During the third month we were transferred out of the hall and back to a large prison cell, where I joined forty other women who had been detained from all over East London and Mdantsane. The cell had high cement walls and was about six metres wide and twenty metres long. A series of narrow windows ran down the long walls. At night, we hung our clothes out of these windows to dry.

There was no furniture. At night we slept on our thin mattresses and during the day we rolled them up, neatly placed our folded blankets on top and sat on them. The only noteworthy features were a small bathroom with thin walls housing two toilets and a single shower, and the door in the corner – the only way in and out.

The cell was crowded but what the warders didn’t realise was that this togetherness created the perfect opportunity to motivate each other and pass on news about the Struggle. We told others about the United Democratic Movement being formed, and took the opportunity to tell others about the rent boycott and our rights as detainees. Prison turned into a venue for illegal political workshops.

Other than that, our days were characterised by grinding monotony. We would wake up at 4 am, not because we had to, but because it was the only way we all got the chance to shower in the single cubicle, even though we washed two at a time. After everyone was clean and dressed, we lined up in the middle of the room for a head count, after which we marched in pairs down a long passage to the dining hall for breakfast at 7 am, our hands behind our backs.

The dining hall was large and drafty, the cold amplified by the fact that the tables, mugs and plates were all metal. Breakfast consisted of very hot black coffee and porridge without sugar. Lunch was served at 11.30 am and consisted of plain samp and either soya soup or mince. We ate dinner early, at 4 pm. It consisted of black coffee again, with very cold bread and drippings for spread. The meals changed a little here and there, but by and large this is what we ate.

There were four cells in our wing of the prison, each positioned in such a way as to form a square of lawn in the middle. We were allowed to walk around on these lawns about twice a week, if the weather allowed it. It was always such a relief to see the sky, and feel the sun on my skin.

One benefit of these trips to the Special Branch headquarters in Cambridge was that we were allowed to visit the small library and tuck shop in the corner of the prison once a week. There were Bibles to read in each cell, but being able to take out one different book each week provided me with a thin anchor to sanity. 

During the first week of April 1987, I was punished for reading a book in the light from the passage after lights out. I was sent to solitary confinement for fourteen days. I was taken to a cell the size of a door with a toilet against the wall and a single window that was open all the time. I had no contact with people. My meals were shoved in under the door – a favourite method of humiliation, apparently.

I am someone who gets enjoyment from contact with other people, my family especially. Solitary confinement was torture to me. I felt disoriented. Within days a pervasive sense of helplessness pierced my heart. I started talking to myself, just to hear the sound of a human voice. I spoke about my thirty years’ experience in child health care with the tiles on the wall. I started feeling stronger, more purposeful.

Then I heard a voice. Someone was listening and responding. Someone wanted to know more. By the time the warders eventually took me back to the cell, instead of feeling cowed, I felt a renewed sense of energy and resolve. Given everything that was being done to African people, two weeks of suffering was a comparatively short time.

April 19 was my birthday. The Special Branch fetched me as usual, but on this day there was no questioning. I was allowed to look at my birthday cards from my family, my colleagues, some neighbours and my dear friend, Mrs Gush, signed by herself and a few YWCA members. I also received a few cards from the national YWCA office in Johannesburg. These were signed by Joyce and Rachel Seroke, the YWCA’s secretary-generals at the time, and other well-known women activists. There was even a card from the international YWCA office in Switzerland signed by Phumzile Mlambo-Ngcuka and others. The Special Branch seemed surprised to find that my imprisonment was known beyond our borders. The solidarity I felt on that day made me so proud of being a member of the YWCA.

They started releasing detainees from our cell in May 1987. My turn came in June. Two warders came to the cell door after lunch and called out two names. My heart started beating fast when I heard that mine was one of them.

“Collect your things and come to the door.”

Those sweet words changed my life. I tried to contain my excitement because with the laws of our country back then you never knew what was coming next.

“You’re number nineteen and twenty,” someone announced.

We gathered our meagre belongings and were ushered to the front office, where we signed for our valuables. I was given my belongings and birthday cards in a plastic bag. The Special Branch picked us up, took us to the nearest taxi rank and gave us R5 to find our own way home.

I decided to put in one last foot of resistance, refusing to get out of the combi. “You men had better drop me off at home,” I shouted. “Take me back where you found me!”

“We’re not allowed to do that,” said one policeman.

“Number 711 Bashe Street, Duncan Village,” I said, making it clear that I would not move.

Eventually they dropped me off at the front gate of my house. I had lost so much weight the neighbours did not recognise me at first. It was 9 June 1987. After a year in detention, I finally slept on my own bed in my own house. It was like a dream come true.