What was intended to be a peaceful march to Bhisho to demand that Brigadier Oupa Joshua Gqozo be removed as Ciskei leader led instead to a massacre.
Today, 23 years later, the impact of the event which resulted in 29 deaths is still being felt by those who were left bereaved. One of them is the mother of victim Headman Nontshinga.
Every September 7, his mother, Nomutile Nontshinga, brushes the dust off his academic gown, drapes it over a hanger and hangs it on a wall. She stacks his books close by and pages through a photo album, dominated by pictures of Headman.
The 82-year-old Nontshinga stays in a dilapidated farmhouse which is collapsing around her in Frankfort near Bhisho. Some 30km south of her lives Gqozo, also on a farm.
Although she says she has forgiven Gqoza, Nontshinga still has one question: “Why did he order our children be killed? I want to look straight in his eyes when he answers. Otherwise I have long forgiven him.”
Nontshinga is one of many who lost loved ones in the anti-apartheid struggle that fateful day when Gqozo’s soldiers opened fire on the 70000-strong ANC-alliance protest march in 1992.
Twenty-eight protesters and a soldier were left dead and hundreds injured in the hail of more than 425 bullets. “I miss my son very much; I can only dream of what life would have been were he alive,” she said.
Headman, then 29, had started studying for his Higher Education Diploma at Fort Hare University after graduating with a BSc degree just two months before. His mother believes he could easily have become a politician, farmer or teacher.
In order to raise money to send him to Fort Hare, she sold home-made brooms, grass mats and chickens while her husband, Dalagubha, sold two cows. Headman’s brothers also contributed to his education. Dalagubha died in July 2005, never having come to terms with his son’s death.
Nontshinga said: “To have a graduate was the wish of all the family members. We spent our last penny on his education. Now we are left with only the academic regalia Headman wore to his graduation and the certificate as testimony of the sweat.”
Another day is also seared into her memory – September 4, the last day she saw Headman alive. “He had spent almost the whole Friday ploughing the fields, fixing the fence and checking the livestock,” she recalled.
“At times he would parade around the house in his academic gown as if encouraging his nieces and nephews to take education seriously. He always said he wanted lots more academic gowns in the family.”
At about 6pm that Friday, Headman left home for Mdantsane where he joined comrades to prepare for the march three days later.
On the day of his death, Nontshinga and her husband Dalagubha were seated on a log outside their old German Settler’s house when they heard news of the shooting on the radio.
“I prayed for his safety. But that evening, Robert Desi, one of Headman’s comrades, came to tell us that my son had been shot dead.”
Headman was buried at the monument in Ginsberg next to 12 of his 28 comrades who died on that day. His mother did not attend the mass funeral. “I obeyed the African custom which prevents women from witnessing the burial of those who died violent deaths.”
Nontshinga says the government does not look after them as her home is the only one not electrified in Frankfort. “What was Headman fighting for if I cannot get government services,” she lamented. — lulamilef@dispatch.co.za
A day when a family’s dream was shot dead
Today, 23 years later, the impact of the event which resulted in 29 deaths is still being felt by those who were left bereaved. One of them is the mother of victim Headman Nontshinga.
Every September 7, his mother, Nomutile Nontshinga, brushes the dust off his academic gown, drapes it over a hanger and hangs it on a wall. She stacks his books close by and pages through a photo album, dominated by pictures of Headman.
The 82-year-old Nontshinga stays in a dilapidated farmhouse which is collapsing around her in Frankfort near Bhisho. Some 30km south of her lives Gqozo, also on a farm.
Although she says she has forgiven Gqoza, Nontshinga still has one question: “Why did he order our children be killed? I want to look straight in his eyes when he answers. Otherwise I have long forgiven him.”
Nontshinga is one of many who lost loved ones in the anti-apartheid struggle that fateful day when Gqozo’s soldiers opened fire on the 70000-strong ANC-alliance protest march in 1992.
Twenty-eight protesters and a soldier were left dead and hundreds injured in the hail of more than 425 bullets. “I miss my son very much; I can only dream of what life would have been were he alive,” she said.
Headman, then 29, had started studying for his Higher Education Diploma at Fort Hare University after graduating with a BSc degree just two months before. His mother believes he could easily have become a politician, farmer or teacher.
In order to raise money to send him to Fort Hare, she sold home-made brooms, grass mats and chickens while her husband, Dalagubha, sold two cows. Headman’s brothers also contributed to his education. Dalagubha died in July 2005, never having come to terms with his son’s death.
Nontshinga said: “To have a graduate was the wish of all the family members. We spent our last penny on his education. Now we are left with only the academic regalia Headman wore to his graduation and the certificate as testimony of the sweat.”
Another day is also seared into her memory – September 4, the last day she saw Headman alive. “He had spent almost the whole Friday ploughing the fields, fixing the fence and checking the livestock,” she recalled.
“At times he would parade around the house in his academic gown as if encouraging his nieces and nephews to take education seriously. He always said he wanted lots more academic gowns in the family.”
At about 6pm that Friday, Headman left home for Mdantsane where he joined comrades to prepare for the march three days later.
On the day of his death, Nontshinga and her husband Dalagubha were seated on a log outside their old German Settler’s house when they heard news of the shooting on the radio.
“I prayed for his safety. But that evening, Robert Desi, one of Headman’s comrades, came to tell us that my son had been shot dead.”
Headman was buried at the monument in Ginsberg next to 12 of his 28 comrades who died on that day. His mother did not attend the mass funeral. “I obeyed the African custom which prevents women from witnessing the burial of those who died violent deaths.”
Nontshinga says the government does not look after them as her home is the only one not electrified in Frankfort. “What was Headman fighting for if I cannot get government services,” she lamented. — lulamilef@dispatch.co.za
Would you like to comment on this article?
Register (it's quick and free) or sign in now.
Please read our Comment Policy before commenting.
Trending Now
Latest Videos