Chapter 18

April 1980

The LAM Airlines flight from Maputo to Luanda in April 1980 was the first such experience for Amos Vilakazi, aka Senzo Makhanda. He watched from his window seat as the plane ascended and Maputo, its peri-urban slums, the dense green countryside and the Mozambican coastline grew smaller. He turned to Lindiwe, appointed to escort the new recruits to Angola, and noted her hands clenched on the seat arms.

‘You okay?’ She couldn’t hide the tremor in her voice.

‘I’m fine. Thank you.’ Amos smiled, laying his hand on hers. She waited a moment, then retracted her hand and let it rest on her lap. Amos turned back to the window and watched as the plane banked away from the coast and headed northwest. He traced the route in his mental geography: over Zimbabwe (just now changing its name from Rhodesia), across Zambia and finally upwards to the Angolan coast at Luanda.

For S’bu Dlamini the two flights, also his first, on Air Botswana from Francistown to Lusaka and on Aeroflot from Lusaka to Luanda, were rough. He clung to his seat arms and kept his head turned from the window except when he felt the plane finally begin its descent into Luanda and he turned to watch the bay grow large and foreign in the tiny window. This would be his first time near an ocean.

Vilakazi’s and Dlamini’s planes landed within an hour of each other and they were bustled with the other new recruits through the Luanda airport. They assembled in an untidy group while their ANC escorts stood with sheaves of papers for half an hour in front of a dark-skinned immigration officer, speaking in a strange language.

‘I know you.’

S’bu turned to the voice that had spoken to him.

Amos spoke again. ‘I know you. You’re a Dlamini.’

S’bu recognised the dialect but not the individual. He looked around. No one seemed to be paying them any attention. The new recruits stood in small groups composed of those who had spent some time together waiting in Maputo, in Dukwe or in Lusaka. They talked in quiet mumbles, looking around, pointing at items of interest, of strangeness.

S’bu turned back to Amos. ‘Sorry?’

‘Dlamini. You’re a Dlamini.’ Amos put out his hand. The corners of his eyes wrinkled. ‘I’m a Vilakazi.’

S’bu took Amos’s hand, but said nothing.

Amos spoke again. ‘Aren’t you a son of Baba Dlamini, the teacher? Did he also send you out?’

S’bu took his hand back. He looked down at his feet then up again into Amos’s eyes.

‘Hey, comrades! You two know each other?’ Lindiwe paused next to them, her feet apart and hands on her hips.

Amos smiled and put his arm across her shoulders. ‘Yes, this comrade here and me are from the same area.’

Lindiwe moved away far enough for his arm to drop off her shoulders. ‘Asibuzi eMkhontweni! We don’t discuss our personal backgrounds in MK, comrades!’

‘Sorry, com.’ S’bu looked at Lindiwe. He took a few steps backwards.

Amos smiled. ‘Sorry, Lindi. It’s my fault. I was just excited to see someone from home.’

‘Hey, Comrade Senzo, we’re all from home here. Let’s move.’ She took them both by the elbows and directed them back into the gathering of fellow recruits and then ushered them all towards the exit. S’bu moved away. Lindiwe followed him. ‘You know Senzo, comrade?’

‘No, I don’t. But I can hear he’s from my area. Maybe a nearby village, but I’ve been staying in town the last few years. He says he knows me.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘My real name?’ S’bu’s head jerked up.

‘No. No, com. Your MK name.’

‘Paulo.’

‘Paulo? A Portuguese name? Paulo who?’

‘Paulo Freire.’

She laughed. ‘Hawu! Paulo Freire? Who gave you that name?’

‘Uh, Jerry. The coloured comrade.’ He passed his hand over the top of his head. ‘With the white hair.’

‘Whitehead? Jerry Whitehead? You were processed by Comrade Jerry? Where? In Lusaka?’

‘No, no. In Botswana. In Dukwe.’

