Putco mafani biography of william

Not long after the unbanning of the political organisations and subsequent release of political prisoners, notably that of Nelson Mandela, Tat’ uMadiba, there was a nationwide tour and roadshow by the African National Congress. This was in 1990. The leadership, led by Mandela, made headlines when Tat’ uMadiba came to Bisho, Ciskei, on his first-ever visit. When Madiba had studied at Fort Hare, the place was not called Bisho as it had not yet developed as a town. It was only built by Dr LL Sebe around 1981.

Madiba prophesied that the Bantustan dictator Brigadier Oupa Joshua Gqozo was only a ‘hero of the moment’. Initially, people believed that Gqoza was going with the newly unbanned leadership of the ANC. We now know that it was Bantu Holomisa who was genuine in offering help; Gqozo was merely paying lip service to the ANC. His real interest was in taking over laa nomgogwanaweCiskei – the small Ciskei – and making it his project. The evidence for that was that he formed his own political party, the African Democratic Movement (ADM), and dropped the ANC. His aim was to contest the 1994 elections. He was sure that the people in Ciskei would follow him. He missed the mark completely. That was why wahamba wahamba waphambana – he became mad in the end. When he was going with the ANC, we heralded him, thinking he was genuine.

Gqozo used to send men to fetch me to entertain people and MC for him. And I ended up MCing Gqozo’s gigs. There was a dance called ‘lahl’ umlenze baby ufish’ uGqozo’ – "throw leg, baby, to seduce Gqozo". He liked this, especially the part about ukufisha uGqozo. Then he made a U-turn. He started insulting the ANC and then formed his own party. That was when we stopped supporting him. He thought the staff at Radio Ciskei would follow him and speak less of the ANC. A few other presenters and I said we would not be party to that. We continued to broadcast the material of the ANC. I continued to interview those comrades.

By then, I had been elected secretary general of the Association of Democratic Journalists (ADJ). It would have been counterrevolutionary of me to be one of the leaders of ADJ, which was affiliated to the United Democratic Front (UDF), and to have also supported Gqozo. That was how I got into conflict with uGqozo. Then there were marches to have him removed. And I was found in those marches, at the front singing, "uGqozo yikwekwe endala’"– "Gqozo is an old boy". The soldiers took pictures of those marches.

Moment by moment, I found myself stubbornly in conflict with this leader, as I was a liberal broadcaster who spoke his mind openly. As a seasoned broadcaster, I knew what was good for South Africa. As an aspirant media owner, this was the dawn of a new South Africa.

Because we were affiliated to the UDF, under the command of, among others, comrades Smuts Ngonyama and Mluleki George, we were consistently schooled on the changes in the political landscape. We organised marches and protests to bring down the Gqozo regime. When the ANC was banned, the UDF was its front organisation. When the political parties were unbanned, the UDF structure was amalgamated officially with the ANC.

One day when I was in the studio, Gqozo sent his soldiers to arrest me. They arrived when I was just knocking off. That afternoon I had played Mzwakhe Mbuli’s highly charged political protest song called "Ag sies, bayasinyanyisa". They could see that I was not well equipped from a clothing point of view. They said, "We had better follow you to your house where you will park your car." And these were soldiers that I knew. One was from the Matshaweni clan. We called each other bawokazi – cousin. "Bawokazi kuthiwa masizokuthatha"– "Cousin, we have been instructed to come and fetch you." Said in a very firm tone.

"We will tell you how to dress because you don’t know when you will be coming back," he said. "It is better to have a tracksuit on and have warm clothes underneath the tracksuit. Because the tracksuit you wear during the day and you can sleep in it," said bawokazi.

They followed me to my house in Phakamisa. My first wife was at home. I was followed by a white Sierra. They walked in with me. I told my wife that I was under arrest. Visibly shaken, she asked, ‘What for?’

"NguGqozo – it is Gqozo," I told her.

The soldiers then put me in the back of the Sierra. They did not handcuff me. I was cooperative. I was prepared to walk into the cell willingly and stand for what I had said and what I had done. They drove me to Mdantsane. Sitting in the back of the Sierra, I was wondering if this was the end of my career. But I had the hope that uGqozo uyadlula – Gqozo would pass out of political life. The whole of South Africa was looking forward to the new Mandela dispensation. There was the burning hope that Mandela would change things.

The fact that I was arrested in front of people gave me hope that I would not be killed. I had not been kidnapped in the night when no one was watching. My colleagues saw; the security at reception saw; my wife was also a witness. At the police station, they took my name and fingerprints, and they explained that I was being detained under the Security Act number 26 of 1981 of the Republic of Ciskei, so visits were prohibited.

I was put into solitary confinement without access to anyone who sympathised with the UDF. With this kind of incarceration, you were not entitled to a lawyer, family, friends or doctors. I was detained for two weeks at NU 12, Mdantsane Police Station’s holding cells.

Several meetings were held by the station management and ADJ comrades with the arrogant office of the Ciskeian dictator to negotiate my release. The station delegation was led by Bra Fiks Lubisi, Senzol Mnyango, Khwezi Siwundla, Manelisi Wolela, Mthetheleli Crosby Kolela, Sindiswa Gomba and a few other comrades. Up to this day I admire their efforts. Even when Gqozo was stubborn, arrogant and unwavering, they never gave up and ensured my release.

I was completely in solitary. There were no windows. Four solid brick walls, a toilet pot and a mat to ‘sleep’ on, a pillow and a blanket. I did not know whether it was raining or sunny outside. I only heard what time of day it was if I asked the warders who came and pushed a plate of food into the cell.

I stayed in my tracksuit for the duration of my incarceration. It felt bizarre not knowing what was going on in the outside world. Two weeks was enough to form a love relationship with the sound of the keys. I looked forward to hearing them in the lock. It was a signature of hope. The turning of that key meant that they were bringing food or something to drink.

I also suffered from anxiety, thinking that it might mean being taken to a bigger prison and put among criminals. But I had hope. In my mind I had not committed any crime. The system was criminal.

The warders said that no one had come looking for me, but they would at least tell me if someone came for me and was turned away. They knew me from the radio. In my imagination, I never reached the extremes of thinking that I might be killed.

Later, after being released, I would learn that the late Zolisa Senzol Mnyango, the programme manager, stepped in to do my show. He announced on air that I had been arrested. I also learnt that the station management and some of the leaders in the ADJ – Sindiswa Gomba (nowadays MEC of Health in the Eastern Cape); Mthetheleli Kolela (who is a councillor in Buffalo City); Manelisi Wolela (who is now the spokesperson at Correctional Services) – kept going to Gqozo in those two weeks to negotiate my release. They insisted that he release me or charge me. I was told that he would be angry, call for a remote control and switch on the TV to play the videos. And in the videos they would see me in the front of the marches leading the songs ezithuka Gqozo – that were swearing at Gqozo – and he would say, "Nifuna ndikhulule lomntu undithukayo ngoluhlobo?" – "You want me to release this person who is swearing at me like this?" But finally, through their intervention I was released.