Johannesburg–Pretoria–Durban, April–October 2016
A GAGGLE OF STRUGGLE VETERANS had gathered on the steps of the Constitutional Court in Braamfontein, Johannesburg, on an early April day in 2016, to raise their voices against corruption and the sorry state of government. There was Cheryl Carolus and Mavuso Msimang, the chairperson of Corruption Watch, and both senior ANC veterans; Zwelinzima Vavi, who had been expelled from Cosatu; the retired Constitutional Court judge Zak Yacoob; the Anglican bishop Jo Seoka; activist Mark Haywood of Section 27, the anti-corruption forum that had convened the assembly; and, among several others, an ageing, some would say grouchy, Ronnie Kasrils – two years short of his eightieth orbit of the sun. Several hundred supporters braved the cold rain to hear us pontificate.
There were fiery speeches calling for Jacob Zuma to stand down as president of the country, following that week’s stunning Constitutional Court judgment that he had failed to abide by his oath of office and uphold the Constitution. I had listened intently to the live TV broadcast of Chief Justice Mogoeng Mogoeng delivering that opinion and thereby endearing himself to a worried populace, with tears running down my cheeks.
On the steps of that self-same court Zak Yacoob, warmly dressed against the weather, declared: ‘Our president has acted miserably, dishonestly and horribly. I call on the ANC NWC [National Working Committee, which was about to meet on the question] and cabinet to look beyond the legality … look into your conscience, my ex-comrades! Zuma, please go.’
He added that it was not Zuma alone who was to blame, and that the work ahead was bigger than one man: ‘Our job is to make the ANC NWC aware of what they did by keeping Zuma. Our job is vast and it includes the whole movement … the whole movement needs cleansing.’1
Vavi too made a forceful speech. I was seated next to Zak Yacoob with whom I had had a good personal rapport from underground days. Vavi, enumerating the many Zuma vices, said even a blind man could see them, forgetting the eminent retired judge next to me who had been thus disabled all his life. Zak is a great wit, and leant over to me with a wide grin, his mouth cupped by his hand, as he whispered: ‘Ah, but you can see with your mind. And even with eyes you might not see.’
There were so many good speeches ahead of me, taking up all the points I would have made, that I began thinking of opting out when my turn came.
A declaration was read out listing all of Zuma’s disgraces: the Gupta wedding party landing at Waterkloof air base; the cost to the taxpayer of his Nkandla residence; the firing of the finance minister Nhanhla Nene and his replacement by the unknown Des van Rooyen; and so on. It was seemingly all-encompassing, but there was a particular scandal not mentioned. With my turn next, I strode forward and said a single word: ‘Khwezi’. I paused, then continued: ‘Let’s not forget the young woman called Khwezi who suffered so dreadfully for daring to accuse Jacob Zuma of having raped her.’ There was a collective gasp and then a round of applause. At that point in time Khwezi’s real name, Fezeka Kuzwayo, had not been revealed.
I reminded the crowd of the torment she had endured in and outside the courtroom; of Zuma’s disgraceful behaviour; of her second life in exile; of the fate of women in our country; and Zuma’s hypocrisy, which had to be brought to an end.
After the event the radio talk-show host and author Redi Tlhabi, renowned for taking up the plight of abused women, phoned to congratulate me. She spoke of the stream of delighted messages she had received about my speech. Around that time she had been in touch with me about a book she was writing about Khwezi after I had connected the two, at Redi’s request.
Four months later, a particularly spectacular event took place showing that Khwezi was not forgotten.
The television cameras and the eyes of the country were focused on President Zuma as he rose to speak at the Independent Electoral Commission (IEC) announcement of the results of the August 2016 local government elections. Present in their finest regalia were the country’s political elite. ANC ministers and officials were trying to put on a brave face because of the disastrous showing of the party.2
The crowd, impatient for the lavish banquet to follow, was bored and hungry after lengthy preliminary speeches by IEC officials. As Zuma began his address on an elevated stage, four young women, in elegant black evening dress, strode quietly and with dignity to the front. With their backs to Zuma, they faced the bemused audience, each one holding aloft a simple hand-drawn placard. Neither Zuma nor the IEC officials on the stage could see the messages. The attention of the audience, and viewers at home, where I watched with Amina, stared either in consternation or in delight. All who witnessed the spectacle were amazed.
