22/04/2017
I Will Never Forget What a White Man Told Me in
Zimbabwe in 1980
By Thula Bopela
I have no idea whether the white man I am
writing about is still alive or not. He gave me an
understanding of what actually happened to us
Africans, and how sinister it was, when we were
colonized. His name was Ronald Stanley Peters,
Homicide Chief, Matabeleland, in what was at the
time Rhodesia.
He was the man in charge of the case they had
against us, murder. I was one of a group of
ANC/ZAPU guerillas that had infiltrated into the
Wankie Game Reserve in 1967, and had been in
action against elements of the Rhodesian African
rifles (RAR), and the Rhodesian Light Infantry
(RLI). We were now in the custody of the British
South Africa Police (BSAP), the Rhodesian
Police. I was the last to be captured in the group
that was going to appear at the Salisbury
(Harare) High Court on a charge of murder, 4
counts.
‘I have completed my investigation of this case,
Mr. Bopela, and I will be sending the case to the
Attorney-General’s Office, Mr. Bosman, who will
take up the prosecution of your case on a date
to be decided,’ Ron Peters told me. ‘I will hang
all of you, but I must tell you that you are good
fighters but you cannot win.’
‘Tell me, Inspector,’ I shot back, ‘are you not
contradicting yourself when you say we are good
fighters but will not win? Good fighters always
win.’
‘Mr. Bopela, even the best fighters on the
ground, cannot win if information is sent to their
enemy by high-ranking officials of their
organizations, even before the fighters begin
their operations. Even though we had
information that you were on your way, we were
not prepared for the fight that you put up,’ the
Englishman said quietly.
‘We give due where it is to be given after having
met you in battle. That is why I am saying you
are good fighters, but will not win.’
Thirteen years later, in 1980, I went to Police
Headquarters in Harare and asked where I could
find Detective-Inspector Ronald Stanley Peters,
retired maybe. President Robert Mugabe had
become Prime Minster and had released all of
us….common criminal and freedom-fighter. I
was told by the white officer behind the counter
that Inspector Peters had retired and now lived
in Bulawayo. I asked to speak to him on the
telephone. The officer dialed his number and
explained why he was calling. I was given the
phone, and spoke to the Superintendent, the
rank he had retired on. We agreed to meet in
two days time at his house at Matshe-amhlophe,
a very up-market suburb in Bulawayo. I travelled
to Bulawayo by train, and took a taxi from town
to his home.
I had last seen him at the Salisbury High Court
after we had been sentenced to death by Justice
L Lewis in 1967. His hair had greyed but he was
still the tall policeman I had last seen in 1967. He
smiled quietly at me and introduced me to his
family, two grown up chaps and a daughter.
Lastly came his wife, Doreen, a regal-looking
Englishwoman. ‘He is one of the chaps I bagged
during my time in the Service. We sent him to
the gallows but he is back and wants to see me,
Doreen.’ He smiled again and ushered me into his
study.
He offered me a drink, a scotch whisky I had not
asked for, but enjoyed very much I must say. We
spent some time on the small talk about the
weather and the current news.
‘So,’ Ron began, ‘they did not hang you are
after all, old chap!
Congratulations, and may you live many more!’
We toasted and I sat across him in a
comfortable sofa. ‘A man does not die before his
time, Ron’ I replied rather gloomily, ‘never mind
the power the judge has or what the executioner
intends to do to one.’
‘I am happy you got a reprieve Thula,’, Ron said,
‘but what was it based on? I am just curious
about what might have prompted His Excellency
Clifford Du Pont, to grant you a pardon. You
were a bunch of unrepentant terrorists.’
‘I do not know Superintendent,’ I replied
truthfully. ‘Like I have said, a man does not die
before his time.’ He poured me another drink and
I became less tense.
‘So, Mr. Bopela, what brings such a lucky fellow
all the way from happy Harare to a dull place like
our Bulawayo down here?’
‘Superintendent, you said to me after you had
finished your investigations that you were going
to hang all of us. You were wrong; we did not all
hang.
You said also that though we were good fighters
we would not win. You were wrong again
Superintendent; we have won! We are in power
now. I told you that good fighters do win.’
The Superintendent put his drink on the side
table and stood up. He walked slowly to the
window that overlooked his well-manicured
garden and stood there facing me.
‘So you think you have won Thula? What have
you won, tell me. I need to know.’
