Some time between July 13 and 15 1990, months after Nelson Mandela’s release from prison and the unbanning of the African National Congress, two leading members of the organisation’s armed wing, Umkhonto weSizwe, were taken to the mouth of the Tugela river near Durban.
Charles Ndaba and Mbuso Tshabalala had been illegally held in police custody for at least a week.
During that time they were tortured and interrogated for information concerning the ANC’s secret operation — code-named Vula, ”open the way” in Zulu — to overthrow the apartheid government. They were members of the military and combat works committee of Operation Vula in the then province of Natal.
Both men were made to kneel. They were shot in the back of the head, execution-style. Then, weighed down with rocks wrapped in chicken wire, their bodies were thrown into the river.
If the perpetrators had not applied for amnesty before the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in 1997, these atrocities and the awful truth behind the fate of the two men would have remained a mystery forever.
The families of the activists have not been able to get to the bottom of the precise events leading to the executions, and will probably never have peace of mind. The bodies of the dead men will never be recovered.
This is how it was that day:
We drove past the house, but saw no sign of anybody there. My stomach felt hollow and unsettled, so I decided not to go in; not until my uneasiness lifted, I thought.
Tshabalala had not kept our appointment earlier in the day. I was absolutely certain that we had agreed to meet at the usual place, I was damned sure. I’d waited at the stables at Greyville racecourse for the mandatory and maximum 10 minutes, but there was no sign of him. I broke the rule that day and returned to look for him three times.
”This is not good for my record of disciplined security-consciousness, or my constitution, or my heart. Where can he be?” I kept repeating to myself.
Frances (real name Charles Ndaba) had missed two appointments in the previous 24 hours, but I had been meticulous about the 10 minutes and don’t-return-more-than-once rule.
I had a boot-load of equipment with me: two AK-47s, a Stechkin (a fully automatic Soviet pistol that could fire 650 rounds a minute), four grenades, two Scorpions (the Czech equivalent of the Uzzi), a couple of detonators with time fuses, a sample set of limpets and my personal Makarov.
We were due to go to Marianhill to train a new unit of ”young lions”. I was looking forward to it because we were going to fire live rounds. We had established a bush shooting range in Gillits: surrounded by blue gums and thick shrubs, it had a natural silencing effect that we had enhanced with a rudimentary structure covered in sound-deadening polystyrene.
”Where is Frances?” I said to myself again. ”If I get busted with this load, it will be history for me. And I should stop talking to myself so much.”
Deep down I feared the worst: he had been captured; worse still, he was lying dead somewhere as a result of venturing into hostile Inkatha Freedom Party territory. Did he show them the house? Had he identified Vula operatives under the strain of being interrogated? Was this meeting place being watched?
This uncertainty was worse than staring death itself in the face. Life or death was easy to deal with. Black or white is how I preferred things to be. The damned uncertainty and constant anxiety were excruciating.
So I drove straight past The Knoll, my Operation Vula safe house, too shit-scared even to stop, let alone go in. Were the cross-hairs of a rifle sight trained on my forehead? Was the house being watched?
I debated what to do. Just go in? Run as far away as possible and hope the fear would ease? No. Running would be cowardly — unbecoming conduct from a disciplined soldier of the revolution.
Should I go into the house and meet whatever was there, face to face, and deal with it? No, while that would confirm how brave I was, it would also confirm how dumb and unthinking I was. I would get bust, probably killed, maybe become a hero, but who would be next?
Okay, drive slowly, take long, deep breaths, and think.
I decided that, under the circumstances, I would have to break rules — there was no other option. I knew exactly what I had to do. So I pulled myself together, squinted — which helped to push the fear to the background and allowed me to believe that I was truly in control — and transformed myself into the focused and dangerous underground operative I was convinced I was born to be.
I checked traffic behind me, drove defensively, took detours that were craftily intended to check for tails without giving a hint of vigilance. All looked clear. I was back in command.
I arrived at Mo Shaik’s house, parked carelessly and ran in. He was horrified: ”What the fuck are you doing here? Don’t you know that our stuff is completely separate? You cannot just pitch up without a prior arrangement!”
Then he saw my ashen face, the fear and panic waiting to break, and he shut up. The next two minutes were all it took for both of us to agree that something was horribly amiss. We could almost smell it.
