Two weeks ago I was getting ready to go to work, wearing a crisp white shirt and polished shoes that match my Italian suit. The doorbell rang and I answered to the sheriff of the court who had in hand instructions to detain me for 30 days in prison for contempt of court relating to a maintenance case. I told my girlfriend what was going on, changed out of my suit pants into some jeans, and handed myself over.
I wasn’t scared of going to prison. I am a 6ft3 100kg man, I served in the Special Forces reporting directly to the Officer Commanding Special Forces in Pretoria: I was one of those boys your mother warned you about. Very few things frighten me. Going to prison would be like the basic training, only with fewer weapons, and wearing orange. Uncomfortable, but a case of mind over matter.
The sheriff couldn’t find Diepkloof prison, confessing that he hadn’t taken a civil case there in 10 years. I knew the south of Johannesburg well having worked there for seven years — so I made some route suggestions and we arrived at Diepkloof, a light brick-faced monstrosity surrounded by barbed wire, high fences and guards. There are no windows visible from the outside. The sheriff escorted me into Medium B and asked the warder to take me. The warder refused. He pointed out there was no arrest warrant, no detention order, and he was not going to put me in there. I suspect my crisp white shirt was to blame for his reluctance — clearly it wasn’t a white collar facility.
It took an hour for someone to take me off the sheriff’s hands.
I spent another hour in the admissions area, speaking to a few inmates here and there and to at least a dozen warders. Everyone said the same thing: you will be locked up with career criminals, murderers and rapists and gangsters. You will be attacked, stabbed, sodomised — and you can try and fight, but when five men come at you, in the night, in the yard, every day, you will give in or you will die. I heard more stories told by men concerned for my safety, and concerned because they don’t remember when last they had a contempt of court case there, and that Diepkloof with its gangs and disease would change my life in a bad way. I felt an inkling of nervousness.
The warder comes back to me and says he feels he must book me in until someone tells him otherwise. I tell him he should do as he pleases, but that if he puts me here without the right permission, I will come back for him and sue him for everything he has. We look at each other over crossed arms.
He says, “You are going in. The court says so. I don’t want you here — we haven’t had someone like you here for 13 years, and I can tell you — you don’t belong here. When you step through that gate into the cells, you are going into hell, believe me. Someone should get you out before too long. Before the weekend. I can protect you, but not after lock up at night — then it’s up to you and them.”
The nervousness returns. I ask if I can make a call before handing over my cellphone. I call my girlfriend and tell her to be calm and listen carefully. I can hear she is crying, and I tell her to get a pen and write down everything I say. “There is no warrant here for me, and it seems they need a section 69 to be completed to legally detain me. Also, the court order says I am to be detained and kept safely for 30 days. I am not safe. I will not be kept here safely. You must tell a lawyer.”
I handed the phone to the warder, and felt a little more fear about what it about to happen. I went through the searching process, and was given an orange outfit. Some notes on the outfit — they only have shoes up to size 10, so therefore no shoes for me. There are no socks. There are no jerseys. My pants have buttons, but no button holes, and they sit about 20cm above my ankles. My shirt is tight enough for a gay biker, but the material is rough denim and doesn’t stretch — I look like I have been poured into it. It’s also mid-winter, it happens to be the coldest day this year, and the prison has a complete lack of sunlight — it’s freezing cold and I look like an orange popsicle. Some of the men around me shiver from the cold, in an accepting way that says it’s how things are. I am renowned for not feeling the cold — and I have goosebumps already and have started rubbing my limbs without realising it. Its what they call lion cold — all main and head.
The warder comes over to me and says my family are here — my mother, my brother and some redhead who looks very sad. He says they are worried about me. “Tell them I am fine, that I can handle this. I need some books to read.”
“I will try about the books — but you are only allowed only some toiletries and fruit, maybe a newspaper.”
Laurence Cramer — who spent a night in Diepkloof Prison — is pictured at his Parkwood, Johannesburg, home. (Lisa Skinner, M&G)
He tells my family that I said I am fine and not to worry. He tells them he will get me a jersey and a blanket and soap and a toothbrush.
