My Father Died for This. Lukhanyo Calata
I am always a ball of nervous energy just before boarding a flight. Strange thing is I don’t really know why. These nerves are there every time, despite my job as a journalist, which requires that I travel by airplane quite regularly. This flight to Johannesburg would prove no different. Added to this, I felt terrible for leaving Abigail, who had taken ill with the flu, with Kwezi on her birthday to attend a meeting with Jessie Duarte. I had decided earlier that week that I wouldn’t rack my brain trying to figure out why the ANC’s DSG had called me to a meeting. This, however, was easier said than done. Until this point, my association with the DSG had been limited to purely professional engagements, mostly at press conferences either in Cape Town or Johannesburg. From those few encounters, I knew she was a no-nonsense kind of lady.
Fortunately, the flight to Johannesburg that Friday morning went by quite smoothly. We landed at OR Tambo International Airport ahead of schedule. It was a crisp mid-winter’s morning in the city, which felt a lot colder than Cape Town. Despite the nip in the air, I chose to wait for my mother and elder sister, Dorothy, outside the terminal buildings at the airport. It had been a while since I had last seen them. My mother still lived in Cradock, although lately she seemed to be spending most of her time travelling between Cape Town, where I live with my family, and Limpopo, where Dorothy lived with her family. It was her desire to see and be with her grandchildren that had her traversing the country almost every other week. Anyway, after a brief wait at the airport, the two arrived to pick me up. The hugs and hellos were longer than usual from both of them. It made me realise then that they hadn’t seen me since the statement had hit the headlines and, although they’d called almost every day, this was the first time I was physically in their presence. No amount of phone calls could ever make up for that. We set off for Luthuli House, with me in the back seat. In those few moments, as we drove from the airport, I felt completely unburdened. For the first time in weeks, I could just breathe, relax, and take it easy. I felt so reassured being with them, and I knew that despite all the drama of the last few weeks, my family and I would survive this.
I could gather my thoughts and listen to Dorothy regale me with messages of love from my niece – also called Lukhanyo – and two nephews, Phumudzo and Junior. These two women in the car with me had taken care of me most of my life and here they were once again making sure that I was okay. I felt safe and deeply loved.
As we approached the Johannesburg CBD, inching ever closer to 54 Pixley Seme Street, I could sense the mood in the car change. We all grew quiet, until my mom snapped us back to the reality of why the three of us were reunited in Johannesburg. She mentioned how my ordeal had stirred in her a deep-rooted fear for my safety and well-being. In the same breath, she was outraged by the situation I found myself in. It was a very difficult time for her, more so than anyone in the family could have suspected. You see, my mother had over the years done almost everything she could to keep me as far removed from active politics as possible. She feared my involvement in politics or activism of any sort would more than likely result in my being killed just like my father. Yet, despite her desperate attempts, particularly as I got older, here I was, her only son, summoned to Luthuli House and her worst fears seemed realised. She had been on this emotional rollercoaster with my father before. She didn’t like it then and she despised it even more now.
My mother was particularly scathing of the circumstances around my dismissal. According to her, the manner in which the SABC had fired me was far too similar to the circumstances surrounding my father’s dismissal from his post as a secondary-school teacher, in the months leading up to his assassination. This SABC saga had been a terrible case of déjà vu for her. I could only apologise to her for my part and – although I think unconvincingly – tried to assure her that it had not been my intention at all for things to turn out the way they did.
Upon our arrival at Luthuli House, the security guard at the entrance to the parking lot said he had been informed to expect us, and directed us to where we should park. I’d been to Luthuli House once before for a press conference ahead of the 2009 national elections; this visit, however, was very different. Both my mother and sister were familiar with the building. My mom had visited Luthuli House several times before too, particularly during the period when Kgalema Motlanthe served as the movement’s secretary-general. She had sought assistance from his office for the education of Dorothy, Tumani, my younger sister, and me.
We entered the building through the glass door nearest the parking lot. I informed the courteous lady at reception that we were there to see Jessie Duarte. ‘The DSG?’ she asked. I nodded. ‘Sixth floor,’ she said.
A gentleman named Lungi Mtshali was waiting for us on the sixth floor. He was the one I had liaised with to make arrangements for this meeting. As we walked towards his office from the elevator, I remember looking around, trying to take it all in. I was after all walking the corridors of the headquarters of the ANC, the liberation movement to which my family had such a deep-rooted connection. My family’s history is inextricably interwoven with that of this movement. I had never given much thought to what the offices at Luthuli House looked like, but once I saw them, I was pleasantly surprised. I wasn’t sure what to make of the gold-flaked wallpaper, but I thought the offices themselves were quite modern. They were well lit with spacious corridors, and rather busy despite it being a Friday afternoon.
Lungi was waiting for us outside his office about halfway down the corridor. He was a softly spoken guy with a beautiful smile. After the formal introductions, he informed us – much to my mother and sister’s chagrin – that I would meet with the DSG alone at first before the two of them could join us. I was fine with this. It was after all the reason why I had come, but my mother wasn’t pleased with this arrangement. Lungi tried desperately to assure her that she and Dorothy would join us in the meeting, but only after I had met one-on-one with Duarte. My mom’s vehement protestations against this arrangement, unfortunately, came to nothing.
Up to that point, I had not allowed myself to think about this moment – what it all represented for me on a personal level, for my family, or indeed my father. Lungi then asked me to follow him. I glanced at my mom, who was close to tears. I told her I’d be fine, but I don’t think she heard me and, if she did, she definitely didn’t believe me. Lungi and I made our way through his neatly kept office. As I walked just a few paces behind him, I had a revelation of the significance of this meeting and my presence at Luthuli House. Despite the magnitude of the moment, I tried desperately to keep calm. I needed to be composed when I met Jessie Duarte.
I loved the amount of natural light shining into her office. The large windows seemed to make the office bigger than it actually is. It was warm too, spaciously laid out with very little pretence in the decor. It’s a political office, I suppose. Duarte sat behind her desk, about to finish reading a document which I imagined to be a report of some kind. I’d seen her many times before in press conferences, and I’d always found her very stern and strict. Yet, as she took off her glasses and walked across her office to greet me, she had such a warm and friendly smile, which I, of course and very naturally, reciprocated. I remember being amazed by the fact that she wore takkies to work. I liked that about her. She immediately put me at ease. She’s harmless, I remember thinking – a thought I took back almost immediately when she gave me quite a firm handshake, before inviting me to sit down at a meeting table. There was a genuine exchange of pleasantries and the obligatory question about the flight to Johannesburg. With that out of the way, we got down to the business that necessitated our meeting.
She began by apologising for the situation that my colleagues and I found ourselves in, and explained that she had wanted to meet with me to get my side of the sorry SABC saga. Telling me she found newspaper reports about what was unfolding at the public broadcaster quite contradictory, she said she needed a first-hand account of what was actually going on at the SABC. She added that our chat would help her put together a report to the officials for a meeting taking place the following Monday. My plan, or what little of it I had, was to make the most of the opportunity this meeting provided. I didn’t know if I would ever get the chance to speak to an actual decision-maker again, so I began to tell her my story from the very beginning.
For me, it had all started on the evening of 13 February 2014, the night of the State of the Nation Address. This was the last State of the Nation Address before the general elections