The posters read: ‘I am 1 in 3’, ‘10 years later’, ‘Kanga’ and ‘Remember Khwezi’.
The first poster indicated that one in three women in South Africa were sexually abused in their lifetimes. The name ‘Khwezi’ would have jolted many people’s memories of the rape trial ten years previously and Zuma’s inglorious references at the time to how he had been aroused by her wearing a ‘kanga’. Those who were confused about the meaning of the posters certainly received an education by what appeared to have been an impromptu and creative protest.
As Zuma concluded his speech, still oblivious to what the commotion was about, security personnel pounced on the young women and unceremoniously hustled them out. Scenes of infuriated ANC women, such as Bathabile Dlamini and Lindiwe Zulu, berating Minister Nosiviwe Mapisa-Nqakula, who was apparently responsible for security arrangements that evening, simply added to the confusion.3
The entire country was agog at the spectacle and wanted to know who the remarkable young women were and what had motivated them.
Speaking to eNCA, Simamkele Dlakavu, a student and one of the protesters, said she had attended a previous solidarity event in support of Khwezi, organised by the One in Nine campaign, a women’s rights association that fights sexual abuse in South Africa. The occasion had received little attention, and the women, while at the results ceremony, decided on waking the country up.
‘It wasn’t planned, it was spontaneous. I said to my sisters: “How am I going to listen to this man, when a few weeks ago we were protesting this man?”’ Dlakavu said.
The silent protest was a refusal, Dlakavu explained, to be silent when rape and gender-based violence had become widespread in the country. Although Zuma had been acquitted of the charges, the young protester said that an acquittal did not mean the president was innocent.
‘We refuse not to name and shame rapists. We refuse to let the country forget, because it happened,’ Dlakavu said.
They had made their protest in a creative and dignified way and the name Khwezi was once more on people’s lips.
By mutual agreement, Fezeka Kuzwayo (Khwezi) and I had been keeping apart. Neither of us wished to stoke up the controversy around our association and she had wanted solitude. We were both aware that, given half a chance, the Zuma grouping would seek to stir up feelings around our connection to suit their purposes. From the time she fled the country I had received occasional messages from her. These were from the Netherlands or Dar es Salaam, where she had stayed with her mother, or Zimbabwe, where she went on an annual pilgrimage to visit her father’s grave. They were caring messages, reminding me of her mother’s birthday, so I could send a congratulatory message, or a salutation in memory of her father. She had been back in Durban for about a year and I had arranged for Louise Colvin, my Sidikiwe friend, to be in touch with her and her mother, to see how we could assist, and provide advice where necessary. It was in these circumstances that I had linked Redi to Fezeka, for her to consider whether it was time for someone sympathetic and reliable to tell her side of the story.
Louise Colvin lived in Durban and, with her experience and wisdom, I believed she would be just the type of confidante Fezeka and her mother, Beauty, required. I had been receiving encouraging reports from Louise about the new life she was making for herself; the care she gave her mother; her job as an intern at a children’s school on the Durban Berea; the house nearby which went with the job.
Through Louise I arranged a meeting early in August, a fortnight prior to the Kebby Maphatsoe court hearing, and invited Fezeka and Beauty to dinner. There were five of us, for Louise and Amina were present as well. It was the first time I had seen Fezeka since she came to my ministry early in 2005 before the rape issue. I had last seen Beauty in Swaziland, when Jacob Zuma and I were looked after by her and her husband, Judson Kuzwayo, before they fled to the safety of Zimbabwe in 1985 with their young daughter.
Fezeka entered the restaurant, which had been chosen by Louise to give us space and anonymity. Her mother was on her arm. She looked proud and well. A mature, attractive woman of forty, with a beautiful complexion, open-faced with lively eyes, strong white teeth, and a lively smile sitting above a determined jaw. She carried herself with an air of cool confidence: a person who stood out in a crowd.
She was smartly attired with an attractive green scarf around her neck, which suited her. After we hugged, she stepped back, giving a discreet flick of her wrist to the scarf, and asked whether I recognised it. I hesitated.
‘This is the scarf you sent me that Christmas when I went into hiding. You sent a card which I still have.’