”But what is it that we should do?” Shaik asked.
All the way to his house, I’d racked my brains and pondered the options. In the end, only one answer screamed back at me: I had to go back to The Knoll. But if something horrible had indeed happened, if something horrible was about to happen, then someone who could scramble the operation and save the other members needed to know. And Shaik was that someone.
So, me as the kamikaze and Shaik, the should-really-not-be-involved assistant and witness, set out for The Knoll. The drive there was silent, thick with the fear of what might be waiting. Shaik and I would not forget that night for the rest of our lives, I thought.
We drove past the first time; I noticed Gebuza’s car. Gebuza (Siphiwe Nyanda, now head of the South African National Defence Force) was chief of military operations and my commander in Operation Vula. ”Mo,” I said, ”It all looks okay, Gabs is there! God, what a relief.”
We agreed that Shaik would wait in the car while I went in. If all was okay, Shaik could come in and he, Gebuza and I would crack open a bottle of whisky. Yes! Nothing beats a well-deserved, honest drink between comrades at the end of a nerve-wracking experience.
”Phew! False alarm,” I said.
”Being in the same place together will be a breach of the rules, but we deserve it,” said Shaik.
I threw the car door open and walked down the stairs to the front door. The relief I felt a few seconds earlier evaporated, but I couldn’t put my finger on why.
Shaik seemed to feel the same way — he drove a short distance down the road and pulled over, out of sight.
I was about to unlock the front door of The Knoll and enter when I hesitated and decided instead to knock the code and call for Joe (Gebuza’s code name). So I did. There was no answer.
I repeated the often-changed code of knocking, sure that I was remembering it correctly. Then I heard a shuffle on the other side of the door.
”Joe, it’s me, Taps,” I whispered.
The door flew open and before I knew it I was thrown to the floor and an automatic rifle barrel shoved hard into my mouth. Blood gushed and I felt as if it was going to tear through me and come out the other end.
I was kicked and punched until I lost consciousness. As darkness enveloped me, I screamed — and realised they were just desperate and loud thoughts. ”Drive! Mo, drive! Scramble the operation! Warn everyone, let them go deep underground. Move the weapons! I can handle these Boers, these racist fuckers, I’ll show them!”
That night was slow, long and painful. All my mettle was tested — my physical strength, my resolve, my emotional capacity, my willingness to die for the South African revolution, my love for life.
Shit, shit, shit, I thought as another volley of kicks caused yet another envelope of darkness to close around me.
I returned to consciousness, hands cuffed behind my back and lying face-up on the floor, to find a stream of liquid pouring over my face — the burning and pungent urine of a Boer cop standing over me.
”How did you come to the house, terrorist coolie?”
”I took the bus,” I said.
”Jou fokken moer, terroris!” — and I was beaten senseless by the six of them, again and again and again. It was a long night, July 13 1990, and the first of many that followed over the next six months.
Shaik did drive, like the wind, but that is a story for him to tell. He did raise the alarm, confirmed that Operation Vula had been discovered by apartheid’s security police, through the chance arrest of our two comrades — and after torturing them to the edge of their lives. Then they executed them and dumped their bodies in the Tugela.
The remaining operatives were warned and Operation Vula was scrambled. The weapons stocks were moved to new locations. Nine of us, after months of interrogation and torture, were brought to court in a blaze of publicity.
We were the last to be charged with terrorism in apartheid South Africa. We were granted indemnity to enable negotiations, and many of us played a role as ANC members at the Convention for a Democratic South Africa.
Shaik and many Vula comrades went deep underground as South Africa negotiated its peaceful transition. He and others started a journey of fugitive life that night that did not end until a year later, when they resurfaced in the presence of Madiba, who commended them for discipline and courage.
The role of Operation Vula as a key component of the ANC’s struggle was publicly acknowledged and explained. South Africa’s transition to peace and democracy was paved with tough choices, hardship and sacrifice — in Mbuso’s and Charles’s case, the ultimate sacrifice.
Dedicated to the memories of Mbuso Tshabalala and Charles Ndaba (Frances). I think of you fondly, every single waking day. I wish that you also lived, also experienced the joy of our victory over the apartheid monster — and that you were also given the opportunity to live a full and normal life