In 1981, under the auspices of the YWCA, Mrs Gush and I visited Ntabethemba, near Whittlesea. Ntabethemba was a refugee camp, the direct result of the apartheid government forming Ciskei as a new “independent” homeland just south of Transkei, which had been independent since 1976. Many families  left Transkei  and  moved to Ciskei – whether in search of a better life or because they were fearful of what would happen if they stayed, I don’t know – where they were forced to live in a refugee camp. The camp was in a sandy area, making it difficult to secure tents to the ground, except for the corners. There was no privacy. Anyone passing could easily see the legs of family members as they sat inside the tent. It made my heart ache. It seemed particularly cruel to me that they named the refugee camp “Ntabethemba”, which means “Hill of Hope”.

After taking stock of what people needed most, Mrs Gush and I returned to East London to stock up. We gathered toys and books for the children and warm clothing for the elderly. When we left East London to return to the camp, we co-opted two white women who were visiting the YWCA to come with us. When we arrived at the camp, we noticed some police vans parked at the entrance that hadn’t been there before. We stopped the car.

A man in uniform knocked on the window. “Permits,” he said in Xhosa.

Mrs Gush and I looked at each other. “We were just here this morning.” “You still need permits.”

“We don’t have any. We’re with the YWCA on charity work.”

The policeman’s eyebrows furrowed. “Come. Out the car.” He pointed at our two passengers. “You too. Out. You’re trespassing. We’re taking you to the police station.” By now his colleagues had joined him.

“Our car is full of things for the refugees. We’re not leaving it here,” said Mrs Gush. “We will follow you to the police station.”

The policemen conferred with each other, then reluctantly agreed. We followed them to the Mdantsane police station. “What is happening? Where are we going?” asked one of our passengers.

I explained the situation as best I could. I did not add that I suspected that it was their presence that had attracted the police’s attention. In those days, it was unusual – and virtually an offence in itself – to see African and white people sitting side by side.

When we arrived at Mdantsane police station, we were each given a pile of forms to fill in our personal information. By now it was early evening. Mrs Gush and I were channelled into a small office with two comfortable armchairs and given two big, clean towels. We could hear someone, perhaps one of our visitors, speaking English next door.

We waited. No one came to speak to us, or give us food or water. After a long time, the door opened. A woman stood there with a surprised look on her face. “Are you still here?” she said. Then she stepped aside. “You can go.”

Mrs Gush and I walked out of the police station and went to the car, where we were soon joined by the two white women. I looked at my watch. It was 6 am. We had not been charged, since we had not broken any laws. We were just being harassed, pure and simple.  I was embarrassed to have subjected our visitors to such a situation, but I also knew the experience would give them insight into what was happening in the country, and a story to talk about.

This was just an example of how the security police would use any excuse to harass people. Our night in jail was only harassment, but they thought nothing of murdering those who fought for freedom simply to ensure that they got their monthly salaries and were promoted for being cruel. I still cannot understand how young men who were once so close to the African nannies and gardeners who looked after them when they were little could grow to become so determined to hate and oppress. It says something about what their own families taught them, I think.

After we were released, we went home to clean up and rest, and made our way to the refugee camp again – without our white visitors, this time. When we handed out the clothes, toys and books, one of the camp residents said to us, “We are grateful to Sebe for sending us these donations.”

I was astounded. The man thought that the donations we brought had come from Lennox Sebe, Ciskei’s president. The reality was that Sebe was a pawn of the apartheid government, a compliant puppet installed to “rule” the homeland. He didn’t care about his people, and the country he ruled was a sham, created by the apartheid government to create the perception of independence when really it was just another way to enforce apartheid on their terms.

His comment made me realise just how much people believed in the homeland system, and how much work lay ahead of us. We had to combat the apartheid government’s divide-and-rule tactics. Xhosas here, Zulus there, Sotho-speaking people there – homelands for all. This policy of separation had to be destroyed.

When we got home, the security forces continued their harassment. It wasn’t as though they were picking on us in particular – they persecuted most people. They would visit us at work, at home, day and night, trying their best to make us worry as they fished for information or anything that could be of benefit to them. Once, during one of their usual unannounced visits, a half-full pot of cooked samp and beans secured our passports’ safety from their grubby hands.

My involvement in our country’s struggle for freedom was always a very personal one. I didn’t get tangled up in the political hierarchy and theoretical debates. All I did was speak up when I thought someone had to, and step in when I thought that something had to be done. So it should not come as a surprise that I opened my house to young men fleeing to exile. It was my way of healing the empty feeling of my missing son, of realising my hopes that someone had fed him and offered him a place to rest as he made his way to join those who were fighting more actively for our freedom.

One night about a year after Andile’s disappearance, only half an hour after six young men had left my house on their way to Lesotho, there was a loud knocking at my door.  I opened the door and members of the Special Branch poured in, searching the house for the young fugitives. Of course, they were too late. Their search was futile. They were just about to give up when one of the African policemen spotted a dirty dish with six spoons in the kitchen.

My insides turned to jelly. I had cooked the young men a platter of mince and rice before they left, giving them each a spoon with which to eat. They left after midnight and I went to bed without washing the dirty dishes that now told tales in my kitchen. The African policeman pointed at the spoons and shouted, “Where are these people? Tell us now!”

His colleagues all rushed to witness his discovery and even counted the spoons, again and again. They started getting angry and abusive. They promised to arrest me if I did not tell them the truth. “Tshini!” I said, thinking quickly. “Leave me alone! I was only feeding my tokoloshes.”

“My God!” screamed one of them, jumping to the door. “We should go! This woman is a witch!”

They left and I went safely back to bed. Superstition has its uses, I realised, especially for those who believe in it.