They were moving out through the airport doors and into the sunlight and a wave of heavy, wet air rushed at them. S’bu smelled damp salt and something else, something fecund. They were ushered towards two open-backed army-green trucks and herded aboard with their assortment of suitcases, duffel bags, rucksacks and plastic bags. Some carried just a roll of clothing under their arms. Lindiwe placed her hand on S’bu’s back and coaxed him onto the truck, passing him his duffel bag and her small suitcase. She clambered up and led him to the front of the truck and stood, with him holding onto the railing behind the cab. Two men in camouflage stood on either side of the cab, watching the new recruits board. One had a rifle slung over his shoulder, the other a holstered pistol. S’bu nodded towards the two men. ‘Angolan army?’

Lindiwe laughed. ‘No, no, South African army.’

S’bu slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and made a move towards the rear. She pulled him back.

‘No, Paulo, MK. Umkhonto we Sizwe. The South African peoples’ army. These two are your comrades.’

S’bu massaged the back of his neck. ‘And that rifle he is carrying? What is it?’

‘That, Comrade Paulo, is the AK.’

S’bu felt a tightness well up from the gut and into his throat. He coughed. ‘When do I get one?’

The truck trundled off, and he toppled backward. Lindiwe grabbed him and pulled him back towards the railing and smiled. ‘Be patient, Comrade. You still have to go for training.’

‘Is that where we’re going now?’

‘You’re going to a transit camp just outside Luanda. You’ll be processed there before you move on into the deep bush for training.’

They were silent for a while. S’bu looked out at the streets of Luanda as they rolled by. Colourful posters and hoardings in a strange language with images of revolution. Pockmarked walls where some gunfight had taken place. Broken, potholed roads. People in tattered, dirty but colourful clothing. And soldiers, women and men, in uniform, everywhere he looked. He looked back at the others in the truck – all his new comrades, some in bright-coloured clothes, some fashionable, others more worse for wear. Amos caught S’bu’s eye and smiled as if in mutual conspiracy. S’bu turned to savour the wind in his face.

Lindiwe leaned towards him. ‘Why did you leave the country?’

‘I thought asibuzi eMkhontweni?’

‘No, no, com. I don’t want details. Just in general. But, I am, by the way, from ANC security, like Comrade Whitehead. So just give me the general idea.’

‘I was in a unit. My commander got arrested. The boers killed him. I had to leave.’

She looked at him for a long moment.

‘What kind of a unit?’

‘I buried weapons. I was also a shop steward.’

‘So you’re not really a kursant?’

‘A what?’

‘Kursant. It’s Russian. A new recruit ... a cadet.’

‘Does that mean I can get my AK now?’

‘Ha-ha! Your time will come. But it is good to have someone come out who was already in the underground. Most of the kursants are from political organisations, or from schools or universities, or just running away in general.’ She waved at someone in the truck in front of them.

Amos approached and stood beside her, wrapped his arm around her waist and whispered into her ear. She laughed and pushed him away. He went back to lean against the side of the truck to continue his conversation with a group.

Lindiwe raised her hand with the thick cardboard folder and held it in front of them to stop the wind from drowning out her words. She spoke quietly. ‘When we get to Viana I’m going to introduce you to one of my colleagues from NAT.’

S’bu had to bend to make himself heard. ‘To where?’

‘Viana. That’s the name of the transit camp we are taking you to. We would like you to help NAT.’

‘Who is Nat?’

They bumped heads as they tried to switch ears and mouths.

‘ANC intelligence. They call us Mbokodo.’ She leaned closer and lowered her voice further. ‘If you could keep your eyes and ears open. Report to us anyone or thing suspicious among the kursants, anyone who may be impimpi. Just quietly, you know.’

S’bu raised his thumb and said loudly: ‘Sharp!’

Lindiwe moved back through the truck, using the shoulders of the others to steady herself, and squeezed next to Amos.

S’bu leaned into the wind just as they slowed and turned through a large gate that was swung open by two men in camouflage with AKs over their shoulders. Lindiwe called out ‘Welcome to Viana, macomrade!’

