My time in detention cost Sol his job. After thirty-six years of working for the government in the post office, he was forced to retire immediately because members of his family were suspected of being ANC activists.

I was to endure a similar form of dismissal. I returned to work a month after my release, in July 1987. In no time I was told that I had to retire in two years’ time, when I turned sixty. There was nothing I could do. Even though we had bought a house in Gompo township the year before, I retired in April 1989. Fortunately, by this time Sol had found a job as a bookkeeper for a supermarket. Between his salary and pension, we managed to pay for the house and our living costs.

My sons Tura and Dudu were released a year after I was freed. In all, they had spent two years in detention, also undergoing regular interrogations and even torture. One of the questions the police kept asking Dudu was why they allowed their home to be a people’s home. I don’t think there is any answer to a question like that.

My family was one of many that contributed to the Struggle. We did not regret our political involvement. It was our moral duty, our responsibility and our right. We were not surprised that the security forces did not spare us. We were, after all, enemies of the state. The official stance was that they were “protecting the rule of the law”. From whom? I always wondered.

At this time, more and more young people were fleeing the country, going into exile rather than risk being detained, tortured or shot just for of the colour of their skin. Andile was still out of the country. We hadn’t heard from him in nearly eight years when, in 1989, two years after my release from detention, we got a telephone call at our Gompo home.

“I have a message from Andile,” said the person on the other side. “He will be in Lusaka in December. It would make him very happy if you could meet him there.”

My heart beat loudly in my ears and my legs almost gave in under me. Until then, I didn’t even know that my son was alive. I called a family meeting and we decided that Dudu and I would go.

We applied for passports. Through the actions of some impimpi – a snitch – the security forces learned about our preparations and they did their best to prevent us from getting our passports. Fortunately for us, there were people in the Home Affairs office who were sympathetic to the struggle and gave the wrong information about our itinerary.

We finally received our passports less than a week before we were due to leave on 20 December 1989. We took an early flight from East London to Johannesburg, from where we took a connecting flight to Gaborone in Botswana and then on to Lusaka Airport in Zambia.

We arrived in Lusaka at about 8 pm. Dudu and I were not the only family members travelling to visit their long-lost exiled loved ones, and as we disembarked, we heard freedom songs being sung by a group in the distance. We moved closer to the sound and I saw someone running towards us. When I saw it was Andile I lost control of myself and cried out, “Umntwanam! Umntwanam! My child! My child!”

We hugged each other, tears were rolling down my cheeks and my heart full of unbelievable joy after missing him for so many years. Then my sons embraced, and my heart almost broke with the joy of seeing my sons cling to each other.

I looked around at the other members of the group. I knew some of them, and recognised many others. Andile, a few of his comrades, Dudu and I climbed into a combi and were taken to the hotel where they were staying. Dudu and I couldn’t stop asking questions. We learnt that Andile had been an Umkhonto we Sizwe commander in Angola. I was so grateful that he had survived that war.

We spent eighteen wonderful days with Andile, talking, catching up, going to ANC meetings with him and his comrades. We even attended the ANC’s anniversary celebrations on 8 January. Dudu and I were surprised that all Andile’s comrades spoke as though they were coming home soon. It became very clear to me that our country was truly on the verge of being liberated. The emotions raised by this knowledge were very strong.

Soon after our trip to Lusaka the homelands system started crumbling. There was much confusion among homeland leadership. Then, in February 1990, the ANC was unbanned and Nelson Mandela was released. The oppressive regime was on its way out but South Africa was far from politically stable. My dear friend Mrs Gush’s only son was killed by the Ciskei police on the very day Tata Mandela was released from prison.

My family started helping with preparations for exiles to come home. We contacted the families of the first batch of returnees, as well as social workers and clergymen that might help with the transition.

Andile was among the first to come home. It was so good to have  all my children in the country again. As a child, Andile was always dismantling delicate electronics like radios and small electrical appliances. At the age of nine he once took apart an expensive wall clock, wanting to know what made that tick-tock sound. After a   few minutes, he reassembled the clock successfully and it carried on ticking away.

His love of electronics never went away, and during his time in exile he had studied everything and anything to do with computers and information technology. By the time he came home, he was the ANC’s IT specialist, helping the party with its information systems structures.

In 1994, I felt privileged to be part of our country’s first democratic elections. While I waited in the queue, I thought about the many people whose sacrifices allowed us to be where we were. I thought about my sons, who had sacrificed much and suffered greatly. I thought about Sol, standing next to me, ready to make his mark, and how much he had suffered because of his family’s political involvement.  I thought about my grandchildren, who would grow up in a very different country to the one my own children did.

After waiting for many hours I finally made it to the front. The officials checked my ID book, gave me a long ballot paper and showed me to the voting booth. In the tiny cubicle I looked at the photos of the many party representatives vying for the country’s leadership and felt an immense sense of pride. I was finally allowed to vote, and my vote would make a difference.