Khwezi

The remarkable story of Fezekile Ntsukela Kuzwayo

Redi Tlhabi

• Publisher: Jonathan Ball
• Year: 2017
• ISBN:
  9781868427277
• Topic: Sozialwissenschaften
• Subtopic: Sozialwissenschaftliche Biographien

In May 2006 Jacob Zuma was found not guilty of the rape of Fezekile Ntsukela Kuzwayo – better known as Khwezi – in the Johannesburg High Court. Another nail was driven into the coffin of South Africa's fight against sexual violence. Vilified by Zuma's many supporters, Khwezi was forced to flee South Africa and make a life in the shadows, first in Europe and then back on the African continent.

A decade after Zuma's acquittal, Khwezi died. But not before she had slipped back into South Africa and started work with journalist Redi Tlhabi on a book about her life. About how, as a young girl living in exile in ANC camps, she was raped by the 'uncles' who were supposed to protect her. About her great love for her father, Judson Kuzwayo, an ANC activist who died when Khwezi was almost ten. And about how, as a young adult, she was driven once again into exile, suffering not only at the hands of Zuma's devotees but under the harsh eye of the media.

In sensitive and considered language, Red Tlhabi breathes life into a woman for so long forced to live in hiding. In telling the story of Khwezi, Tlhabi draws attention to the sexual abuse that abounded during the struggle years, abuse that continues to plague women and children in South Africa today.

CHAPTER 1

........

‘If you did not speak then,
do not speak now’

‘If you did not speak then, do not speak now. The feminists of South Africa are coming for you. Our rage cannot be stopped. Our rage is coming for you.’

Gender activist and One in Nine Campaign co-founder Dawn Cavanagh was furious. Those gathered at the Central City Methodist Church in Durban applauded her wildly. Cavanagh’s words had opened a gaping wound, one that many women in South Africa feel. It is the wound caused by sexism, violence, poverty and discrimination.

South African women are, collectively, a pressure cooker waiting to explode. The rapes, the violence, the groping, the labels, the corrective rape and murder of lesbians and the abuse of children – it is debilitating. The fear is palpable, as is the determination not to cower and retreat. As women of South Africa, this is our home, too. Patriarchy cannot have the last word.

I looked around at this, the celebration of Fezekile’s life. I hardly saw any of her father Judson’s comrades – apart from Ivan Pillay, who had served under Judson in the MJK (Mandla Judson Kuzwayo) unit of Umkhonto we Sizwe (MK) in exile in late-1970s Swaziland. I had seen Pillay on the early-morning flight to Durban and had not realised, then, that he had been travelling to the funeral. It was particularly touching to have him there – only a few days earlier, charges relating to his tenure as deputy commissioner of the South African Revenue Service had been laid against him and finance minister Pravin Gordhan. Many believe the charges to have been trumped up, an attempt by Zuma to weaken his political opponents and pave the way for pliable officials to help him get his hand inside the cookie jar.

But this day was not about Zuma. It was Fezekile’s farewell and, while I am loath to describe this sad day as beautiful, it was a beautiful send-off. We laughed as speakers reminded us of her idiosyncrasies; we smiled and felt strong when told about her courage, loyalty and zest for life. Her love for children was legendary. Teresa, with whom Fezekile stayed in Tanzania, gave a moving speech about her daughter, Zora, who has Down syndrome and to whom Fezekile used to demonstrate the utmost tenderness. She would play games with Zora without once looking at the time; when Zora entered the world of make-believe, Fezekile would happily enter this imaginary world with her. They would play for hours, talking to their imaginary friends, travelling to worlds where little girls were safe and happy. Perhaps these games were as much for Fezekile as they were for Zora.

Shaun Mellors, a South African based in London who works for the International HIV/AIDS Alliance, had been Fezekile’s mentor. He had been instrumental in mobilising the networks that had created a home for Fezekile and her mother Beauty in Amsterdam. He gave a gentle, beautiful tribute to his friend, then lambasted those who had abandoned her. He had harsh words for those who were trying to own her now, asking, ‘Where were they when Fez was desperate? Where were they when her pain kept her awake at night? Where were they when she had nothing?’

Prudence Mabele, founder of the Positive Women’s Network, an advocacy group for women living with HIV/Aids, said in a voice that carried the authority that can only be commanded by one who is comfortable in her own skin: ‘Zuma will never be my president!’ She sang and danced, amplifying her voice when those of the mourners dulled, and sat with teary-eyed Shaun, comforting him. With Shaun and Dawn Cavanagh, she had formed a triumvirate dedicated to Fezekile’s protection.

