FROZEN! The Whistleblower's Mom

25 January 2023 started like any other day, just different. It was different because I was anxious about my son’s imminent departure from South Africa out of fear for his life. But let me start where this all kicked off.

My son had resigned from his employment in October 2022 due to certain things he had witnessed that did not sit well with him. I won’t (and can’t) get into that because that is the subject of ongoing investigations. My son had always intended to make contact with the relevant authorities, but only once he was safely out of South Africa. Plans were already in place. His wife had obtained employment in New Zealand, and he had applied for a spousal visa. He would follow his wife as soon as his visa was approved. His wife was flying out on 18 January 2023.

On 17 January 2023, my son received a call from a “private investigator”, whom I will refer to only as the PI (although I would love to add a “G” but shall avoid this strong desire to circumvent being accused of defamation). The PI phoned first on my son’s phone and then on his wife’s phone – a new number known to no one, including me! (It does not take a stretch of the imagination to figure out this was obtained unlawfully, but this story is not about that). I won’t go into the details of the call. It’s been uploaded to X (formerly Twitter). What was made very clear to my son was this: come talk to “us” or face the “law” or worse. My son didn’t need a picture to be drawn to know the implications and insinuations of this call. Just FYI, a court, in another matter involving this same PI, has already found that this PI committed extortion. Suffice to say, he did the same to my son.

This call set in motion a series of events that can only be described as absurd, things you read in spy novels or watch at the movies. Within hours of this call arrangements were made with the help of the federal police of another State to obtain a visa for the UK (it took seven hours) and to find accommodation for him in a safe location, first in Ireland and then the UK. It became a mad coordinated rush to ensure his safe exit from South Africa and arrange transportation, funds, flights, and meetings in the UK with specialised anti-corruption units (I am not at liberty to expand on this). It was organised chaos, but he was ready. Or so we thought.

He was not ready, and I was certainly not ready for what was to come. I don’t think anyone can ever prepare themselves for the extraordinary trauma that was about to hit us like a tsunami, causing as much devastation with lasting effects that will be felt for years to come.

Back to the morning of 25 January 2023. I had arranged for a friend (we will call her “X”) to take my son to the Durban International Airport (as I live in another Province), make sure he was checked in (this was his first long-haul international flight), watch him go through passport control, wait until the plane was in the air and keep me posted constantly. The messages started coming through at around 1 pm: “Arrived at the airport”; “Checked in”; “Having a bite to eat”; “Heading to the boarding gate”. And then silence….

Then came the call every mother dreads: “Don’t panic…..”. DON’T PANIC? I did. ‘Don’t panic’ always means something is wrong, and it was. “He’s been detained at passport control”. “What do you mean ‘he’s been detained’?” PANIC! Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. Pacing… PANIC! Silence…. “They’re taking him to the holding area”. WHAT? WHY? PANIC! I can’t breathe. My knees are battling to hold me up. Pacing… I’m on the phone with everyone I know, attorneys and advocates who specialise in criminal law. A team is hurriedly put together and makes their way to the airport at speed. PANIC! Pacing…. Tears are pouring down my face. My heart is racing so hard it hurts. I can barely string a comprehensive sentence together. What do I do? Make coffee? Pace…. Tears, sobbing uncontrollably. I phone his wife. We both cry, a lot. I phone his dad and face a barrage of questions I cannot answer.

I’m getting WhatsApp updates, but I don’t really understand. “He’s been searched”. “They’ve taken his phone and laptop”. “There’s a warrant, but it’s defective”. “The cops are being very difficult”. “The legal team is arguing with the cops”. Chaos. My world is imploding! Out of control. I’m helpless. PANIC! Pacing…. “They’re transferring him to Verulam SAPS holding cells”. “They let me speak to him. He’s given me a list”. “What do you mean a list? A list of what to do if he dies?” (this is a very real fear and X confirmed later that this is exactly what the list was). Silence…. PANIC! Pacing…. Can’t breathe…. Tears. Sobbing.

The legal team leaves to strategise. It’s going to be a sleepless night for all of us. X follows to Verulam SAPS. They won’t let her see him. They won’t let her give him food, only water. They won’t let him have his medication (he is on chronic meds). X stays outside in her car until late into the night, trying to calm me down. Neither of us sleep. Time stands still. Frozen. I want this nightmare to end. I want to wake up and realise it was all a horrible dream. PANIC! I’m awake, barely, still pacing. TERROR….

As dawn breaks, X is back at SAPS waiting and watching for movement. It’s all a blur for me. PANIC! The legal team is heading to the high court for an urgent application. An advocate friend is on her way to Verulam. Meanwhile, my son is bundled into a cop van, handcuffed. X follows. They drive erratically as if trying to lose her, down small side streets. She loses them, heads back to the station. They arrive back as the advocate arrives. I get a photo. “He’s okay”. He’s smiling at least. They won’t let the advocate consult with him alone. They allow her to give him a Mac D burger (he’s starving), but not the soft drink, only water. “Tell him I love him”. He’s taken back to the cells. X waits in her car. The advocate goes back to the high court to join the legal team. They’re waiting for the judge to finish his roll. Time stands still. Frozen. It feels like an eternity.

I head to the airport. It’s about 3 pm. “I’m coming my baby”. “Hang in there”. “Mommy is coming”. “I love you”. I’m getting updates from the high court. Judge wants to speak to SAPS, hear what they have to say. Everyone is trying to phone the station commanders of Verulam, the airport and Sandton (where the alleged charge was laid). I’m in the Uber and my phone rings: “Unknown number”. “Mom” “Oh my God, are you okay?” “Mom, they’ve come to take me to Sandton”. PANIC! Tears pouring. Breathe…. Don’t let him hear your fear. I know this threat. I know what this means. PANIC! Oh my God… “Mom, they said they’d wait for my meds, can you bring them?” I don’t have them. I’m 2000km away. They don’t know that. He’s buying time. He knows we are waiting for the order. “Okay, I will tell X to bring it. Are you still in Verulam”. “Yes”. “Mom…. (quietly, fearful) I’m going to die, I’m going to die”. Silence…. Call ended. PANIC! Breathe. Floods of tears.