‘We have won everything Superintendent, in case
you have not noticed. Every thing! We will have
a black president, prime minister, black cabinet,
black members of Parliament, judges, Chiefs of
Police and the Army. Every thing Superintendent.
I came all the way to come and ask you to
apologize to me for telling me that good fighters
do not win. You were wrong Superintendent,
were you not?’
He went back to his seat and picked up his glass,
and emptied it. He poured himself another shot
and put it on the side table and was quiet for a
while.
‘So, you think you have won everything Mr.
Bopela, huh? I am sorry to spoil your happiness
sir, but you have not won anything. You have
political power, yes, but that is all. We control
the economy of this country, on whose stability
depends everybody’s livelihood, including the
lives of those who boast that they have political
power, you and your victorious friends. Maybe I
should tell you something about us white people
Mr. Bopela. I think you deserve it too, seeing
how you kept this nonsense warm in your head
for thirteen hard years in prison. ‘When I get out
I am going to find Ron Peters and tell him to
apologize for saying we wouldn’t win,’ you
promised yourself. Now listen to me carefully my
friend, I am going to help you understand us
white people a bit better, and the kind of
problem you and your friends have to deal with.’
‘When we planted our flag in the place where we
built the city of Salisbury, in 1877, we planned
for this time. We planned for the time when the
African would rise up against us, and perhaps
defeat us by sheer numbers and insurrection.
When that time came, we decided, the African
should not be in a position to rule his newly-
found country without taking his cue from us.
We should continue to rule, even after political
power has been snatched from us, Mr. Bopela.’
‘How did you plan to do that my dear
Superintendent,’ I mocked.
‘Very simple, Mr. Bopela, very simple,’ Peters
told me.
‘We started by changing the country we took
from you to a country that you will find, many
centuries later, when you gain political power. It
would be totally unlike the country your
ancestors lived in; it would be a new country.
Let us start with agriculture. We introduced
methods of farming that were not known in
Africa, where people dug a hole in the ground,
covered it up with soil and went to sleep under a
tree in the shade. We made agriculture a science.
To farm our way, an African needed to
understand soil types, the fertilizers that type of
soil required, and which crops to plant on what
type of soil. We kept this knowledge from the
African, how to farm scientifically and on a scale
big enough to contribute strongly to the
national economy. We did this so that when the
African demands and gets his land back, he
should not be able to farm it like we do. He
would then be obliged to beg us to teach him
how. Is that not power, Mr. Bopela?’
‘We industrialized the country, factories, mines,
together with agricultural output, became the
mainstay of the new economy, but controlled
and understood only by us. We kept the
knowledge of all this from you people, the skills
required to run such a country successfully. It is
not because Africans are stupid because they do
not know what to do with an industrialized
country. We just excluded the African from this
knowledge and kept him in the dark.
This exercise can be compared to that of a man
whose house was taken away from him by a
stronger person. The stronger person would then
change all the locks so that when the real owner
returned, he would not know how to enter his
own house.’
We then introduced a financial system – money
(currency), banks, the stock market and linked it
with other stock markets in the world. We are
aware that your country may have valuable
minerals, which you may be able to extract….but
where would you sell them? We would push their
value to next-to-nothing in our stock markets.
You may have diamonds or oil in your country
Mr. Bopela, but we are in possession of the
formulas how they may be refined and made into
a product ready for sale on the stock markets,
which we control. You cannot eat diamonds and
drink oil even if you have these valuable
commodities. You have to bring them to our
stock markets.’
‘We control technology and communications.
You fellows cannot even fly an aeroplane, let
alone make one. This is the knowledge we kept
from you, deliberately.
Now that you have won, as you claim Mr.
Bopela, how do you plan to run all these things
you were prevented from learning? You will be
His Excellency this, and the Honorable this and
wear gold chains on your necks as mayors, but
you will have no power. Parliament after all is
just a talking house; it does not run the
economy; we do. We do not need to be in
parliament to rule your Zimbabwe. We have the
power of knowledge and vital skills, needed to
run the economy and create jobs. Without us,
your Zimbabwe will collapse. You see now what I
mean when I say you have won nothing? I know
what I am talking about. We could even
sabotage your economy and you would not know
what had happened.’
We were both silent for some time, I trying not
to show how devastating this information was to
me; Ron Peters maybe gloating. It was so true,
yet so painful.