‘Ten years ago, my dear Fezekile. I am deeply touched.’
We turned to Beauty, who was showing the strain of the difficult years she had endured since her husband’s tragic death and the second, more recent exile following the rape trial. Louise had told me her memory was not good.
Fezeka was full of good humour and was clearly enjoying her work. She and her mother had never lived in such a ‘cool leafy neighbourhood’, as she put it, and certainly not in such a comfortable house. Beauty, however, far preferred the community life in the township of KwaMashu, with its neighbourliness and social network, which she missed. But that was a shared family home, with an unemployed nephew. The house was small and in a state of disrepair. In the usual ambiguous extended family arrangements, Beauty had claim to only part of the property.
Over dinner we listened intently to Fezeka speak of the years abroad, how happy she had been in Tanzania, but how her mother pined for life back in Durban – and specifically KwaMashu. We turned to the IEC poster demonstration in solidarity with her. She was pleased and saw this as a sign of the growing consciousness of young women in the country. That gave her cause for optimism. ‘Wow, those gals must have been nine or ten years old when the trial took place,’ she chortled. ‘Some good things are happening around this country now.’
‘Well, you have become a powerful symbol to women around the country’, Louise and Amina told her in so many ways.
We discussed her future and our concern for her mom. She was in no hurry for assistance and said she would be pleased to have further discussions. I mentioned the forthcoming court encounter with Maphatsoe and told her I was determined to extract an apology for her and myself. She said she was following that with interest.
There had been some questions I had wanted to discuss with her privately. She had telephoned me on that fateful day in 2005, two days after the ‘rape’, she said, because the women accompanying her to the police station to lay the charge, knowing the law, had encouraged her to inform anyone, preferably someone in a position of authority, about the incident.
I heard how Zuma’s coterie had aggressively pressed her and her mother to drop the rape charge. One of her ‘aunties’, and she contemptuously revealed exactly who, had tried to pressure her ‘to understand the big picture’, which was not about her trauma, but about Jacob Zuma becoming the president of the country. Enormous pressure had also been applied on her mother, which had simply served to confuse Beauty even more, about so-called Zulu custom and promises of material benefit. Inhlawalo (a compensatory fine in cattle) would be paid, among other inducements. Recollecting the tawdry behaviour, and the leading ANC ‘uncles and aunties’, some of whom she had known as a child and who had since attained positions in government, turned her countenance into a pained mask of revulsion. That betrayal by people whom she regarded as ‘family’ and who had been her parents’ comrades, still pained her ten years later, as if it had been yesterday.
I asked her about contradictory statements she had made to the press, the Sunday Times and Sunday Independent to be specific, the week after she laid charges against Zuma, when she was in a so-called safe house provided by the prosecution. She told me she had been in the company of three police officers, one a woman, and after the Sunday papers had got wind of the charge against Zuma, they had told her she should deny that she had levelled charges against him. She was confused and coerced by them, believing her and her mother’s lives were under threat. Consequently, under duress she denied she had done so but had every intention of carrying on with the charges. Jeremy Gordin4 was the Sunday Independent journalist, regarded by some as Zuma’s spin doctor, who consequently got things wrong after being given the line that there was no charge, and was left red-faced, while Mondli Makhanya of the Sunday Times, with evidence to the contrary, got the scoop.5
Despite the serious discussion, we made sure there was ample time to relax and chill out. As the evening wound down and I helped Fezeka to put on her coat to leave, she said to me in a firm tone: ‘He did rape me.’
Those were the last words I heard from her face to face. Everything she confided to me that evening had been confirmed to me, verbatim, by her close friend from childhood, Kimmy Msibi, who had given evidence in the trial. Much has been made by Zuma supporters, and those like his attorney, Michael Hulley, of the ‘coincidence’ that Kimmy had worked for me when I was intelligence minister. Such coincidences are common in the ANC, for we were a close-knit community, especially the small exile grouping – although this applies as well to those who had always been inside the country – and such relationships are frequently encountered within government circles.