He asks them to bring a skiftin (Tupperware) and toiletries.
He doesn’t get me a jersey or blanket or anything, only says to me, “Watch yourself in there. After lock up it’s crazy — if something happens to you in the night, you must tell a warder — don’t keep it to yourself, even if whoever did it promises to moer you if you tell.”
“What might happen to me?” I ask.
“Stabbed. Sodomised. Beaten. You know.”
I feel unhappy about the prospects for the coming night — but assure him I can handle myself. He warns me again to not make trouble, not be confrontational, to just be cool and go with things — and possibly not to sleep.
I thank him, and he ushers me into the holding cell which fills by the hour with more and more men who have been sentenced by the courts that morning.
The men tell stories about prison — most have been here before. Things like, don’t back down if someone takes you on — you will be seen as weak, and be taken as a wife. Don’t trust anyone — they all want something from you, so be careful if someone is nice to you. Wear plastic bags over your feet in the shower — these guys like to shit in the shower — its just easier. Ask your family to send cigarettes and phone cards — you can use these to trade with — a place to sleep, a blanket, protection.
“What do you mean, a place to sleep? Don’t we all get a bed?”
They laugh at me, but not with joy, with a hollow sadness that speaks of lives gone wrong, of hopelessness and fear, of violence and shame and each day bringing more hatred for the society that put them there.
On the first night I am in a cell designed for 20 — there are 56 of us. I have heard about overcrowding in prisons, but until you are in the cell you cannot truly know what overcrowding means. The cell is one of two that both look on to the yard. The yard is cement covered, surrounded by twenty foot walls that are defaced with graffiti and plaster that has been etched away with a blunt object. The wall is so high that the only time it gets sunlight is between 11 and 1 pm — during which time no one is there to enjoy it. You can see the sky above, and around the edges of the wall other parts of the prison block emerge in places. The cell is about 20m by five metres, with a toilet area to one side. Inside the cell the inmates have moved the double bunks together in twos to form double beds — this means that there is a five metre floor space open on one end of the cell. There is a television set right at the top of the cell, touching the ceiling. It is encased in a steel cage, as is the wire that feeds it power. It is set to a low volume, permanently tuned to SABC1. It seems to come on automatically from 6am until about 7.30am, and again from 6pm to 10pm. There are two fluorescent lights mounted to the ceiling — the inmates have wired into them and get an electrical feed directly out of them for their own television sets or kettles. The prison no longer serves tea or coffee or hot drinks — prisoners must acquire a kettle if a hot drink interests them.
The toilet area consists of one toilet, a urinal, two shower heads and two basins. There is no toilet paper — some of the long timers seem to have some, but we are told to “wipe with your finger, and then wash your finger in the left hand basin”. The men shower from 2am on to about 5am — apparently there is some hot water at 2am. The men are in the habit of dozing between 10pm and 2am — not actually sleeping. After shower time they sleep until five or six. The problem with institutional living is that everyone is fed at the same time, and is released into the cells at the same time — so when you have 56 men needing to use the toilet, it can take hours before everyone has had a shot at it.
Once the warder has locked us in, the drugs come out. Soon many are smoking dagga, mandrax, “rocks” and tik. The smoke hangs heavily in the air, and the lack of ventilation means it goes nowhere. Mohammed, doing five years for car theft, explains how the awaiting trial prisoners can get drugs at police stations and at the court cells — they smuggle them into the prison in their anuses, and when they arrive there is much interest in who has brought what in. Drugs are used by most, and a newcomer with drugs can buy himself a bed, blanket, jersey or access to hot tea. Mohammed’s prisoner ID card says his sentence was R5 000 or five years. He explains that he in fact sold the family car, without his wife’s permission … and now he sits here. He has young children who he hasn’t seen in seven months while awaiting sentence. He misses them, and wonders if they will remember him when he gets out. He is a slight man with a kindly face, and is quite resigned to his fate. I wonder what kind of court puts a man into a prison like Diepkloof for that kind of crime?
Surely it makes more sense to sentence him to community service?
