Interview by Gordon Glyn-Jones | Part of the SA Gamechangers series
Born in Soweto, his journey began in the burning streets of 1976 and led through ANC training camps in Angola and the GDR, to global diplomacy with the African Union and United Nations. Now South Africa’s High Commissioner to the UK, he reflects on decades in service to the continent and on the release of his new memoir, which launched this year in London and will soon be available in South Africa. In this wide-ranging conversation, he talks about exile, justice, rebuilding South Africa, and what the next generation needs to know.
Growing up in a divided country
You describe your early years in Soweto as being marked by both hardship and political awakening. What first drew you towards the liberation movement?
For anyone who grew up under apartheid, the wrongness of the system was obvious. You didn’t need to read philosophy to see it. The signs were everywhere: “Whites Only” and “Non-Whites.” You’d go to the park, the hospital, or a restaurant. Everywhere was divided. I remember reading a story in a local paper about an abandoned baby. The child’s race couldn’t be determined immediately and there was this whole debate: do we send a black ambulance or a white ambulance? And then should we admit them to a white hospital? All while the child was possibly dying. That kind of thing really showed the insanity of apartheid.
Then there were people like Mandela. Though his name was banned, his words moved around underground. I remember reading his speech from the Rivonia Trial, “I am prepared to die.” That line hit hard. And on shortwave radio I once stumbled on a Zanla broadcast from Mozambique. The announcer’s voice said, “People of Zimbabwe, you will break the chains of slavery.” I thought, why not us too?
Some people might agree with a cause in life, but wouldn’t be brave enough to take action. What made you take the leap to risking arrest, going into exile, even taking up arms?
It builds up. Slowly, you realise no, this is unacceptable. And once you see it, you can’t unsee it. Eventually I was being pursued by the security police. I was part of the student movement after the 1976 uprising. We all knew what would happen if we got caught. So I left, no passport, just a will to get out and the help from ANC operatives who smuggled me through Swaziland into Mozambique, and eventually Angola. We believed we were going into exile briefly, just to train and come back. But I ended up being out of my country for almost 20 years.
Discovering exile
What surprised you most when you got to exile?
One of the first things that struck me was the ANC’s policy: South Africa belongs to all who live in it, black and white. Coming from a Black Consciousness background, that was a real jolt. We’d only known whites as the face of our oppression and here we were, being told we’d one day live together. There were other movements like the PAC who said the opposite, blacks only. But when we looked closer, the ANC was more organised, more disciplined. And then we started to meet white comrades who had given up everything. Ronnie Kasrils, Joe Slovo, Albie Sachs. These were people who had lost family, been jailed or exiled, just like us.
You trained in the GDR. What was that experience like?
Ah, the GDR. They were extremely disciplined, very serious people. The training was intense. And no excuses were accepted. You were being prepared for life and death situations. Failure wasn’t tolerated. But the cultural adjustment? Huge. When we arrived, they gave us winter clothes, including the long thermal underwear (which we jokingly called ‘Vasco-pyjamas’). And they told us, “Just throw your laundry, including underwear, into these big baskets.” Old white ladies would come collect them, wash them and return them folded. Now, imagine us, from apartheid South Africa, where white women wouldn’t even speak to us. Suddenly they’re washing our underwear? I couldn’t handle it. None of us could. I used to sneak out late at night, wash my own clothes in the dark. One night I’m crouched at the basin, and I hear someone behind me, two of my comrades doing the exact same thing. No one had talked about it. We just couldn’t bring ourselves to hand over our underwear to old white women. That’s how deep apartheid had scarred our minds.
What helped shift that mindset?
It was seeing white comrades take the same risks we did, and sometimes more. Some had their families killed. They were jailed. We saw them suffer for the same cause. That changed us. Also, the support we received across Africa, Mozambique, Tanzania, Zambia, Angola, showed us that solidarity wasn’t about colour. It was about justice. Even in the West, where governments sometimes called us terrorists, ordinary people supported us in their millions. The UK had the biggest anti-apartheid movement in Europe. The American supporter numbers were also vast. People defied their own governments to support us.
“We broke the back of apartheid. That was the big obstacle. Now the struggle is to make sure we don’t leave anyone behind, not black, not white. The fight continues.”
Returning home
What was it like returning to South Africa after nearly 20 years in exile?
We weren’t sure it was real. I thought we’d be in exile for a short time, but it became decades. When the call came that we could go home, it felt sudden and surreal. We had fought for a democratic South Africa, political freedom. But once we got it, I think we made a mistake. We relaxed. We thought the fight was over. But political freedom doesn’t automatically bring economic justice. That’s where we faltered. We had leaders like Mandela, Mbeki, people with real vision. But eventually, the movement lost its way somewhat.
What would you say to an 18-year-old South African today who wants to build a better future?
I’d say, we broke the big obstacle. Apartheid laws are gone. Now the fight is about inclusion and opportunity. The country has so much: minerals, tourism, technology. But we must think bigger. And we must think together. The future isn’t black or white. It’s South African. These two worlds, the privileged and the deprived, must come together. If we don’t create a society that includes everyone, we’ll face another kind of explosion. Not a racial one, a social one.
“We broke the back of apartheid. That was the big obstacle. Now the struggle is to make sure we don’t leave anyone behind, not black, not white. The fight continues.”
Telling the story
You’ve just written a book. What made you want to tell your story now?
At first I asked myself, who am I to write a book? I’m not Mandela. But I realised every story matters. People today forget what was sacrificed. The youth must know, what they enjoy now came at a cost. People died. Others were exiled or jailed. That can’t be forgotten. Also, I’ve been lucky. I served under every democratic South African president, from Mandela appointing me as High Commissioner to Zimbabwe, to Mbeki sending me to the AU, Zuma to the UN, and now Ramaphosa to the UK. I wanted to document those moments, mediating in the Congo, leading UN missions in Darfur, helping shape African Union policies like NEPAD and the Peace and Security Architecture. We laid a vision for Africa. Now we must ask: are we implementing it?
Do you have a next mission, or are you retiring?
Retirement? No such thing. Maybe I’ll step back from formal roles, but I’ll never stop contributing. The continent still needs us. Africa has the youngest population on Earth. We have minerals, intellect, and talent. What we lack isn’t vision, it’s implementation. We need leadership that thinks beyond national borders. South Africa can’t go it alone. Africa must act collectively. That’s the only way forward.
Where can people get your book?
The book is called: Let Not The Sun Set On You: The Journey from Anti-Apartheid Activist to Seasoned Diplomat. It’s available on Amazon UK now, and will soon be out in South Africa through Exclusive Books. A more affordable softcover version is coming in the next few months.
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