Reflecting on the 30 years of democracy in South Africa, Bhekisisa Mncube writes that when he voted in 1994, he vowed to become a combatant for freedom and truth, a prisoner of hope and an eternal optimist.
On 27 April 1994, at precisely 12:40 pm, I cast my first vote in the historic democratic election, which notably offered universal suffrage, especially to Africans, for the first time. On that day, I made a vow that I have upheld to this day – to become a combatant for freedom and truth, a prisoner of hope and an eternal optimist.
I voted for the African National Congress (ANC), led by the charismatic and finest revolutionary, former prisoner and soon-to-be president, Nelson Mandela. This epoch-making event occurred at McCord Provincial Hospital, a former semi-private medical facility serving black people, in Overport, Durban, KwaZulu-Natal. It was here that I also fulfilled my duties as an ANC party agent. I could have voted on the 26th, as party agents had the right to do, since we were part of the country’s machinery to ensure free and fair elections. I refused, because 27 April held significance as a day we as a people had to vote and make a break with the apartheid past.
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Despite our country facing challenges such as crime, corruption and energy insecurity, our democracy is worth defending through our vote.
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Eight years earlier, I had had to make the perilous political decision of whether to renounce my family and community’s affiliation with Inkatha Yenkululeko Yesizwe (today’s Inkatha Freedom Party) and take up the cause of the people alongside the banned ANC and Mass Democratic Movement. Any person with a cursory understanding of South African politics will know that my decision to renounce Inkatha publicly would have repercussions, if not being tantamount to signing my death warrant.
I vividly remember the day that changed the course of my life. It was a sunny, clear-skied Thursday in 1986 at eHabeni Primary School. The mandatory joining of Inkatha for all KwaZulu homeland learners and residents was enforced under the chief minister and Inkatha leader, Mangosuthu Gatsha Buthelezi. We had received Inkatha membership forms a week earlier, with instructions to fill them in and pay a 50-cent joining fee. When asked for my form, I stated nonchalantly that we couldn’t afford to join a political party while starving at home. This decision has haunted me for much of my life.
By January 1994, the Eshowe Inkatha office had issued a “rogue elements” list, “Eshowe 19”, naming youths clandestinely organising for the ANC since 1986. These lists were effectively hit lists, meaning that appearing on them often resulted in death by Inkatha hit squads. That month, my staunch IFP member father remarked that now “your Mandela” was free, he’d see if Mandela would pay for our education; he himself refused to pay for our education, and my late mom had to improvise. He died this year without our having achieved political reconciliation. Interestingly, today 80% of public schools are no-fee schools and, yes, “Mandela” feeds 9,6 million of them daily.
In 1994, I was meant to stay in Umlazi C Township. However, in March, I fled because rumours were circulating that I was fraternising with the “Comrades” and I might be a “terrorist”. For self-preservation, I moved to an informal settlement in Mayville, near Durban, and stayed with comrades with whom I had served on the ANC Branch Executive Committee until after the election.
I can hardly be considered a decorated freedom fighter. As one former National Union of South African Students (NUSAS) member put it, “My contribution to the struggle was tiny, but its contribution to me was huge.”
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Two years ago, I published a book (The Ramaphosa chronicles) with sharp critiques of the ANC-led government. Despite this, I take comfort in not receiving threatening calls, not being followed home, and sleeping peacefully at night.
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More often than not, people and journalists ask me why I still engage with South African politics. One answer: this homeland has given me more than what I deserve. In 1996, after serving in many anti-apartheid organisations, such as the South African Students Congress, the South African Press Association, the South African Tertiary Student Union and, of course, the ANC, I made a decision to return to “civilian” life and never to stand for public office.
All my “success”, then, is linked to the 10 years I served the people. Since I transitioned to “civilian” life and trained as a journalist (one year paid by the National Student Financial Aid Scheme and the rest by German taxpayers), I have had the rare privilege of serving as an appointed official, working as a media liaison and speechwriter for two members of the executive council (MECs), a legislature speaker, two deputy ministers and one minister, and occasionally writing speeches for two presidents.
But the most incredible honour my country has bestowed upon me is the freedom of speech, the freedom of movement (with the abolition of the Pass Laws) and the ability to reside in formerly white suburbs with the scrapping of the Group Areas Act. I married according to my heart’s desire, since the Prohibition of Mixed Marriages Act was abolished.
In terms of political activism, I’ve not been very active, only consistently voting in every election. However, since entering journalism in 1999, I’ve critiqued the government when it fails the people. Two years ago, I published a book (The Ramaphosa chronicles) with sharp critiques of the ANC-led government. Despite this, I take comfort in not receiving threatening calls, not being followed home, and sleeping peacefully at night.
Despite our country facing challenges such as crime, corruption and energy insecurity, our democracy is worth defending through our vote. As we prepare to elect our leaders for the seventh time since 1994, remember: South Africa has regained its global standing, and we enjoy the freedom to travel, work, marry and vote as we wish. Our nation has come a long way: for 1 560 weeks, we have lived under a constitutional state, enjoying freedoms once denied and with our soldiers remaining out of politics, either stationed in barracks or contributing to United Nations peace missions.
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