The men scrambled off the trucks, their luggage tossed down after them. There was chaos as each tried to gather their belongings and form a tiny safe space for themselves.

‘Fall in!’ A deep, loud voice.

No one moved, apart from a few who shuffled awkwardly around their luggage.

‘Comrades! Leave your things and fall in! I want two platoons! One here and one here. Three lines each. Eight in a line.’

S’bu stepped forward into an open space and stood facing the loud voice. Others followed and lined up alongside.

‘No! No! Not like that. Stand behind this comrade in a row of eight, then another row and a third. The other platoon over there.’

Eventually, they got it, the second platoon managing to muster only one and a half lines. There they stood, facing the front, waiting. The voice spoke again.

‘Okay, good. Now wait while we consult.’

The voice, Lindiwe, the others who had escorted them from Lusaka and Maputo, plus a few more in uniform, huddled in a group some metres from them and whispered together. Lindiwe and a couple of the others held card folders in front of them and ran their fingers down the pages inside, every now and then nodding or pointing towards the assembled recruits. Lindiwe talked animatedly.

Eventually the group dispersed and the voice took his place in front of them.

‘Comrades, welcome. Welcome to Viana. Welcome to Angola. Welcome to MK.’

The recruits stopped fidgeting, some emotions welling up in S’bu at the last welcome. His eyes scanned the groups for Lindiwe, but she had disappeared. Amos, standing at the head of the line alongside S’bu’s, smoothed down the front of his shirt.

The voice spoke again.

‘Comrades, my name is Mandla. I am the commander of this camp. This here is Comrade Lucky. He is camp commissar.’ He moved over to a young man in perfectly pressed uniform and put his hand on his shoulder. ‘He is responsible for your politics and your welfare while you are here.’

There were murmurs in the ranks.

‘And this is Vusi, chief of staff. And over there, Comrade Velaphi, chief recording officer.’ He gestured with a loose-wrist hand at a young man wearing a brand new uniform, a pistol on his belt, olive green peaked cap tilted over a pair of sunglasses.

S’bu noticed someone in a pale green uniform and peaked cap approach. Another woman comrade. She approached the commander, raised her cap for a moment to smooth her hair ... Lindiwe, now transformed into a soldier. She carried a clipboard and handed it to the commander, who turned back to the assembled group.

‘And, comrades, I assume you know Comrade Lindi and the others from the recording department that escorted you.’ He let the arm holding the clipboard fall to his side. ‘You comrades will be here for a few days while we process you and arrange your transport to Quibaxe.’ There were murmurs in the ranks again.

‘Quibaxe. That’s the camp up north where you will do your training. Now ...’ – he lifted the clipboard – ‘you are Platoon One.’ He pointed to the formation in which S’bu and Amos stood. ‘You are Platoon Two.’ He pointed at the other.

‘Okay! Order, comrades. Each of these lines is a section. Three sections to a platoon. Each platoon must have a commander and a commissar. Same with each section. After consultation with the recording officers, we are making temporary appointments.’ He looked down at the clipboard and began to call out names and assign their responsibilities.

‘Comrade Freire? Who is Comrade Paulo Freire?’ A wave of sound rippled through the gathering.

Commissar Lucky repeated: ‘Hawu! Paulo Freire?’ S’bu put up his hand.

‘Comrade Paulo, you are commander of Section 1, Platoon one. That’s your section behind you.’

S’bu turned and looked down the line behind him. Some nodded at him.

Mandla spoke again. ‘I see we have another Makana. Who is Senzo Makana?’

Amos raised his hand and stepped forward.

‘It’s Makhanda, Comrade Commander.’

‘Makhanda? Why?’

‘The whites mispronounced it, Comrade Commander.’

‘Okay, Comrade Makhanda. Still, however it’s pronounced, there are a lot of you in MK. You are going to be commander of Platoon One.’

Amos stepped back into line.

‘Hey, Comrade. Step forward and take your place in front of your platoon.’

Amos turned to his platoon, smiled and turned again to face the front.