A man named King, who is there for stabbing his wife and her lover “more times than he could count” says that he will only serve 16 months of his sentence — he has successfully applied for early parole based on his alleged poor health. He is itching to get out, although only to wreak some kind of vengeance. He warns that the first night in prison is the worst, it gets easier after that, each week a little more than the last.
Logan is in for stealing a pair of takkies. He is in for 30 days, and I wonder if this can be good for him — he has made friends with a gang member, and has been talking about some things he can do when his 30 days are served. Logan was a state witness in the trial of a Nigerian drug dealer who is currently doing time in Diepkloof — the case was only six months back, and he fears that it is only a matter of time before the Nigerian discovers him and someone puts a knife in his back.
The cell is icy cold, and 34 of us sleep on the floor. Three are in the bathroom, sleeping where the draft from the cell door blows across them all night. The rest of us are head to toe, so close together that we cannot lie on our backs — there isn’t enough space. There are some blankets, but they are thin and small, and not enough to go around.
My mouth is dry, I haven’t eaten all day, and because I don’t own a cup or bottle I can only access water in the toilet area. There are a group of men arguing loudly there, and I decide to wait until they go before getting some water. I realise I haven’t had water all day, and my mouth is parched. I drift into sleep, the men around me coughing and heaving, and I notice cockroaches and lice around us on the floor.
Sometime during the night I feel a hand on my shoulder, shaking me. “Wake up, the chief [warder] wants to see you.”
I focus and see the man bent over me is one of the old timers, not one of the new group. I try and understand what he is saying, and he pulls my collar, attempting to drag me from where I am lying. That is when I look to the side and see the group of coloured men looking at me from the toilet area — huddled in a group, watching intently. I realise that something is wrong, and grab hold of the man’s shirt in a quick upward thrust. He pulls back in surprise, but I hold him, and pull myself around, on to my knees. As I do this he loses his balance, and falls onto his back. I leap on top of him, immediately swinging my knee at his groin — but I miss, and my knee connects with the concrete floor, sending me into a world of pain. A Zimbabwean man who was lying next to me has woken in the meantime, and he pins the attacker down by holding his shoulders to the floor. He looks at me and says, “Ek hou hom vas.”
I swing my fist at the prone man’s face several times, hitting him hard on two occasions. Other men wake up, and I feel someone pull me back, saying, “Calm down, Mlungu. Leave it, go to sleep.”
I turn and see a familiar face, and the attacker, swearing at me, get up, brushes himself down and with venom says to me, “You don’t have permission to fight– you will see what happens tomorrow.” He spits at me and returns to his bed on the far side of the cell. I look up at the men in the toilet area and they are turned to each other, ignoring the scene in the cell. I squash back in between my sleeping partners and close my eyes, but don’t sleep. My heart races with adrenaline, and my knee throbs in pain.
At 2am we are woken for shower time, but I don’t move. At 5am the rest of the men have arisen to polish the area where we slept. I find a small piece of blanket and help.
At 6.30am the cell is unlocked and we file out into the yard, told to line up in two’s and squat, hands on head for counting. We stay like that until 7, and then are led to the dining hall. Soon we discover that there are not enough plates, and only some of the new prisoners will eat. Which ones eat? The ones who had brought the drugs in the night before. The chef says we can come forward and he can dish into our hands — but someone behind me mutters, “Don’t — if the pap is hot or runny and it spills on the floor they will beat you.”
We watch the other men eat pap with milk, some on steel plates, others from skiftins. No talking is allowed, and after 10 minutes we return to the yard, again lined up in twos. After an hour we are led to the hospital for check-ups before they allocate us to our cells for the duration of our stay. Some tell me that once we get our final cell it will be better — there will be beds for us. I want to believe anything good, so that thought sits inside me like an unopened Christmas gift.
We wait for two hours, and finally, in a cold corridor between two sections, a prisoner arrives with a heart monitor, a scale and a chair. He sets up his clinic right there. He says he will measure us, and write it on a slip — then we must keep the slip for the nurse to see. He sets his equipment up, and we all take note of the readings on the heart monitor for each prisoner and comment on his health. He measures mine at 150 over 102, with a resting heart rate of 85. This is a lot higher than normal for me — maybe I’m stressed? Then he measures my height and weight — I am surprised to see that I have lost 4cm and 40kg. Some of the other prisoners show me their slips and say they are 10kg short of their normal weight. I consider asking the man to re-weigh me, but think better of it, as he would then have to do everyone again in a process that has already taken an hour for 30 men.