In South Africa they had not only kept this
information from us, they had also destroyed
our education, so that when we won, we would
still not have the skills we needed because we
had been forbidden to become scientists and
engineers. I did not feel any anger towards the
man sitting opposite me, sipping a whisky. He
was right.
‘Even the Africans who had the skills we tried to
prevent you from having would be too few to
have an impact on our plan. The few who would
perhaps have acquired the vital skills would earn
very high salaries, and become a black elite
grouping, a class apart from fellow suffering
Africans,’ Ron Peters persisted. ‘If you
understand this Thula, you will probably succeed
in making your fellow blacks understand the
difference between ‘being in office’ and ‘being in
power’. Your leaders will be in office, but not in
power. This means that your parliamentary
majority will not enable you to run the
country….without us, that is.’
I asked Ron to call a taxi for me; I needed to
leave. The taxi arrived, not quickly enough for
me, who was aching to depart with my sorrow.
Ron then delivered the coup de grace:
‘What we are waiting to watch happening, after
your attainment of political power, is to see you
fighting over it. Africans fight over power, which
is why you have seen so many coups d’etat and
civil wars in post-independent Africa.
We whites consolidate power, which means we
share it, to stay strong.
We may have different political ideologies and
parties, but we do not kill each other over
political differences, not since Hi**er was
defeated in 1945.
Joshua Nkomo and Robert Mugabe will not stay
friends for long. In your free South Africa, you
will do the same. There will be so many African
political parties opposing the ANC, parties that
are too afraid to come into existence during
apartheid, that we whites will not need to join in
the fray. Inside whichever ruling party will come
power, be it ZANU or the ANC, there will be
power struggles even inside the parties
themselves. You see Mr. Bopela, after the
struggle against the white man, a new struggle
will arise among yourselves, the struggle for
power. Those who hold power in Africa come
within grabbing distance of wealth. That is what
the new struggle will be about….the struggle for
power. Go well Mr. Bopela; I trust our meeting
was a fruitful one, as they say in politics.’
I shook hands with the Superintendent and
boarded my taxi. I spent that night in Bulawayo
at the YMCA, 9th Avenue. I slept deeply; I was
mentally exhausted and spiritually devastated. I
only had one consolation, a hope, however
remote. I hoped that when the ANC came into
power in South Africa, we would not do the
things Ron Peters had said we would do. We
would learn from the experiences of other
African countries, maybe Ghana and Nigeria, and
avoid coups d’etat and civil wars.
In 2007 at Polokwane, we had full-blown power
struggle between those who supported Thabo
Mbeki and Zuma’s supporters. Mbeki lost the
fight and his admirers broke away to form Cope.
The politics of individuals had started in the
ANC. The ANC will be going to Maungaung in
December to choose new leaders. Again, it is not
about which government policy will be best for
South Africa; foreign policy, economic,
educational, or social policy. It is about Jacob
Zuma, Kgalema Motlhante; it is about Fikile
Mbalula or Gwede Mantashe. Secret meetings are
reported to be happening, to plot the downfall
of this politician and the rise of the other one.
Why is it not about which leaders will best
implement the Freedom Charter, the pivotal
document? Is the contest over who will
implement the Charter better? If it was about
that, the struggle then would be over who can
sort out the poverty, landlessness,
unemployment, crime and education for the
impoverished black masses. How then do we
choose who the best leader would be if we do
not even know who will implement which
policies, and which policies are better than
others? We go to Mangaung to wage a power
struggle, period. President Zuma himself has
admitted that ‘in the broad church the ANC is,’
there are those who now seek only power,
wealth and success as individuals, not the nation.
In Zimbabwe the fight between President Robert
Mugabe and Morgan Tsvangirai has paralysed the
country. The people of Zimbabwe, a highly-
educated nation, are starving and work as
garden and kitchen help in South Africa.
What the white man told me in Bulawayo in 1980
is happening right in front of my eyes. We have
political power and are fighting over it, instead
of consolidating it. We have an economy that is
owned and controlled by them, and we are
fighting over the crumbs falling from the white
man’s ‘dining table’.
The power struggle that raged among ANC
leaders in the Western Cape cost the ANC that
province, and the opposition is winning other
municipalities where the ANC is squabbling
instead of delivering. Is it too much to
understand that the more we fight among
ourselves the weaker we become, and the
stronger the opposition becomes?
Thula Bopela writes in his personal capacity, and
the story he has told is true; he experienced
alone and thus is ultimately responsible for the
ideas in the article.