Thabang is giddy with a strange, heavy-belly feeling as the small plane rises from the tar; with elation as a life-long hope becomes an unlikely experience in gentle, dizzying surges upwards.
His life has not been long. But for the 12-year-old boy, this, the chance to fly, had been no modest wish, and as the plane starts to level in the bright valley air and the stark blue mountains of Brandvlei — looming sentries to his life thus far — stretch unfamiliarly beneath him, Thabang feels impossibly lucky.
He looks down, through the hazy glare of a thousand feet of sky, at his home: the sprawling, falling hundreds of houses — even beautiful from his new, lofty view. The pilot, his face framed in bulging black earphones, points and Thabang follows his finger to the far distant stretch of ocean and the clear outline of Cape Town’s Table Mountain. It is as it was described, but for the fabled tablecloth of cloud of which his fathers also told him.
Today only a few white streaks high above the flat top interrupt the sky, and Thabang returns his gaze to the faraway water, imagining the fierce white sharks floating beneath, counting the tiny specks — boats, perhaps, sailing east or west, through the warm and cold Indian and Atlantic oceans, which meet somewhere out there before him.
Soon, though, he turns his attention to another lesser and less distant stretch of water. It is not far ahead, and every noisy second the glinting surface of Brandvlei Dam grows clearer. Then Thabang’s stomach lurches — differently this time — and the plane begins to sink between the splendid mountains that flank the Breede River as it flows gently south-east, winding through reed-edged banks, across the fruit orchards and wine lands to the sea.
On the still water’s edge, a few boats float, nudging the bare shores where a few small holiday houses overlook the dam. But the cluster of buildings that draws near lies back from the shore on the opposite side of the dam, safely away from the others. The plane sinks down further, and there, as promised, beside the neat lines of small brick houses and large brick buildings, Thabang sees the sunny field and the shrunken figures of a small group of men, clad in their comforting orange, waving up at him. He presses his nose to the window and waves back, wondering if they can see him through the small oval glass.
It is 2003, nearly 10 years after the miraculous months that saw the country, watched by the world, shake off decades of oppression and injustice. In this bright valley unfolds another small miracle, but now, but for its participants, it is watched by no one. For the new country as for the old, secluded Brandvlei serves the same useful purpose: to keep safely behind high brick walls and blade-topped wire fences those who endanger others, whose freedom threatens to stop the world working as it should.
Down on the field, the smiling, waving men in orange — the dark letters spelling ”Prisoner” and ”Corrections” stamped repeatedly across their overalls — are black, white and coloured. Some are Christian, some Muslim; between them, they speak English, isiXhosa and Afrikaans. They are waving from the grounds of Brandvlei maximum-security prison where they are imprisoned — most for murder or manslaughter — and where they now stand out on the soccer field in shared responsibility to Thabang, who, thanks to them, is flying giddily above.
Beside the men stands a hefty warder in a dark brown uniform. A large bunch of cartoon-size keys hangs from his belt, clinking authentically as he shifts. He is there to keep watch: just in case these 20 dangerous men take advantage of the unscheduled visit out on to the field and use their gift as a chance to bolt. But the men just keep waving — long after the disappearing plane is only a dark dot in the blue — and the warder waves once more too, before steering his charges back behind the walls.
Nearly three years later, I enter too, stop, and gaze nervously around the bare grey outer rooms of Brandvlei Maximum.
A brown-uniformed guard strides towards us, tightly laced boots thudding through the corridors. Immediately, I find myself tingling with unspecific guilt. Even once we’ve met and I follow the bulky figure as he pounds across the concrete and bangs the giant gates — a little louder than necessary — I feel uneasy. Unconsciously, I multiply my misgivings about the prisoners.
At first, everything smelt faintly of urine. But by the time we’ve passed through several doors, locked noisily behind us, the smell is gone. Whether it is by familiarity or absence, I can’t tell, and the thought vanishes as the last barred door clangs shut, and I stand in a long, narrow room, 20 smiling men in orange before me.
Flirting with every prejudice during the picturesque drive from Cape Town, I am struck by how gentle the men look. Then, watching them hug my mother, whom they know already, I am touched. Then, as they approach me and I realise I will be hugged in welcome too, I am alarmed, despite every conscious effort not to be. And finally, after shaking their hands, being enveloped in their arms, I am shaken: by thoughts of what has gone before, but mostly by shock at the hard-to-believe fact that the line between those who commit horrors and those who do not is, indeed, a fine and flexible one.
The introductions over, the prisoners and warders lead us through more gates and grim corridors to a large courtyard. Here, I sit down, as instructed, at a small plastic table under a sun umbrella, beside my mother and the two other visiting white women.
