It would prove to be an ill-fated expedition.
Soon after, I was called inside to see the senior immigration officer. He said he wanted to compare their cards with my own to establish their authenticity. More than two weeks later, three men hammered at my gate. They turned out to be detectives from Harare Central Police Station’s anti-terrorism unit, who said they wanted to interview me at their offices. I called my lawyer and refused to go in their unmarked Mercedes-Benz, driving my own car instead.
Cell 33, the receiving cage I spent the first night in, was infested with lice and had urine all over the concrete floor, on which dirty and torn-up prison blankets were strewn. It was a chilly night. Fellow new inmates scrambled for bits of blanket. I didn’t get any. Deep in the night, one kind inmate offered me a torn piece of blanket.
The ANC and the EFF will say nothing
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