We'd passed the tavern on the same night
but decided to go somewhere with more color
We woke in the morning to hear on the shortwave radio
about an overnight massacre
As a good journalist,
Mum grabbed her microphone and tape recorder
As a journalist's son,
I made sure to grab my notebook and camera
No breakfast, we made our way to the scene
from the university guest house
Checking the maps, we parked the rental car
as close as the police allowed
The news didn't make for the best start
to tomorrow's New Year
Ominous really, indeed,
the country was in a state of suspended fear
It wasn't how we were planning to spend our short vacation
But the journalistic impulse is a lifetime occupation
Then again it was South Africa, forever on the verge of doom
There were elections planned in April, 1994 loomed
The BBC didn't have anyone in Cape Town,
no boots on the ground
For things had not been as heated there as in KwaZulu-Natal
But now we could see the commotion,
the heavy police presence
Flashing lights, weapons everywhere,
and the sounds of sirens
Truth be told, it really felt as if we were in the middle of a war
Darn it, I had run out of film.
Luckily, I spied a convenience store
Walked in briskly and asked what kind of film they had
Noting that I preferred Fuji but would gladly take Kodak
Taken aback, the shopkeeper,
it felt as if I was integrating the shop
Ah right, should have known better,
they'd never served black people before
The way he was startled, as if I had come in the wrong door
Was in the wrong place, an affront, and sullying his shop floor
It was so over my head.
Had they really never been ordered around by my kind?
Well anyway, their countrymen would soon be doing the same,
it was about time
"Where are you from?",
a latter-day attempt at small talk over the counter.
"I'm on holiday, Sir. Came from the States.
But I'm originally from Ghana."
"Ghana." "Yeah, West Africa."
Rands proffered gingerly, patterns of exchange
I picked up water and a Twix bar.
I told the owner to keep the change
Dad used to regale us with stories
about his cohort of African diplomats
Integrating New York right after independence.
This country was a throwback
I loaded the roll of film,
would the memories I'd record be paparazzi gold?
Well it was South Africa, 1994 beckoned.
Who knew what life would hold?
Mum had already walked up beyond the security cordon
Her microphone a kind of spear that opened all doors
Looks of grudging respect from the soldiers and police officers
Badged as she was as a live representative of the foreign press
There was a local journalist on the scene
who seemed to appreciate a colleague
It's not everyday that this kind of carnage
comes to your quiet streets
It was only as she drew nearer
that it struck me that it was a near miss
That it was only a matter of luck
that we weren't yesterday's victims
This was the enlightened part of town
where races supposedly mingled every day
Surprising really that the tavern would be singled out,
a real case of dismay
An hour away, Khayelitsha had been rough,
but this was quite different
This was the day, I guess,
that Observatory had lost its innocence
Elsewhere, of course,
Buthelezi's people and the ANC were going at it
That was the background of disquiet
that was giving most of us fits
True, there were rumors of the apartheid death squads,
the rearguard action
By and large however, on the ground
there was a lot of empty posturing
Albeit we were learning the vocabulary of bloodletting
The country at large becoming connoisseurs of necklacing
But this was a terrorist attack plain and simple
Shooting up a bar out of some misguided principle
Students and others winding down the year
with music and alcohol
Left for dead, maimed or injured,
and now a cautionary symbol
Disconcerting,
it's not that I'd discounted her war stories about being shot at
Sobering,
even as I was well aware of journalists' occupational hazards
This was the new South Africa
whose leaders were lawyers who spent time debating
At inordinate length, the finer points
of the mooted constitutional provisions
"It's bad." Onlookers murmuring, sidewalk symphony
"It's bad. They seemed to have shot up outside."
She gestured for me to come past the police tape.
"Come, you're my photographer."
"It's bad." What a refrain
"Oh it's bad. Damn." "It's bad." A chorus of pain
"Three dead at least." "How many?" "Three at least"
"It's bad. We don't know if the others will make it."
"It's bad." "What a shame."
"No responsibility declared." No one to blame.
"I counted ten, oh god. What a scene, it's bad."
"They found a bomb, it could have been even worse."
"Bomb squad was here. It didn't detonate. It's clear now"
"They say... You don't want to see inside. Believe me, it's bad."
"Come closer, take some photos."
Not quite as intrepid, I was staying behind the tape.
Unabashed, she came and lifted the tape,
pulled me over to the front. "Go on"
"Right here in Obz". Afrikaner accent
"Terrorists. I can't believe it."
"They should clean up the blood. It's bad, it's upsetting."
The broken glass dispersed, shards everywhere.
"It's bad. Oh, it's bad. I tell you. It's bad"
"Station Road. Right here in Obz. Oh, it's bad."
"Who was playing last night?" "Josh... so sad."
"Is he okay? I wonder." "Oh, it's bad"
There was blood on the ground and this was the aftermath
"Oh, it's bad", I couldn't help but join in with the refrain.
It took hours to interview everyone and talk to the police
Bystanders and witnesses, shocked
yet wearing that mask of normalcy
Later we went to SABC, to the main studio, to call in her report
Filed for the African service, and then filed another for Focus
We weren't sure how the story would go over,
the party line from Bush House
The news cycle doesn't afford the complexity
that a long report allows
This wasn't the kind of story that anyone wanted to receive
No hearts would be warmed
by this tale of blood on New Year's Eve
We decided to not get the film developed.
Her copy would have to do.
By the time we finished reporting,
it was late afternoon
We'd been so caught up that we'd forgotten to eat
and now we were hungry
Thankfully I remembered my Twix bar,
the cheap snack came in handy
We drove past the tavern again
on the way back to the guest house
Canceled any nominal plans for the night,
we'd had more than enough
Back in our rooms, it was time for some quiet reflection
Malevolence.
We were shaken by our proximity to this unseemly action
Cape Town devoid of music, and turned into a place of hurt
Pain unbounded, the whole country holding its breath
The broken glass at the Heidelberg Tavern,
death at the barrel of a gun
We would bring in the New Year very quietly that night,
mother and son
The great guitarist Josh Sithole was holding court as ever at the Heidelberg Tavern on the night of the massacre. He was lucky to escape with his life but some of his audience, and someone from the next door checking in on what was happening lost their life. Casualties of a senseless deed.
...
Thirty years ago, I filled my notebook with some of the above impressions, I had yet to take everything in. I am still to write about the rest, what I later learned about the victims, the families and indeed the
perpetrators. Having published my photos of the tavern online, I was often contacted as the legacy of the trauma was debated and processed over the years. All in good time, I suppose.
[Update]
Lost in Obs is an artwork commemorating the tragic events.
See previously:
Truth and Reconciliation
Next:
Bound Together, (a surprising aftermath) and
First Responder
I nominate this slice of life for The Things Fall Apart Series under the banner of The Rough Beast, which asks: who is writing the script?
File under: travel, memory, South Africa, violence, terrorism, apartheid, culture, observation, Africa, journalism, perception, Things Fall Apart, poetry, The Rough Beast, toli,
Writing log. Concept: December 31, 1993. February 3, 2022