Thabo Zondo, who met me with a two-toothless grin and a painfully firm hug a few minutes before, is trying to hang a long, painted banner high on a wall of the courtyard. ”— against our women and children!” So reads that section of the fabric poster I can see. The first part still falls limply against the bricks. Thabo wobbles on his stool, trying to gather the unwieldy cloth. Another prisoner leaps forward to steady him. Above us, the sun floods in, but the walls are too high to see even the mountains in this world of brick and sky.
Nazeem Hendricks, an attractive coloured man barely older than me, approaches the table again. Smiling encouragingly, he offers again an overflowing plate of sticky muffins to us, the judges. I decline a second muffin: even beneath the umbrella, it is too far hot to enjoy the warm cakes. Nazeem looks hurt. He refills my glass with more lukewarm, unbearably sweet orange juice. I take a sip and feel even thirstier.
Across the courtyard, inmates we haven’t met — the several hundred ”maximum” prisoners who do not belong to our tiny host group — begin to file in and sit on unshaded benches. Some gaze at the women behind the judges’ table; most eyes settle on Nazeem, sporting his little-touched mountain of lurid muffins.
Thabo lets out a cheer. He leaps down from the chair and, hands on hips, looks up at the wall: ”Say no to violence against our women and children!”
Against the dull bricks, the black letters on the white cloth are striking, drawing all eyes upwards, to just below the sky. Our other hosts — busily arranging more benches — pause, admiring the display of their earlier art work. Briefly, I feel amused, then vaguely indignant at the cheek of it. And then, guiltily, I recount to myself the list of achievements of these 20 men, who, if any do, have the moral authority to pull off this event without a hint of irony.
They are the ”Group of Hope”, formed in 2002 following a lecture on HIV/Aids given to all of Brandvlei’s maximum-security inmates. Afterwards, eight of the inmates approached a prison social worker, Jacobus Pansegrouw, informing him that they wished to help those affected by the disease.
Under his guidance, they drew up a constitution and the group, which had quickly swelled to 20, began visiting inmates with Aids in the prison hospital. Soon, growing frustrated, they asked Jacobus how they could help the children affected by Aids in poor local communities. Jacobus approached a nearby child-welfare organisation. ”Twenty maximum-security prisoners want to adopt an Aids orphan,” he said, steeling himself for disbelief and refusal. But the organisation, overwhelmed and underfunded, had an orphan. The boy, seriously ill himself, had lost his whole family to Aids.
A social worker brought Thabang to Brandvlei Maximum, to meet the group. He was dressed in rags, covered in sores and skeletal. When Thabang left — he was to remain living in his impoverished community, paying monthly visits to the prison — the appalled men requested their civilian clothes, taken off them at incarceration. Granted the privilege of scissors, needles and thread, they painstakingly cut them up and, teaching themselves to sew as they worked, stitched new clothes for their skinny charge. Then they asked for a plot of earth to grow him vegetables. This request, too, was granted. During one visit, his fathers asked what he most wanted in the world. Then they sent Jacobus off to the local airfield, bearing another strange request.
Some of this history Thabo mentions as he introduces the morning’s event, which is organised by the four-year-old Group of Hope. Its members have by now ”adopted” more than 10 orphans. Their vegetable garden has expanded, and they have begun feeding disabled people in the community. Thabo speaks of their constitution, which enshrines principles of giving back to the world they have harmed. This begins at home — members who join prison gangs or get into fights are suspended or expelled from the group — but reaches well beyond the walls of Brandvlei.
Today is the International Day of No Violence against Women and Children, and Thabo reminds the listening prisoners of their duty to their women and children at home. Many nod in agreement. Then he announces the start of the talent show. The prisoners cheer. The warders clap. Jacobus Pansegrouw, standing beside the judges’ table, beams proudly.
Thabo raises his hand for silence. ”But, of course,” he grins, ”I almost forgot to thank our judges,” and with a stream of superlatives, he warmly introduces each of the three women beside me. All have helped the group in various ways and, listening to Thabo, I feel increasingly embarrassed and inadequate. I have done nothing for these men. I am in the country on holiday, here out of curiosity. I have no reason to be a judge.
Then Thabo looks at me, his grin widening even further. ”And this is the judge,” he shouts, ”who has come all the way from London! To see us!” The applause is tumultuous, and I blush wildly, staring at my bright orange drink.
Drums roll, music blares and the audience’s attention, thankfully, leaves the table. Twirling bright umbrellas, seven or eight eye-wateringly dressed men dance into the courtyard, the gold and silver of their outrageous shimmering costumes blinding in the sunlight. They are the ”coons”, recreating the famous Cape Town parade that once a year floods the city’s streets with noise, song and swirling, startling colours.