Briefly, in the outpouring of love for Fezekile, I forgot how we had struggled to find a venue for her funeral service. It was quite bizarre that, all week, Fezekile’s family had battled, and that the Methodist Church in KwaMashu had suddenly become unavailable.

Two days before the funeral, on Thursday 13 October, I had been roped in to help find a church. Auntie Bunie (Bunie Sexwale, a gender and anti-apartheid activist who was very close to Fezekile) had sent me an SMS explaining the family’s predicament and saying that she was flying to Durban and had contacted everyone who may have been able to help in the hope that something would come up. I hate asking for favours – it brings me great discomfort. But deep down, I think I wanted to demonstrate that I was not just interested in Fezekile as a subject, but that I had grown to love her. I braced myself by pouring a glass of wine, and resolved to start making calls.

It did not occur to me to call my industrious and conscientious friend Mark Heywood of the Treatment Action Campaign (TAC). The TAC fights to provide life-saving, affordable antiretrovirals (ARVs) to HIV-positive South Africans. Mark’s bona fides as a committed and fearless activist are indisputable, and his activism and commitment to social justice initiatives in South Africa are unparalleled. He goes to South Africa’s neglected corners, where he rolls up his sleeves and speaks to the poor while exposing the corruption that continues to impoverish many South Africans and deny them their rights. More recently, he has faced the might of the state and, despite intimidation and threats, been the leading voice in the #SaveSouthAfrica and #ZumaMustFall marches that have swept through South Africa.

At that very moment, he sent me a text message: ‘Khwezi’s death made me think of you. I hope you are okay. It is so tragic and all so wrong.’

Without asking for help, I messaged back that a local church had just cancelled on the family.

He responded simply: ‘Do you need help?’

‘I do, desperately. Anywhere in Durban would work.’

‘On it, will make some calls now.’

Despite his being in Geneva, within ten minutes he had not only made contact with someone who could help, but that person – Debbie Matthews – had already phoned around. Debbie was a contact of his from the civil society networks in Durban. Incidentally, Debbie and Fezekile had worked together on HIV/Aids initiatives in the late 1990s.

Debbie saved the day. Reverend Akhona Gxamza of Durban’s Central City Methodist Church graciously agreed to allow the service to take place there, even though Fezekile had not been a member of his congregation.

I sent a message to Debbie: ‘I do not know how to thank you for this generous gift to Fezeka. If no one has thanked you, I want to say a big THANK YOU. I am arriving at 9 a.m. tomorrow and if you are there, I’d like to meet you and give you a big hug.’

Her response was a sign that life and the universe work in mysterious ways: ‘Pleasure, Redi. I will be there. I first met Fezeka and her mother in 1995. The church is an inner-city mission church so the premises are a bit run down but it has a long history of serving and being a gathering place for the oppressed, dispossessed and abused. This resonates with the causes and struggles that Khwezi stood for during her life.’

The venue was only secured at about 9 p.m. on that Thursday. Half an hour later, the ANC released a statement announcing the Hands Off Zuma rally. It was to start right next to the church at the same time as Fezekile’s funeral service. The marchers promised to bring Durban to a standstill with song and dance. About fifteen thousand were expected; roads would be closed.

Even in death, Fezekile had to face one last fight.

Some in the organising team began to panic. I did, too. But my anxiety lasted for no more than five minutes. I began to laugh: Zuma’s supporters would be late. They were always late. By the time they flooded the CBD, we’d be long gone and Fezekile would be resting, safely, in her grave, her new home.

I was right. A handful of ANC supporters made some noise during the service, but nothing more. On the evening news, it was clear that thousands of Zuma supporters had, indeed, turned up for the march. But Fezekile was resting at last by this time.

Perhaps the march had been organised to mitigate the sting of what was expected to be a scathing report on state capture in South Africa. The outgoing Pub...

Table of contents

• Table of Contents
• Prologue
• Introduction
• Chapter 1 - ‘If you did not speak then, do not speak now’
• Chapter 2 - A young life in exile
• Chapter 3 - Fezekile and South Africa’s unfinished business
• Chapter 4 - Forest Town
• Chapter 5 - On trial
• Chapter 6 - Zuma in the dock
• Chapter 7 - Back into exile
• Chapter 8 - ‘Every day feels like death now’
• Chapter 9 - Beauty
• Epilogue
• Notes
• About the book
• About the author