bones. A few cases of beer remained but the South

African students had plans for those. Their celebration was

just beginning. After the crowd rendered a slightly drunken

version of the new South African national anthem, a

photographer gathered Peter, Joanna, Zoltan and Mthetho

together for a picture.

By that time Joanna had covered her light grey blouse

with the yellow T-shirt of the ANC. Pictures taken, Peter and

Joanna embraced, the final cap to a joyous evening. He kissed

her on both cheeks, then on the lips for a little too long. She

wanted to pull back but the beer had gone to her head.

‘We should have lunch sometime,’ he said.

‘Good idea,’ she replied.

She doubted he would phone. She imagined that

investment consultants were busy people.

Three weeks later, Angela Arness, the national director of

Unitarian Vision (UV), rang Joanna. Angela was an old friend

from the anti-nuclear power protests of the early eighties.

She and Joanna had been arrested together in New England

with the famous radical priests, the Berrigan brothers. Angela

told Joanna the UV human rights project was hunting for a

country representative in South Africa.

‘The job involves living inside the country and reporting

to Unitarian churches around the US about human rights

in South Africa,’ Angela explained. ‘Later on there might

be some project money. We need someone with a church

affiliation and a background in the anti-apartheid movement,

and we want you to apply.’

‘I don’t even have a passport,’ Joanna replied, ‘and I

don’t know much about South Africa. There’s got to be more

qualified people.’

‘I don’t want anyone going there who has a personal

agenda,’ said Angela. ‘Mandela deserves better than that. So

do our members.’

Joanna found the offer flattering but she worried about

having to resign from her job at the school library. She

was building up an impressive collection of titles on global

issues. Some of the kids had started a study group on

‘Solving World Poverty’. Who would help them? And then

there was Misty. None of her friends had time to look after

an ageing cat.

She spent a week mulling it all over, consulting with

friends and rereading a collection of the speeches of

Desmond Tutu that she found at a second-hand bookstore.

What an inspiring man.

In the end Joanna submitted her résumé and went to

Washington for the interview, though she still hadn’t figured

out what to do with her cat if she got the job.

The first question Angela and the other two people on

the interview panel asked was why she was interested in the

position.

Joanna told them the rest of the world had a lot to

learn from South Africans, a people who’d been through

so much yet were still willing to forgive. As she spoke, she

pictured herself in the middle of one of those huge marches

in Pretoria that she’d seen on the news. That collection of

books in the school library felt a little less important.

The Unitarians didn’t move fast. After a month, Joanna

had almost forgotten about the job. A few days later Angela

finally phoned to tell Joanna the position was hers if she

wanted it. They expected her to be in Johannesburg in about

three weeks. Joanna said she’d think about it for a couple of

days. She said she was worried about her school. The next day

she talked to her school principal, Bill Callaghan. He said if she

took the UV job, he’d recommend a year’s leave of absence.

He said he envied her, that she was the luckiest woman in New

York to have a chance to live in the world’s newest democracy.

Callaghan’s comments turned the tide for Joanna. She

phoned Angela that afternoon and told her she’d take the job.

Shirley Bullock and her eight-year-old daughter Emily,

who lived in the flat next door, agreed to take Misty. Joanna

had only one remaining concern. She hoped she wouldn’t

bump into Peter Franklin – he brought up too many painful

memories. Besides, she was afraid they might be on different

sides of the fence.