HERE’S TO FREEDOM!

Sketch by Dockzeen

Growing up during the days of the 1980’s uprising, was a tumultuous time of seeing, and the unknown. Comprehending the violence that came and went sporadically – a Mellow Yellow, a Hippo_ shipping soldiers in and out of the townships.

Petrol-bomb-totting comrades, the so called banned terrorists, crawling and dodging rubber-bullets, bleeding on hands and knees: Cadres of the exiled, of the wrongfully imprisoned, and of those that will never be seen. Our comrades, cadres of a shout and silent cry*     

Inside the State of Emergency, in Katlehong, Soweto and Tembisa – innocently, I saw the remnants of the wordy acerbity of political dogma of a Nationalistic State.

On ‘Black Christmas’ our clothes were old rags, the new ones tucked away, to be seen in good times, usually Sundays - food supplies, shopping, goods-delivery-trucks; anything that came from town, was banned. Our mothers and fathers shoved into police vans for passes. Nothing came in or went out.  

In the brink of political suffrage and democratic freedom, during the Codesa 1 and Codesa 2 talks, not long  after Mandela’s release and the unbanning of all Liberation Movements.

A choir of singing machineguns, was heard afar and nearer to home. It was the 1990’s, and Katorus (Katlehong and Vosloruss) were drenching in violence, and blood of hotel dwellers, and household owners. Streets were blocked with stones, makeshift blockades - those that did not pronounce R1.00 (One Rand) with the location lexicon or colloquial way, felt the brunt of the locals.

One night during a World Cup soccer match, in Katlehong, adjoining the open field that separated my home from Natalspruit Hospital, a field that is used by taxis and buses to collect and transit locals to Johannesburg, Germiston, Soweto and places far afield as Transkei. Men were awaiting an attack…

My home’s windows were laden with blankets, to cut the light from our television set from emitting into the dark streets_ a man screamed, pleading not to be hacked to death, another shout: “Look out!”_a gunshot. More gunshots. I switched the television set off, when Italy was in the penalty area. More shouts, nearer now, gunshots, footsteps, running. A stop. Running again. Shouts. My home’s backdoor butted, it was locked and bolted, another bump, much harder this time. Nothing happened. Gunshots into Letsoho Street, footsteps of men running, over the fence they went. Gunshots, gunshots, gunshots, more men in pursuit, over the fence. A ringing. Quiet*

WORD TO THE FREEDOM REVOLUTION

Linda Sakazi Thwala