One day, many years past, a man came to Robben Island because of a dream; because of a vision; because he saw the light that blinded all others. A person of humble descent, he was only one man, yet he was one man who inspired hope among a nation. One man who stood above giants; one man who refused to stop believing in his ultimate dream: a rainbow nation. One man. One legend. This is his story.
“Eish, Tito. There you go again with your mambo-jumbo about Mandela and his ‘great dream‘. Didn‘t someone else have a dream? Who was it now?”
“Martin Luther King Jnr. Now stop interrupting.”
“Haibo, he has messed up your mind boetie. There‘s no hope for us folk. It‘s that education you got there, it‘s messing with you. Didn‘t I tell you the day we got here that I didn‘t need no education? I‘ve survived. I don‘t lead myself on with false hope like your ‘Mandela‘ does with you. He‘s gonna be the death of you, you know that Tito?”
“Well then I‘ll die for a noble cause.”
“There you go chewing those words around again-“
“-spewing.”
“What?”
“You meant spewing those words around again, right?”
“Ag, you know what I mean. It‘s always noble this, hero that, great dream there, and hope all around us! I‘m sick of it! I‘m not going to be lead on by your Mandela‘s false hope.”
“Hope is what keeps me going. Hope is the driving force that gets me out of that cold, hard bed in the morning; bear the pain in the afternoon and manage the sleepless nights! Hope is all I have left…”
“Well I hope you have a good memory.”
“Why is that?”
“Because Thabo just took our mirror…”
They released a much needed laugh that had been delayed all day by the monotonous machine that is the Island of Nightmares: Robben Island.
Sipho and Tito had been cellmates for 9 years or, as they often jokingly referred to it; too long. Tito had been a teacher of distinction; teaching those who longed to be taught. Having, perhaps, radical philosophies and teachings his punishment was life imprisonment.
Still, he taught to those who aspired for something greater. He lectured on his own philosophies, hopes and dreams. Obtaining a cult hero status within the confines of the stark, grey walls of this hell had attracted the unwanted attention of the warden; a distasteful man whose greatest pleasure was to ridicule, beat, scorn and mock the accused. His highhanded abuse and general derision had earned him no respect from the inmates, many of whom continuously plotted his next ‘accident‘, each hoping it to be his last.
Sipho came from a very different background; having no knowledge of his parents and abandoned on the streets of Cape Town, he was quickly caught up in the underground movement. Even at a young age, Sipho had been a fast runner, earning him the nickname ‘Mirror‘s Edge‘. The edge of a mirror: a fitting name for one so adept; a thin edge with no room for error; one misstep and you're gone. Speed and balance are everything - existing purely between the gloss and the reality to run underground messages from one source to another. Though one day reality hit and his balance was gone. His speed meant nothing against the brutality of the law enforcement.
No sympathy and no remorse – their life stories.
And so is true of the next incident in this heroic and brutal chapter that exists within the place of nightmares. The only dreams are that of salvation.
“No!” Sipho pleaded as another laceration burned into his flesh.
“I‘m just getting started, kaffer,” the officer replied with a smirk on his face.
“Stop, now!” Tito had entered the scene unnoticed. Though usually a peaceful, silent and reserved type, he was not soft. You only survive this island if you knew how to fight.
The officer warned Tito once to back off and forget what he had seen, or else…
His fists clenched, Tito motioned forward. Sipho was near-unconscious on the floor, blood pouring from his back and tears streaming from his eyes. This would never be documented…
One punch and the guard was down; a second and his jaw was broken. It should have ended there.
There shouldn‘t have been a bullet hurtling towards the back of Tito‘s head. He shouldn‘t have hit the floor with a stark face. His eyes shouldn‘t have been empty. But there was, he did and they were.
Another shot echoed in the silent chamber.
“No! Stop it! Stop it! Leave him alone!” Sipho scurried over and cradled Tito‘s limp body, tears stroking the head nested in his arms. “Just leave him alone…”
The procession was beside the quarry pit. Tito‘s body, simply covered with the nearest rag, was laid to rest atop a barren hill devoid of any substantial life or growth. Alone for their last goodbye, Sipho stood reserved beside the silent giant and confessed:
“I knew a great man once. He came to Robben Island because he believed; he believed above all else, in the truth of love and the sincerity of sharing. He was the light that shone in the darkness; the one who gave hope to those who had none, to me who had lost mine. One man who thought more of others than of himself; one man I could truly call my mentor, my role-model, my hero, my friend. This was his story…”