If there is ever a time when I feel the need to be alone, to escape the mad rush of urban living, a South African prison is the last place I would choose to visit.

After four weeks in detention, the interrogations started. The Special Branch headquarters was at Cambridge Police Station, in one of the suburbs of East London. Detainees were picked up from the prison for three or four hours of interrogation every day. Some prisoners were taken once a month, some once every two weeks, some only now and then. I was one of those they fetched every week.

The interrogations at Cambridge were very frightening. Many people were physically tortured, although thankfully I was not one of them.

Every time I went I was questioned by a different interrogator. I would be asked the same questions again and again. It seemed to me that they were trying to learn the names of the struggle leaders and organisers. To me, no single person could be responsible for creating an uprising. An uprising was caused by the oppression of masses. Each time I answered them openly, hoping that they would finally leave me alone, but each time they kept coming back with the same questions. It was humiliating and disempowering – a psychological game for them. The part I found the most mortifying was how meals were handled while I waited in a cell to be taken to the interrogation room: they would throw a plate of food in under the door and let it slide towards me, as though I was a dog. I would not wish that kind of treatment on my worst enemy.

Our families did not know where we were being kept for the first eight weeks of detention. Sol and Nomhamha checked all the East London police stations looking for me and my sons. Linda had been released on the night he was detained because his name was not on the security police’s list, but he immediately fled to the Transkei. Tura and Dudu were still in detention, in the men’s section of Fort Glamorgan.

Those first eight weeks were traumatic for Sol and my daughter. They were scared for us. A lot was happening in those days. Eventually they were told where we were being held. They had to sign forms with visitation rules before they could see us. We were only allowed one visitor per week. They were not allowed to give us food or clothes during visits.

One afternoon a warder summoned me to the front. “You have a visitor,” she said, and marched me into a very small office with a chair and a counter topped with a wall of glass. There were a few holes through the glass at face level. Someone walked in the door on the other side of the glass partition. It was Sol. We looked at one another.

“You have twenty minutes,” said the warder, making herself comfortable on the only chair in the room.

It upset me to see how much weight Sol had lost. It was shocking  to see a free man, who slept on his own bed and ate his own food in his own house, look so thin. Like a ghost with glassy eyes. A tear ran down one cheek. His lips trembled.

I realised that I, too, looked terrible. I had lost a lot of weight and the skin on my face was dry and rough. I realised I had to do something to prevent him from going into shock. I lifted my hand, putting my palm flat on the glass. “Hello, Mr Beginner,” I said. “May I have this dance?”

Sol raised his hand to mine and he smiled. “Manse, I am glad you are alive. This will all be over one day, my dear. Don’t worry.”

By now I had to hold back my own tears. I managed to tell him the boys were in the men’s section.

“Did you see them? How did they look?”

I didn’t want to tell him that I hadn’t seen them. “We’ll all be home soon,” I said, trying to reassure him.

We were quiet for some minutes, just staring at each other. He seemed honestly relieved to see me alive. In those days, loved ones sometimes disappeared forever. There was nothing left to say to each other. All we could do was push our palms against the glass, wishing it would break.

The warder stood and started leading me away. I turned to go. Behind me, I heard Sol’s voice. “I will always love you. No matter where you are,” he said. I was out the door before he finished his sentence so I couldn’t reply, although I could feel in that moment that we shared the pain of separation anew.

Sol’s visit haunted me for days. I kept thinking of all the things that I should have said, but didn’t. I was also torn with guilt for what I had done to my family. Seeing my husband look so neglected made me realise that my family was suffering because of my political activities.

Then I thought about my dear mother. She had been a dedicated domestic servant for the Robertson family for many years, although her poor living conditions next door to them did not portray the respect they claimed to have for her when talking about her good service to the congregation at her funeral. I’m certain they meant well, but they failed to follow up their words with action. It occurred to me that my political involvement, as painful as it was for Sol and my children now, was my way of trying to improve their lives in future.

The following week it was my daughter’s turn to visit me. Nomhamha said a lot of comforting words about her father. She said he was visiting my sons and would visit me again the following week. She made sure she planted good memories in my mind.

She noticed that my head was covered in a crust of very itchy sores. She managed to arrange a special permit for Dr Olivia Bikitsha to see me. Dr Bikitsha practised in East London but was originally from Butterworth and would, we knew, give me good treatment. After suffering for so many weeks, what was worse was the problem of washing my itchy head twice a day because each cell had only one shower.

The week after that, Sol visited again. This time we had a lot to say to each other, and spoke to each other lovingly. We even managed to share a sense of acceptance for our situation, which was completely beyond our control.

Even so, being degraded, seeing my husband suffer so and being deprived of basic sanitation made me formidably resentful. I felt my mind growing distracted by hate. The following week, on Nomhamha’s second visit, she tried to cheer me up by telling me how my precious grandchildren were doing. To the dismay of us both, we realised I had forgotten their names. Nomhamha was hurt and worried. She feared that I was so depressed that I might lose my mind.