I killed my father
“Xolani run”
those were the last words I heard from my father. Azizi was his name. He was a small man. His dreams continuously outgrew him. Even so, Azizi was the best man I knew and the best man I will ever know. Azizi wore worn down t-shirts that often sagged off his skin. He was not a man who was concerned with his appearance. "I love by providing," he said. He loved me, and the spirit of my mother kept him company when I couldn’t. But the words “I love you” weren’t his way of showing affection. The air around him was louder than he was at most times. You’d be fouled ought you hear a complain slip from his mouth. Azizi was a tenacious individual with a strong desire to succeed. I learned this in my years of growing, loving, and suffering by his side.
Cape town, SA, 1963
For my 18th birthday, my close friend James gave me a camera, and I knew right away that I wanted to photograph and write. James often told me I was the most creative person he had ever met. My father on the other hand, he didn’t want me to be creative, he wanted me to be safe.
“Xolani, I'm not going to let this go on any longer; please put your cameras away; you're endangering yourself.”
I led myself to reevaluate my profession, my purpose, and my life after hearing these words so many times. 1963 was an important year in our History. We were living our lives during the Apartheid —Afrikaans for “apartness”—
The color of my skin was a sin. Azizi and I were scared, so I decided to take care of his fear. James and I agreed that we would use my camera to picture the war, segregation, famine, bombs, firearms, and people, and then contact the local newspaper to have our photos published. Our goal was to raise awareness and enlist the assistance of foreign governments. So we prepared to inform Azizi about our plan and how we needed to execute it in order to get the word out to the rest of the world that South Africa needed help. Azizi responded with one word “No”. He didn't say why, but we could tell by his expression that we'd be risking our lives by entering dangerous places in the midst of bombs. James and I exchanged glances of complete agreement, but we both knew we were heading out there regardless. So, I looked at my father, and said “please Azizi, don’t you worry”. His shoulders and back began to slump, as did his eyes. You could tell he was anxious. I walked out of the room uncomfortably yet shamefully. I would come to learn that my father was absolutely correct. James and I were not professionals, we shouldn’t have risked it.
The next day, around 10 a.m., I heard a quiet knock at my door, three knocks, a four-second delay, and then another three taps. It was James. I leapt from my resting position on the couch, grabbed my camera, and bolted from the house. I looked at my father just as the door closed and murmured, "I love you."
James and I met with the local publisher right away, who instructed us to shoot in the morning and deliver the findings to him in the afternoon. We were nervous, scared, and eager to accept assistance. We came to the conclusion that having a car was the best option. This way, we'd be able to shoot from inside and flee if necessary. As a result, we went to see our friend Mike, who owned two cars. We anticipated him to lend us one and aid us, but he was adamant about not cooperating with us. At this point, we were carless and had a couple hours to photograph. James began to sweat, and the fear that had been concealed by adrenaline began to surface. “James, we will be OK, we have to do this,” I said to him as our friend Mike gazed at us in bewilderment from behind his window.
“Fuck you, you'll never help anyone from inside there,” James says after catching his breath and closing his eyes for a few seconds. We left with nothing more than a rucksack and a camera, but with optimism. We walked into the township of Langa, hiding our cameras inside our jackets. People on the streets were protesting, hundreds of people clumped together. The screaming was unbearable to hear. At this point, I was terrified. Because I grew up on the outskirts of Langa, life was always a little less hectic.
The South African police force (SAPS) had a reputation for being the most brutal in the country. Azizi used to tell me as a kid not to get myself into trouble in order to avoid them. The police were not only responsible for reflecting the nature of the state, but also for preventing or promoting change. Although black police officers served in the apartheid-era SAPS, they were viewed as second-class citizens, just like the rest of the racist society. In comparison to their white counterparts, they received less favorable treatment. They couldn't detain white people. They were unable to advance in their rankings. It was against the law for them to join a union. They were also frequently used to stifle the anti-apartheid movement, which was arguably most surprising.
We took our cameras out and photographed from behind automobiles after arriving in Langa's downtown area. The SAPS were heavily armed, and anyone who disobeyed apartheid regulations was killed. People lay motionless and cold on the ground. When I saw a dead man, I recall getting a chilly shudder. I didn't let it get to me ; I kept shooting the SAPS as they fired at children hugging their deceased parents on the ground. James, who was standing next to me, gave me a dejected expression. Every time he snapped a photo, I could feel his heart tear. We only had one aim, which was to get our photographs published, as unpleasant as that was. So, despite the harrowing experience of documenting pain, we kept shooting. We were around 100 meters from the SAPS, so I bowed my knees a little more to hide myself as best I could. When James stooped down to shoot a malnourished child in a shack, he dropped his camera and yelled, "shit !"
We were heard. The SAPS were approaching too quickly for me to take any more photographs. “We need to run, James,” I said, as if he didn't know what we needed to do. "Where do we go xo where do we run?” said James.
I grabbed his hand and started running. More police men were forming, and behind us, a wave of officers yelled "You want to photograph us, come here” My legs had never moved so quickly in my life. It was as if all I knew had vanished. Except for how to run, I didn't know anything else. With enough room behind us, James and I decided to hide in a run-down shack
We were unable to continue running and needed to take a break. When James began to weep, I covered his lips and began to cry as well. We were well aware that we were in perilous situations. Azizi was the only option for us. I was aware of his gun's location. “We're headed to my house, don't stop running ever,” I whispered to James, my face flushed with terror.
We hid for a few minutes before continuing to flee towards my father's house as the group approached. The SAPS was enraged and would not stop until they had our heads. As we got closer to my father's house, a reoccurring notion entered my mind. ‘Why are we endangering my father’? We had no choice but to barge in, lock all the doors, seal the windows, and retrieve Azizi's gun from under the couch because the time between running to the house and thinking about that thought was too short.
My father was cleaning an ancient stereo when we came, and he leaped out of his skin, as James and I proceeded to locking the doors and shutting the windows in a hysterical manner.
I was so terrified that I bawled like a baby and started shouting "baba, I'm sorry!"
Outside, we could hear them loading weapons and yelling. There was no time for me to look or talk to James or Dad because everything was happening so quickly.
“Xolani run!” shouted my father.
They shot through window and charged at us.
It was already past the point of no return. My father was on the ground, his neck cocked and the life drained out of him. James was face down with nowhere to sink but the cold tiles of the kitchen floor., leaving me with a gunshot wound in the leg and the ghost of my father.
Food began to taste different, as the days grew longer. The weather had no bearing on my happiness. Nothing affects me except my father's recollections. For years, my father's soul resided within me. It enslaved me while keeping me company. Azizi remains the best man I will ever know and my sorrow and guilt will eternally degrade me.
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