Special Report Transcript Episode 36, Section 5, Time 23:15

Should I begin with Dear Tata?’ Is that what I called you 19 years ago? It strikes me that now that I’m a man I do not have a name for you. You would have … me if I called you ‘daddy.’ You probably would have preferred something along the lines of Bra Steve, for that’s how you were. I was attending another funeral recently when I was thrown back in time. ‘uTata ufile’, said the speaker quoting the deceased’s six year old son. At this stage I no longer bothered to sing, so strong were the feelings that overtook me. The picture I saw before me was a carbon copy of the day we put you to rest. Nineteen years ago I’m said to have uttered exactly these words, albeit in a manner less refined and more suitable to a child of six. ‘Amabunu izinja babulele uTata’ the Boers are dogs, they’ve killed my father. I’d like to believe that my childhood naivety insulated me against the full impact of your death. My nature is quiet and my manner shy. That I had to indicate these words indicate the blow to my little heart. I could not associate death with you. I remember the long discussions we held with the comrades, as I sat on your lap stroking your beard. Oh the secrets I had, the intrigue. I felt very important to be included. I remember your words, never say so and so was here. We kids enjoyed withholding this information from the nosy policemen who practically came to our doorstep. I remember how we met on my way from school, you had the biggest smile and you ordered me to go home and meet my new and ugly brother. Well new he was but ugly no ways, this was my brother. These were some of the flashes I had as I looked into your coffin. Your eyes and nose had sunken in. your lips were slightly injured and the brightness in your eyes no more. You lay still, perfectly still. I could have reached out and touched you, particularly your eyes, they worried me. But there were thousands of people queuing behind me all awaiting their turn to pay their last respects. I’ve often said that the moment you close your eyes my childhood was gone. You would have turned 50 on December 18th last year. I’ve often wondered how the years would have set on your body and face, but guessing your looks is perhaps as evasive as trying to guess your … role in the new South Africa. I must tell you that difficult as that task may be I have very little patience for people who freeze your political thoughts to the moment of your death. Last year I visited your death cell in Pretoria. I walked into the prison and counted 18 maximum security gates to your cell. I’d like to believe that the toughest and fittest prisoner in … would have found it a demanding task to break through, yet in that condition you were you laid still on the cement floor, naked, … and dying all behind 18 gates. It’s almost 20 years since your death and as I’d like to say it is not easy to stay angry for 20 years even if those are my intentions. There will always be more to say to a father whose legacy run so deeply. I can only hope that you’re not departed to a place so far that you cannot feel our love and respect. Always in our memories, Nkosinati.

Notes: Steve Biko’s funeral; Biko’s wife and children

References: there are no references for this transcript