Thousands of supporters line the route from Paarl, where Mandela was imprisoned in a small house within Victor Verster prison, to where thousands more gather at the Grand Parade in front of City Hall. Cape Town is a kaleidoscope of colour, with people of all ethnicities sporting brightly coloured t-shirts and caps and waving banners and flags with slogans of peace, power, and well wishes. A strange contrast of fists and doves takes to the air—power and peace—but the message is clear: we are all united in the struggle. My uncle and I join the back of the crowd on the parade, and we hear screams from the front following the announcement that supporters are being crushed against the barriers. We weave through the throng of smiling faces to get a better view of the balcony where Mandela is due to make a speech, high-fiving, popping a fist in the air, and greeting others like long-lost comrades. ‘Amandla’, someone cries, and we all respond, ‘Awethu’—Power t to the People. It’s been a short journey from Die Stem to Nkosi Sikilele, not knowing the entire ANC party song I mime. It is one thing to attend a music concert with a crowd, but this is an entirely different buzz, and the more I absorb my environment, and not without some trepidation, the more I begin to appreciate the bigger picture. I am so wrapped up in my own world that it takes such an event to open my eyes and rock that world. I see things differently and begin to question everything. I look to religion—Hinduism, Christianity, Buddhism, and Scientology—which leads me to science and anthropology, where I soon become wrapped up in recruiting candidates. Dianetics was taking a lot of effort, with the only reward being a discount on the fees charged for the various courses that allowed you to progress. It was only much later that I learned the true model of the’science’ behind the organisation and left well before all the media speculation.

Mandela is late, and the crowd grows restless. TV journalists are entranced by the smiling face of Madiba bobbing up and down, taunting groups for the international cameras, and are engulfed in a myriad of toy-toying t-shirts. The PA booms its message across the square in the various languages, trying to maintain calm while supporters clamber the scaffolding with it dangerously leaning to one side. The minute hand on the clock in the clocktower moves to strike 2, and chanting ripples through the crowd, with the PA now trying to coax those down from the scaffolding as it teeters on edge. Waves of yellow t-shirts push outward from the epicentre where the scaffolding stands, forcing supporters once again against the front barriers. Fists, flags, doves, and balloons all take to the sky, making for a heady mix as we stand exposed under the sun, beating down mercilessly on the black tar surface.

Suddenly, shots rang out. And then the repeated sound of fire all around us bouncing off the buildings made it impossible to identify where it was coming from. There is silence as we look at each other and then at the rooftops as if in unison thinking, sniper. Then more fire, and it is as if we all suddenly woke up from some weird dream as those on the scaffold jump down, landing on the people below, and people scatter in every direction. I turn around, and behind me, from a corner through the tunnel of the Golden Acre shopping centre opposite the bus terminus, a wall of black youths charges towards the parade. Minutes pass by, but it may be just seconds as I try to comprehend what is happening. My mind races, my legs do not, and my heart pounds, but I can’t move. Quickly, I am pulled to one side and stashed behind a tree, thankfully rescued by a photographer shouting over the panic to take cover. I can’t hear him clearly, but it soon becomes apparent what he means when the youths come rushing past me, barging into the crowd, hoping to blend in. The heightened activity feeds others frustration, and they soon capitalise on the chaos, risking their lives to loot the stores in the shopping centre. Police fire at will with buckshot and rubber bullets, and dogs strain on their handlers’ leashes, ready to attack. A young man limps past me in agony and appears to have taken a shot of buckshot in his back. Blood trickles from the plugged holes and tattered white shirt, and a paramedic appears from nowhere, rushing to his aid. With the help of others, they carry him to the ambulance. He sits on the back step of the vehicle, and the paramedic peels his shirt away, which is riddled with holes and embedded into his skin with dry blood and fragments of shot. It is a laborious process, but the youth is very calm, wincing only occasionally in pain as the paramedic removes the shot with tweezers. In the meantime, chaos is all around us. Megaphones, PAs, police, and officials are all barking orders, with youths running in all directions carrying whatever items they manage to pilfer. Clothes, stereos, and anything they can get their hands on. It’s free for all, and I notice a man cradling a TV set too large and heavy for him to carry, which slows him down. I hear the smack sound as the rubber bullet hits skin, which is not a direct hit but a bounce off the ground, and his knees buckle as he collapses, skidding face down on the tar road with the TV rolling on in front of him. He clambers towards his prize, trying to clutch it, but the police arrest him and shove him into a van before he realises what is happening. I have never seen such desperation in a person’s face other than for food, and perhaps it was the idea that it could be sold for food that drove him to liberate it. I will never know, but I do know that hunger is not the only motivation, as others desire materialistic items as much as the next man, no matter what creed. I have no way of telling how much time passed, and I lost sight of my uncle. But what seemed like hours is perhaps minutes as I continued to watch the turmoil from a distance and breathe its heavy air. Through the rushing of people left and right, the photographer looked back at me, and with a smile and a thumbs up, he got his story.