Many of the prisoners are Cape coloureds, the carnival’s traditional participants, and the crowd erupts in delight. The whole audience sways to the lively beat, unfamiliarly: musical instruments are normally prohibited in maximum security, part of the penance. The dancers sashay to the judges’ table, spinning to fully display their rainbow costumes, and we dutifully make notes on our scorecards; on presentation, skill, audience enjoyment, value of message.
The purpose of the last category becomes clearer with the next group: rappers extolling the importance of ”no violence”, ”love” and ”reform”. The rapping is accomplished but repetitive, and my eyes drift back to Luyanda Mboniswa, member of the Group of Hope, murderer of Marike de Klerk, ex-wife of former president FW de Klerk. Impossible to forget, reconciling this fact with the gently beaming man ushering in new acts is little easier.
Luyanda walks over to Jacobus and whispers a question. Jacobus leans forward, resting his hand on Luyanda’s shoulder, black and white faces, beaded with sweat, inches apart. They part, smiling, and it seems, in that moment, that every barrier of past injustices might be vanquished.
But, seconds later, as Jacobus’s smile vanishes, the marks of strain on his face reappear. His increasing workload associated with the group, added to his duties as a social worker, leaves him exhausted. He has appealed for the Group of Hope to become part of his official responsibilities. One of today’s judges has offered to pay the salary of a new social worker, to release Jacobus. But the prison management’s openness to the initiative — separate quarters for the group, the vegetable garden, orphan birthday parties — stops here. The request remains unanswered.
Nazeem and the muffins, now almost liquid, reappear.
Another rap group — with a stronger message, but less rhythm — energetically takes to the concrete stage. I reverse my scores: eight, seven; versus the previous seven, eight. In here, it seems criminal to make losers of anyone, to jeopardise any of this spirit. I try not to think about Jacobus; the vicarious outrage ruins the heady atmosphere.
In the years to come, I will return to Brandvlei Maximum and correspond with some of the prisoners, following their unstoppable progress: the formation of nine groups in other prisons; the adoption of more orphans; numerous community awards; and their unprecedented outing from the prison to visit a ”Group of Hope” at the local female maximum-security prison.
On one occasion, the prisoners will give a lecture on crime prevention, restorative justice and dealing with Aids in the community to members of the South African police force. After the talk, the orphans will launch into an unplanned dance for the visitors. Moved and charmed, these famously poorly paid policemen will begin throwing money at the dancing children — enough, by the end of the performance, to buy them a small CD player.
By late 2007, two years on, Jacobus Pansegrouw’s oft-reiterated request will remain ignored. Overseeing the formation of new groups, his workload will continue to grow. He will lose his bonus — for not ticking every box on the official sheet outlining his duties; his extracurricular work disregarded. Why? Because he is a white Afrikaans man, making waves in a new system trying to forget? Because the group is tackling Aids, in a country whose president has been largely in denial about the disease? Or perhaps because, in a nation with one of the highest murder rates in the world, with more than a million Aids orphans, these men — in reforming themselves, and transforming others — transcend boundaries of possibility and threaten comfortable assumptions of our world?
Before we leave, I say: ”Let me know if I can do anything to help you.” Igshaan Petersen, one of the most talkative members, immediately speaks. ”Write about us,” he says, ”but if you can’t, just think of us. Remember us. In here, we need to be remembered.”
Other members murmur agreement.
Nazeem says softly: ”I have another request.” A Muslim who grew up in the crime-riddled Cape Flats, Nazeem was imprisoned at 19 for two gang-related murders. He will be an old man before he stands any chance of being released. He sees the Group of Hope as a lucky opportunity to ”say sorry”, in particular to the eight-year-old boy he murdered in a drive-by shooting.
”I’ll do anything I can,” I reply.
Nazeem grins. ”Please can you find me more information about the Liverpool football team?” Surprised, I tell him that I do not follow football. He looks crestfallen and I hurriedly add that I will try to find out, or put him in touch with my grandfather, an ardent Liverpool supporter who lives in Cape Town. ”He has family from there,” I explain. ”Why are you a fan?”
”My father loved The Beatles,” says Nazeem. ”He used to play their songs all the time and I’ve always loved the place they came from. I hope to go there one day.”
We hug the Group of Hope goodbye. One of the men kisses my cheek, a little longer than necessary. It is not threatening, or revolting, but tragic: just a man, bereft, forever, of any real contact with women.
Outside the walls, walking to the car, we pass a brick memorial built by the group. In it are many small spaces. Most are empty, waiting to be slowly filled with plaques bearing the names of orphans, and of prisoners who die without families. We pause and stare at those few already inscribed. Thabang, who now receives medication, is not among them. He has become one of the group’s longest-lived orphans, and greatest triumphs. And though he will not, in all probability, survive to old age, when he dies, he will remain their triumph — a name on a brick memorial, and hope, flying forever above this Pandora’s box that lies safely hidden behind the splendid blue mountains of Brandvlei.