The man then gives a short speech about our rights to access the hospital. He says, “We have a lot of TB here, and Aids. You must let us know your status so we can help you. Many of you will catch TB here — so if you have a cough that does not go away, you must come forward. Also, being stabbed compromises your immune system — please tell us if you are stabbed — especially if they blade breaks off into your body. You need to look after yourselves here — it is much harder to survive if you are sick, and men die here every day.”
After another hour we see the nurse — we are instructed to strip so they can look at our tattoos. I discover that this is not done in appreciation of skin art, but to see what legacy is on your skin from previous prison life, or gang membership. I am amazed at many of the men’s gang related tattoos. The warder is making sure that known members are not allocated to cells where one gang becomes too strong. I tell the nurse that I have a cough, and she writes down on my chart: He says he coughs. I tell her that I weigh 98kg, not 58, and she says, “Mmm, I already write 58 on your chart, don’t worry.”
That is the extent of the medical exam. Nicodemus, a man in his early fifties, has a blood pressure of 275 over 180. He too is pronounced fit for sentence.
We are led back to D section for lunch where the same problem awaits us: no skiftin, no lunch. No cup — no water. Two of the prisoners, not much older than 18, complain to the warder and say they haven’t eaten in four days — he beats both remorselessly, until, weeping, they get back into the line. It turns out that lunch is the last meal of the day, and this is why these boys were so stressed at facing another day without food.
We are allocated to our cells and marched off to them. I find myself outside F section. Brad, an inmate of D Section who tortured and killed an elderly couple nearly 10 years back, walks with me, talking to me all the time. He assures me he will get me a nice bed, that I shouldn’t worry about anything — he will look after me.
We assemble outside F Section, and the warder asks us not to engage in fighting or sodomy. It seems reasonable enough.
Then Ishmael emerges, a life time prisoner in charge of F Section after lock-up. The prisoners and warders all seem to respect him. He gives a talk about his rules, and assures us that he will find blankets and jerseys and skiftins for us — maybe not immediately, but in good time. I noticed the boxes of Ayanda blankets on the walk up to F Section, so I ask about them. He says, “You can’t just have a blanket. We have our rules here — this speech is about rules, not blankets.” He finishes and asks me what I did to get in there. I tell him contempt of court, and he says, “Someone pulled some strings to get you in here. Especially into F.”
Then we enter the section, and Brad is suddenly at my side again, talking quietly to me, “Look man, as you walk in, see how the world changes … are you scared yet? Are you? You should be — everything changes when you come in here. This section is fucked.”
I walk in and there are men everywhere in the yard, in groups, looking at us walk in. They all stop talking and stare. The place feels dirty, and clothing hangs in strips from the cell windows, adding to the sense of disorder. We are paraded past the inmates to the far corner of the yard, then turn around to face them. They come up to us, poking a man in the chest, or going up to another and suggesting what they would like to do with him. It feels like we are pieces of meat on display — the sense of violence around us is laced with a leering sexual energy, and Ishmael brings them to order. He separates us into two groups, and the inmates start fighting over who goes into which group. I realise that there are two cells, and the forward group will go into cell 21, and the others in 22. Twenty-two seems to have the more lecherous element, more unruly. I feel grateful that I am in cell 21. We line up outside the cell and now are counted with the other members of the cell — 71 of us in a cell meant for 20. I wonder how we will all pack into there, never mind find a place to sleep. We file in, and are the newcomers are ushered to the back. A man called Rasta calls us together and speaks in a mixture of Zulu and Afrikaans. I tell him I don’t understand, and he promises to repeat everything for me in Afrikaans.
After 30 minutes he says to me, “Wat is jou story?”
I ask if wants to know why I am there, but he gets irritated, and another prisoner says, “He wants to know what you will pay for you bed. He can throw someone out of a bed, and put you there. Drugs? Phonecard? Money? Smokes?”
