Olympia Café, Kalk Bay, 7 September 2014
SUNDAYS AT MY ONE-TIME retirement haven1 of Kalk Bay, overlooking False Bay, could be varied: anything from damp mist or driving rain to balmy sunshine, with or without the ‘Cape doctor’ – the powerful south-easter wind that blew in the purest Antarctic air. Those gusts cleansed the lungs but rattled windowpanes for days on end. Whatever the weather, Sunday was always a blessed relief from the week’s toil.
I awoke to a fine spring day, thinking of my regular early morning coffee at the Olympia Café, followed by a refreshing dip in the local tidal pool. But I also had a feeling of anxiety. My thoughts were on the Sunday papers, which I would ritually read over coffee and croissants baked on the premises. That morning I was tense in anticipation of yet another front-page story to freak my mind.
For at precisely six o’clock the evening before I had got a call on the phone. A hesitant voice asked: ‘Eh, is that – eh – Mr Kasrils?’
‘This is he,’ I answered rather abruptly, as I was expecting my wife Amina, who worked in Johannesburg.
The caller introduced himself as Sam Mkokeli, a reporter from the Sunday Times, and tentatively proceeded to inform me of a story he had written that was coming out the next morning. ‘It’s about the Spy Tapes,’ he explained, ‘and I am just informing that you feature, sir.’
It transpired that anonymous sources in government had identified me as a key player in the saga, in fact ‘the guy’ who was linked with ‘the man’ from whom the Scorpions boss, Leonard McCarthy, had sought guidance about charging Jacob Zuma ahead of the Polokwane conference in 2007. And that ‘man’ was none other than President Mbeki.
‘Oh, really,’ I answered, wanting to expunge what had become a smirking tone in his voice, ‘but as a journalist writing this story, you ought to be aware that when the initial leaks about the so-called Spy Tapes were reported, I was open about “the guy” being me and “the man” being Mbeki. And I had been open about my association with McCarthy.’
The Smirk, as I had come to think of him, was now faltering, and attempted to add something, but I was not finished and added: ‘I would have expected that you did your research and even at this late hour make mention of that fact?’
‘Well, I was just alerting you about tomorrow’s story.’
‘At 6 p.m. on Saturday night, your presses are probably rolling. What about my rights in this matter?’
‘Yes,’ he cut in quickly, ‘that’s why I am phoning, to get your side of the story.’
That was a laugh. He had written his piece and the news editor, at the very last moment, must have reminded him of the obligation to alert me to the allegations and give me the benefit of responding. That should have been done in good time, but it was not.
‘Well, we will mention what you say in a second edition,’ he responded.
‘Let’s see about that.’
By the time I reached the Olympia, the café was buzzing with early morning customers. The artist Beezy Bailey, my friend and neighbour, was at a table, enjoying his favourite dish of kippers and poached eggs. A superb cook and host, he often invited me to share a meal with family and friends, but never indulged in kippers at home owing to the stench that lingered in the kitchen.
‘Wooo, broer,’ he greeted me, his face a mix of mischief and a touch of anxiety, ‘front-page man in the Sunday Slimes’, tapping the newspaper face-up with its prominent headline: ‘Spy Tapes “illegal” and expose Kasrils’.2
Kenneth, the proprietor, was at my elbow, with a cup of my ritual double espresso and a couple of hot croissants. ‘You’ll need this, dude,’ he said, glancing down at the newspaper and then raising his eyes to the ceiling in a ‘stuff them’ way.
The café was bustling with its regular patrons, mainly locals at that time, ahead of those who would later stream in from further afield. There was the retired bishop and his wife, both environmental activists, a number of resident poets and artists who had been around for decades, a cousin of Pallo Jordan’s and partner with whom I often dined, all giving me thumbs-up signs.
Under the by-line Sam Mkokeli, the man who had called me the evening before, the report outlined by way of introduction the context of the interception of the phone calls, and the release of the ‘Spy Tapes’ to the Democratic Alliance (DA) the previous week, referring to ‘already known allegations of political interference in the running of both the police and the prosecuting authority’.
‘However, they reveal what a senior government source referred to as a “deep” manipulation of the prosecuting body by a web of politicians and business people who were associated with the then President Thabo Mbeki’s bid for a third term as head of the ANC.’
Then came my role: ‘Former intelligence minister Ronnie Kasrils is allegedly identified through the latest transcripts and tapes given to the DA as the mastermind behind most of the political manoeuvring at the height of the Polokwane battle, sources who have knowledge of the tapes said yesterday.’
There was much more about the Mbeki group, and the way the evidence of the tapes had justified the head of the NPA, Mokotedi Mpshe, in dropping the corruption charges against Zuma, clearing the way for him to become the country’s president. The report confirmed that the DA leader, Helen Zille, who successfully led the court application for access to the tapes, had already read the transcripts, but could not comment as she was prevented from doing so by legal constraints. The report referred to edited transcripts that had been released in 2009, shortly before Mpshe announced the dropping of charges against Zuma, and then added another bombshell: ‘The new transcript goes further, and allegedly unmasks Kasrils as the man identified only as “the guy” in the [previously released] 2009 transcript. In that transcript Ngcuka allegedly kept referring to “the guy”, who it appeared was the link to Mbeki.’
The article contained some conjecture about McCarthy and his meeting with Mbeki; about the illegality of the handing over of the tapes to Zuma’s lawyer, Hulley; an account of how McCarthy’s phone came to be tapped; and then more about me: ‘Some of the calls intercepted … allegedly point to a Kasrils role as an “intermediary” between Mbeki and McCarthy. Some of the calls were between Kasrils and McCarthy and the political operators associated with Mbeki’s political interests.’
Beezy, now joined by Kenneth, was watching me, the latter with another espresso, a touching act of support.
‘We’ll fight this,’ I declared, melodramatically thumping the table, ‘I’ll sue!’
‘Take them to the cleaners,’ they both cried in jubilation as Kenneth saved my cup from clattering to the floor.
Kenneth was taking off his apron. ‘Off then for a swim,’ he suggested.
‘Onward and into the breach. For Red Ron and the beautiful land,’ Beezy proclaimed, as Kalk Bay’s green bishop, Geoff Davies, grinned across his table at us.