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Today 23 years ago I woke up to the ringing of my cellphone just before 5 am. As part of the ANC election committee in Stellenbosch I had not slept for three long nights. The previous night a few of us on the committee sat together on a worn out mattress on the floor of the dusty office close to Du Toit station and wept watching on our little television with bunny ears, the old South African flag being lowered and the new one being raised.
On this morning someone shouted on the other side of the phone that I should quickly go to Kayamandi to see what was going on. I got dressed and sped through the sleepy streets of Stellenbosch. As I crossed the railway bridge leading to the entrance of Kayamandi, I spotted it: lines and lines of people, barely visible in the rain under the few streetlights. For miles people stood quietly in the cold, wet darkness.
Old people were sitting on oil drums, and those who could not walk were wheeled over in wheelbarrows. Babies were tied to women’s backs with plastic shopping bags made into little hats to keep their heads dry. Even sleepy teenagers were there to see what was going on. They were all there, in line, waiting to vote!