The victory over Maphatsoe, and the apology from him and the MKMVA, were another notch in the vindication of Fezekile Kuzwayo alias Khwezi. It came less than a fortnight after our dinner, and with it my announcement in court that she would be the beneficiary of the R500,000 damages Maphatsoe would have to pay by court order. I phoned her to convey the news, which she had already heard on radio and through well-wishers. She was extremely appreciative and yet not wildly delighted about the prospect of receiving funds. As tough as life had been for her and her mother, she was never the type of person who craved money. I explained to her that the cash could take a year or more to materialise and depended on Kebby and the MKMVA keeping to the court order. The initial amount would have to go to paying the legal costs of the two advocates, and all of this would be in the hands of my attorneys. Jenny Friedman and Dali Mpofu were quite prepared to set aside some of the funds due to the legal team, which they agreed could be diverted to Fezeka for any immediate needs. She was quite patient, however, and accepted my suggestion that we consult with Louise Colvin and Ivan Pillay, who had remained very close to the family since the underground days in Swaziland. I arranged for all the funds to be handled by Jenny, once money became available.
No sooner had this been arranged than I received disturbing news through a concerned Louise that Fezeka had been admitted to hospital and was not well at all. We discussed getting her into a private ward and covering the payment. But she signed herself out and travelled to Gauteng with her mother to stay with a friend. This was worrying and I began enquiries to track her down.
Before I got anywhere, I received a sudden call that Fezeka had died, from Kerensa Millard, my legal adviser when I was minister. ‘No, that can’t be true,’ I responded with a sinking feeling in my gut. She said she’d follow up to obtain more concrete news.
I hoped against hope that there was a mistake. I phoned Louise and Ivan. Neither had heard such news. I felt relieved. It seemed there was an error. Then Kerensa got back to me with details: ‘It’s true’. A notice was already out from Fezeka’s friends on behalf of her mother. She had been complaining of aches in her legs and had suddenly collapsed. She was gone.
It felt as though my own daughter had died. And yet I had spent barely six or seven hours in her company when she was an adult: a couple of hours in my office in 2005 and some four hours at dinner in Durban just a few weeks previously. Other than that, there had been half-a-dozen overnight visits at her parents’ Swaziland home thirty-five years previously. Yet she had affected me deeply and I felt a huge gap in my life. We had been thrown together by the actions of Zuma and the smear campaign against us. Just as things were looking so promising for my dear young friend, her life was tragically cut short, seemingly by the effects of her illness.
The media were in touch with me and I had to find the strength for an immediate response. They carried front-page banner headlines: ‘Khwezi hailed as a heroine’.6 I had stated: ‘She was just getting her life together, I am devastated; she was a heroine of our struggle.’
I declared in full: ‘As symbolic as the name Khwezi became, so her true identity, Fezekile Ntsukela Kuzwayo, emerges as a martyred woman of our liberation struggle. We must now all honour Khwezi by her real name, Fezekile Kuzwayo. She struggled for truth, equity and justice in a society where paternalism, patriarchy, male chauvinism and violence against women in many forms, hidden and obvious, have become such a cancerous disease, which must be defeated by the unity of women and men of all generations together.
‘Let us honour Fezeka Kuzwayo by standing with the women of our country in this vital struggle.’
I homed in on Zuma’s responsibility, a man seemingly with no sense of shame: ‘The country’s president, Jacob Zuma, who took advantage of a vulnerable young woman, needs to offer his apology and pay his respects. He needs to offer financial compensation to Fezeka’s mother, Beauty Sibongile, widow of his late comrade-in-arms, Judson Kuzwayo, with whom he shared 10 years’ imprisonment on Robben Island and underground work in Swaziland. All those who participated in the witch hunt and intimidation of Fezekile during that rape trial are honour-bound to offer apology or hang their heads in everlasting shame.’7
‘Kanga’
A poem by Fezikile Ntsukela Kuzwayo8
I am Kanga
I wrap myself around the curvaceous bodies of women all over Africa
I am the perfect nightdress on those hot African nights
The ideal attire for household chores
I secure babies happily on their mother’s backs
Am the perfect gift for new bride and new mother alike
Armed with proverbs, I am vehicle for communication between women
I exist for the comfort and convenience of a woman
But no no no make no mistake …
I am not here to please a man
And I certainly am not a seductress
Please don’t use me as an excuse to rape
Don’t hide behind me when you choose to abuse.