I could not cast my vote in the first democratic elections in 1994 because I was 17 years old [the voting age in SA is 18 years and older].
I may have missed out on putting an X on the ballot paper in the historical elections that gave birth to our democracy, but I was surely not going to miss out on the occasion.
It was a life-changing experience for many South Africans, and without the right to vote, I was part of the raucous and unruly rascals who were zig-zagging from polling station to polling station, causing a bit of irritation and disturbance in Daveyton, where I was born and spent my salad days.
Even after being clearly told not to set foot near the voting stations, we still made our way singing and chanting, with the bravado that democracy was about to reward us with the right to cause chaos, entitlement, and privilege.
Clear and present danger
At that age, that’s what we thought freedom was all about.
Rebels without a cause we were — maybe the FOMO (fear of missing out) was just too much to bear and was chewing us alive.
Or maybe at just 17, we were impressionable, grappling with adolescent pimples, and it would not be wrong to suggest that we just could not grasp the significance and the enormity of the occasion that was unfolding in front of our eyes.
In Daveyton and prior to the elections, the situation in the sprawling township was edgy and on the brink, with danger always lurking at night — but definitely not to the same magnitude as what was happening in other townships in East Rand, such as Tembisa, Vosloorus, and KwaThema.
In Katorus, the notorious Khumalo Street linking Thokoza and Katlehong would, during sunrise, be littered with dead bodies of young men who were butchered overnight by the hostel dwellers, aided by the apartheid police.
My teenage cousins in Katlehong were yanked away by my aunt and shipped off to KwaNdebele for their safety — and they are still alive today, when some of their pals never lived to witness the winds of change.
Breeding grounds of violence
The hostel in Daveyton was a smaller compound, had a bit of mixed dwelling, and was family-orientated — there were women and migrant labourers who were raising kids in the facility.
Although they did launch one or two deadly invasions into the township, they were always outnumbered and did not have the might or the blood-curdling aura witnessed in Katorus.
The Daveyton hostel was a far cry from those deadly “single-sex” death holes such as Kwesine Hostel, Mshayezafe Hostel, KwaMadala Hostel, Nancefield Hostel, and Kwa-Mazibuko Hostel, which were swarming with some of the most fearsome warlords and cold-blooded killers in the early 1990s.
Violence spread to the trains, where people were hacked to death or thrown out of moving trains. It was sporadic and would be devastating if you were caught on the wrong train at the wrong time.
Truth be told, we feared for our relatives, family friends, and neighbours’ lives, who had no choice but to take the trains to and from work — there was no guarantee they would return in one piece, if they did return at all.
The killing of struggle stalwart Chris Hani almost turned the East Rand, and the country, upside down.
Immediately after the horrific news of his assassination was disseminated, comrades from the townships went onto the highways and suburbs to attack white people.
A civil war was smelling in the air, and people were arming themselves with all sorts of weapons. How Nelson Mandela and the ANC leadership were able to dissuade the masses from not engaging and firing their cannons remains a mystery.
Status quo remains intact
The elections came and went, and people were looking up to Madiba to hand them jobs on a platter.
Mandela’s Rainbow Nation notion was in full effect, and pretentious and conceited white folk pretended they were on board.
But it was to come out in the clear when Madiba made way for Thabo Mbeki in 1999 that they were just happy to have avoided a civil war and to preserve their wealth and possessions. The status quo remains, even to this day.
In the 1999 elections, I was the first one in the voting queue as I happily cast my first vote ever, at the age of 21, for what was my favourite party, the Pan Africanist Congress of Azania, which is now on life support and in critical care in the ICU.
With the dawn of the new millennium in 2000, it was clear that the African masses were on their own and that the government was not empowering or enriching anyone, except for a few connected individuals who had a bit of struggle credentials, cliques, family, and friends.
Sadly, 31 years after the historic elections, the meaning of freedom is as vague and as empty as the Kaizer Chiefs trophy cabinet in the past 10 years.
This is the first instalment in a series of articles that Sunday World is running this week to commemorate Freedom Day. Get a copy of the Sunday World print edition this weekend to enjoy more stories commemorating Freedom Day.
