the complete lack of contact with his parents. Knowing that any communication might be picked up by the South African security police, he did not want to expose his parents to any possible harassment or put his own life at risk. However, this meant that his parents did not even know for certain that he was alive. Wilhelm and I offered to visit his parents in Soweto, when we were in South Africa. On our suggestion Tshepiso made a tape recording which we took with us.
Given that there was still a state of emergency, we knew it would attract attention if we just drove into Soweto, and since we did not know the area we asked a friend to take us there. He asked us to hide under blankets as we drove past the military presence at the entrance. Feeling tense, but also exhilarated, we were very happy to meet Tshepiso’s parents and to bring them greetings from their son. They were overwhelmed with joy to hear that he was not only alive and well, but had succeeded in getting a scholarship to study at the Oxford Polytechnic. Their relief and pride was visible. Over refreshments one of Tshepiso’s younger brothers, who was sitting quietly next to Wilhelm, suddenly asked loudly: ‘So what do you think of your grandfather?’
A shocked silence followed before his parents berated him in Zulu. But Wilhelm did not mind and took some time to engage with this young man, who was clearly very politicised. After an hour of intense discussion and being fed endless cups of tea, we left, leaving the little tape recorder and tape with them to listen later.
It was our first visit to Soweto. We were deeply moved by what we saw and by the time we spent with this remarkable family that had sacrificed so much in the struggle. Years later Tshepiso and I would work together on the White Paper on Local Government, before he died of a heart attack at the very young age of 32.
Back at Oxford, Wilhelm and I decided to start a family. It seemed like a good idea, since I had a lot of free time. We felt it would be good to have the children young, so we would still be relatively young when they were teenagers and young adults. We planned things carefully, since we did not want the birth to happen before or during Wilhelm’s final exams, but our visas ran out at the end of July 1990 and I would not have been able to fly back to South Africa if I was too far pregnant. This gave us a window of three weeks in which everything had to happen. Fortunately, I became pregnant easily, and we quietly congratulated ourselves. Little did we know what was about to happen.
I have a condition called porphyria variegate, which runs in certain Afrikaner families. I inherited it from my dad. The condition results in a faulty liver enzyme which can, in some cases, cause great difficulties with certain medication, dramatic hormonal changes, and sensitivity to sunlight. You can live with porphyria without ever showing any symptoms, and the only reason I was tested was because my dad had the condition. I had never had any difficulty with it before (or since) the pregnancy, although I am always extremely careful with medication.
In October 1989, I developed kidney infections, and after weeks on antibiotics I woke up one morning in agony. The doctor diagnosed a kidney stone and I was taken to hospital by ambulance. There I warned all the doctors that I had porphyria – and told them that I might be pregnant. Since porphyria is extremely rare outside South Africa and Scandinavia, the British doctors knew very little about the condition and, as I realised afterwards, paid little attention to it for the first few days. An ultrasound showed a kidney stone in my right kidney, and a little white flicker confirmed that I was indeed about six weeks pregnant. I was delighted – with the pregnancy, if not the kidney stone! Of course, my pregnancy meant that the doctors could do nothing apart from pain management for the kidney stone. I was also vomiting frequently, which was put down to morning sickness, and I was becoming dehydrated.
On the night of 8 November, I started to get severe stomach aches and my urine turned dark brown. Within hours I was fighting a losing battle to remain conscious and was having breathing difficulties. I was afterwards told that doctors had no idea what was happening to me. Then a doctor from South Africa overheard them discussing the case and suggested that it might be a severe porphyria attack. He was right: the moment they treated the condition correctly, I improved, but I was semi-comatose for a few days.
I eventually woke up to find the South African doctor who had saved my life next to my bed. He reassured me in a strong South African accent that everything was going to be fine. He then told me that the Berlin Wall had fallen while I was unconscious! I stayed in hospital for ten days before flying home to South Africa (on the suggestion of the doctors in Oxford) to recover. This gave Wilhelm, who was trying to study for his finals, a much-needed break. We were of course very concerned about the impact my illness had had on my tiny foetus, but a scan in Cape Town showed all three centimetres of her moving around happily.
The rest of the pregnancy was challenging. I returned to Oxford in January, but had to be admitted to hospital on three other occasions. I had no further difficulties with the porphyria, but had three more kidney stones. I was looked after by a high-risk team in the John Radcliffe Hospital and got world-class care from the NHS.
In between all the hospital visits, on 11 February 1990, we sat with a few college friends in their kitchen watching for hours a tiny TV screen showing the gates of Victor Verster Prison in Paarl. Finally Madiba appeared on the screen – a free man. We wept and hugged each other, overwhelmed with joy and wishing we were home. We knew it was time to go back to South Africa, but there was one more momentous event that had to take place before we could leave Oxford behind.
Shortly after Wilhelm’s finals, at the end of June 1990, Wilmé was born. It was agreed that I would be induced, but after sixteen hours of labour, Wilmé went into distress and an emergency C-section was performed. Thankfully, I was awake during the birth; I’d had an epidural earlier. Just before midnight, they lifted Wilmé over the screen covering my tummy. It was the most magical moment of my life. She did not cry, but a little tear ran down her left cheek. I had a strong sensation that I recognised her – that I would have recognised her among other babies as my child. Before I could hold her, my blood pressure suddenly dropped dramatically. Feeling that I was about to lose consciousness, I said to the anaesthetist: ‘I’m going, I’m going!’
‘Where?’ she asked.
‘Heaven, I hope,’ I managed to joke, before everything turned black.
A while later, I woke to the voices of doctors urging me to look at my baby. This had the necessary impact and I regained consciousness – and held Wilmé for the first time. I stayed in hospital for a week, watching the World Cup in Italy (where both England and Ireland progressed to the final stages), in between recovering, and of course doting on my beautiful new baby.
4
Three weeks after Wilmé’s birth, Wilhelm and I returned to South Africa. Although we were excited to go back, for me it was a sad farewell to Oxford. Apart from the usual hormone-driven days after the birth of my first baby, I was also unsure about what was waiting for us back in South Africa. Mandela had just been released, but violence was escalating daily. Family and friends were anxious about the future (if any) for whites, and the economy was on its knees.
To make matters worse, conscription was still in force. Wilhelm had so far avoided doing military service by studying, but we knew that the moment he returned to South Africa, he would have to do his time (which had recently been reduced from two years to six months) or face six years in jail. Politically this posed a huge dilemma, since much military activity was in the townships, directed against the struggle – a cause we believed in.
On a personal level, I was unhappy about being left on my own with Wilmé while trying to adjust to life back in South Africa.
In the weeks before we left, Wilhelm received various calls from head-hunters for British companies, but in the end we both knew we would not stay in Britain. We wanted to go back to our roots. We wanted to make a difference, however small, during the transition. Above all, we felt that we had received much from a country