I tell him I have nothing, and he becomes more agitated with me. “En jou mense? Kom hulle tomorrow? Wat bring hulle vir jou?”
I tell him that I have no idea what they will bring — I suspect they wont bring a phone card or drugs or cigarettes. And you aren’t allowed money. He grunts and banishes me to Ishmaels bed — “Sit daar,” he orders me.
I sit on Ishmael’s bed like a naughty schoolboy, and one by one some prisoners come and reason with me to promise him things. I tell them all I wont promise anything. They seem concerned, and I tell them that if I promise something and then my family don’t bring it, will Rasta be happy?
“But they must bring these things, Mlungu. They must.”
Ishmael arrives and ignores me, although I am sitting on his bed. He takes off his clothes and puts on pyjamas. They are a lovely chocolate colour. Beside his bed are pictures of children, but they are mostly obscured by other things: his roll of toilet paper, a loaf of bread. On the wall closest to him are pictures of naked women, all of them white. Ishmael’s cleaner kneels on the floor next to the bed, and is ordered to make tea. He unpacks the kettle and makes tea for Ishmael. Ishmael hands me a circular to read that is about a campaign to reduce the number of deaths in our prisons. Then he says to me, “The Rasta is upset with you. He says you wont cooperate, won’t give him anything for your bed. I am kicking my cleaner out of his bed for you, and he will sleep on the floor while you sleep in the bunk above me: warm and safe. I might even get you a sheet.”
It is 3.30pm, and the wardens have locked us in for the night — again, the drugs come out and the noise level rises as the prisoners take control of the cell.
Ishmael tells me to hop up into the bed anyway, that he has promised someone he will look after me. “You shouldn’t take these offers of a free bed, Mlungu. Tomorrow you will find out what it really cost you.”
I lie back on the bed, relaxing a little, and reflect on my situation. The weekend is coming, with its promises of cold, hunger and violence. I used to think that criminals were the cause of violent crime in South Africa. Now I know that there is another party to blame: Correctional Services. They are facilitating that petty criminals are housed with violent criminals who will indoctrinate them into their ways. They place short termers with life timers — men whose social and moral outlooks are determined by their sentences and whose influence over each other is negative in the extreme. There are not enough warders to properly manage the population: the result is violence, drug abuse and theft within the cells. There is insufficient food and men who don’t own a plate or cup risk not eating. The medical assessment is a joke: it serves no real purpose and cannot protect the population from new comers with viruses. There are no condoms, yet sex between the men, both consensual and rape is common. The overcrowding means that half of the population isn’t getting proper sleep, and the risk of spreading infection is high. These factors contribute to a climate of hostility. The warders practice violence on the inmates without recourse.
These factors create an atmosphere in which men cannot become rehabilitated, and learn only bitterness, hatred and fear. The aim of many men when they get out is to go straight back to their lives — yet now they respect life a whole lot less, and violence has become part of their repertoire. Fortunately, my family had the means and the knowledge to apply to the high court for my urgent release, which was granted — I am certain that had I stayed the full 30 days I would have been harmed emotionally and physically at the very least.
What is the fate of the average inmate there? If he survives his sentence intact, he re-enters society as a threat to us all. If we are serious about our safety in the future, we need urgent action from the Minister of Correctional Services: proper segregation of criminals according to their crimes, the right to eat, the right to a place to sleep and the right to safety and protection. Our population has trebled since they built these prisons — should more prisons not be built to reflect this?
The minister says that the answer is not more prisons, but speaks of a vague and pretty plan involving educating inmates. Before she does this, she must look at the basic rights of all people, even if they are convicted criminals: you cannot teach a man new skills when the hierarchy of human needs is ignored. Prisoners are our responsibility because they will re-enter society at some point: if we think we have taught them a lesson in prison, it is a lesson that in the end will haunt us, not them.
Laurence Cramer is a Johannesburg-based author. He is the author of Psychocandy and The Beacon, a film about the assassination of Samora Machel that is scheduled to start shooting in March 2010. He is the editor of MethodPM, a specialist journal of the IT project management industry.