I call X. “Get his pills to him”. I call my advocate friend. “What’s going on? They’ve come to take him to Sandton”. PANIC! “He told me he’s gonna die. He can’t go to Sandton! He won’t make it”. Sobbing. Desperate. The message is relayed. The judge is updated. “Order granted”. Relief! SAPS are interdicted from removing him from Verulam pending a return date of the following day at 15h00. The legal team is rushing to get the order typed and stamped by the Registrar. I’m in the queue waiting to check in. Tears pouring down my face.

Phone rings: “Unknown number”. Angry male voice: “Where are you”. “Who is this?”. “You said you’d bring the pills”. “I don’t have the pills. My friend is bringing them”. “You must hurry up!” “Are you still in Verulam?” “Yes”. “You need to go inside the station to the station commander. There’s a high court judge who wants to speak to you”. “High court? Judge? Eish”. Call ended. Silence…. PANIC!

I call X. I call my advocate friend. “You have to get there. You have to stop them from taking him. What’s going on?”. The legal team is on their way to the station, order in hand. Everyone is phoning everyone trying to find out where my son is. PANIC! I board my flight. I’m in the twilight zone for two hours. Tears pouring down my cheeks. Sobbing. I don’t care who may be watching. TERROR! “Please God look after my baby”. Time stands still. Frozen.

Plane lands. I’ve got signal. I message X. “What’s going on?”. Silence…. I get off the plane as fast as I can and rush to find X. We hug. I’m sobbing. She looks as exhausted and terrified as I feel. “Where is he”. “We don’t know”. WHAT? “They’ve taken him”. Oh my God. PANIC! The legal team had finally made contact with the station commander who phoned the “officers” from Sandton and told them to turn around and bring my son back. They refused. PANIC! We are all on the phone trying to find someone who can find him. Everyone is trying to help. TERROR. It’s getting dark. I phone his wife. I don’t know how to console her. I can’t. “He’s going to die. They’re going to kill him. He will never make it to Sandton” she says. What do I say? How do I keep hope alive? How do I stay strong? I have to be! I have to get my baby back! I update his dad. More questions I can’t answer.

Calls are made late into the night. I don’t sleep. I cry. I pace. Breathe…. I pray, although I am not religious. I feel utterly powerless. Nothing compares. Time stands still. Frozen. When will this night end? Is he okay? Dear God, let him be okay. 6 am, I’m on the phone again trying to get hold of Sandton SAPS. I need to know he’s alive. No answer! Typical! The tears keep coming. It’s light but my world is dark. I phone a lawyer friend in Johannesburg asking if he knows a criminal law specialist I could contact to find my baby. He refers me to an advocate. He’s on his way to another court but says he will get an attorney to call me. Minutes later he does. Quick synopsis, my only instruction: “Find my son, please!”.

He heads to Randburg magistrate’s court. He will call me as soon as he has information. Silence…. Time stands still. Frozen. My phone rings. I don’t know the number. “Hello”. “Mom”. Oh my God. Relief! Tears flood my face. He’s ALIVE! “Mom, is someone coming?”. “Yes my boy, someone is coming. I promise, someone is coming. He will be there soon. Hang in there. I love you.” “I want to die Mom”. He hasn’t had his meds for two days. He needs his meds. I can hear the fear. I phone the attorney. “Where are you?” He’s arrived at court, on his way to the holding cells. Silence…. Time stands still. Frozen. I wait. It’s a blur. Relief. Fear. I’m paralysed.

The attorney calls me back. He’s with my son. He’s okay. He’s scared. He needs his meds. We call his doctor. Explain what’s happened. She says he needs stronger, long-lasting meds. He’s a suicide risk she says. PANIC! The court roll is called. His matter is last. Loadshedding. Court comes to a standstill, and he’s left alone in the pitch-black stairwell leading to the court room. The PI is at court. Laughing at him, taunting him. His lawyer is checking on him and updating me when he can. We wait. And wait. We’re waiting for the high court to make a final order. Time stands still. Frozen.

The legal team in Durban waits. The return time is 3 pm. It’s an eternity…. At 3:30 pm the final order is granted. His release is ordered. Relief! The legal time rushes again to have the order typed and stamped by the Registrar to get to the magistrate in Randburg. It finally comes through at 4 pm. The magistrate strikes the matter from the roll. My boy is released! Relief! I update his wife and his dad. Everyone breathes a sigh of relief.

A team of heavily armed private security fetch him and drive him to the airport. We are all waiting in Durban. I hear the updates: “The package has been collected”; “The package has arrived at the airport”; “The package is on board”; “The package is in the air”. ‘The package’? It’s like something out of a spy novel. Is this real life? We wait. Time stands still. Frozen. Another team of heavily armed men wearing bullet-proof vests goes to the airport to collect ‘the package’.

11:15 pm on Friday 27 January 2023 (has it only been two days? It feels like a lifetime) my baby walks through the door, beer in hand, smiling, exhausted. We hug for a long time. Everyone wants to talk to him. I just want to take him home and let him phone his wife. My battery is empty. I’m physically and emotionally done. I can’t let him see my tears, my fears. I am with him. He is safe. Tomorrow we will deal with the next chapter. Tonight, I will just sit with him, hold him, be there. He is alive! Breathe….