“Tell them what you’re going to tell them, tell them, tell them what you told them.” According to Randy Miller, my business communication teacher (and I believe Aristotle himself), this is how you are supposed to frame any sort of talk, argument or in my case, blog post. So, for their sake, here you go.
I am going to tell you about two people. Then I am going to make a point about what I am learning. And after that, I am going to ask you for money. My real request is that you read through this for the sake of hearing the stories yourself, knowing that this isn’t about money — it’s about God allowing his children to see him in new ways.
Our first story begins with a young man in the Eastern Cape of South Africa, sometime around 1990. His name is Skumbuzo, but his friends call him Skwei. His story is, unfortunately, exactly what you’d expect from someone in the “fatherless generation” his country is known for. Skwei’s mom worked as a Sangoma – in Western terms, a witch doctor. For the early years of his life, he was exposed to a very different world than anyone who spends their afternoons sipping coffee and reading the blog posts of missionaries.
The idea for this blog post was born from the question, “When did you meet your dad?” You see, I’ve had the privilege to call Skwei my friend for two years now but it was only this month that I ever took time to ask where he came from. The Skwei that I know is a dad who would wade through shark-infested waters just so his kids could see a pretty fish. He’s a dad who would give his life to see his kids educated well, and he fights to love his wife better than most men I’ve met. The Skwei that I know is disciplined and humble — a man who knows when he’s right, yet eager to learn when he’s wrong.
Skwei’s dad was, in contrast, was nowhere to be found for the first 8 or 9 years of Skwei’s life. He lived only a few kilometers away, but didn’t seem to think meeting his child was a priority for quite some time. When he did finally show up, Skwei got called into his house by his mother with an unfamiliar tone.
“Skumbuzo, your father is here” she shouted.
With equal parts excitement and confusion, Skwei went into the house. There stood a man entirely foreign to him, but if this was dad, he was happy. He greeted his father. His father greeted him.
Now Skwei was a soccer player, and a damn good one. He had an honest chance at going pro before life got in the way. But Skwei’s dad was a boxer, and after hearing this story, I don’t think he had great communication skills. Attempting to connect with his kid, Skwei’s dad called him over, knelt and put his hands up, palms facing Skwei.
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” his dad said.
So Skwei made a fist, recognizing this as some sort of boxing exercise, and threw his level-best punch. Knowing Skwei today, I don’t doubt it was an admirable punch for a 9-year-old boy.
“You hit like a girl.” His dad responded.
Working in prisons, having my heart break for someone’s story is right next to “morning coffee” in my daily routine, but I must admit that this one hit me hard. You’re a nine-year-old boy who has spent his childhood training in soccer. Your dad was never around and you built your life, for nine years, working to accept that reality. Then one day Dad rolls in and the first real thing he says to you is essentially “you’re not strong enough.”
The second time Skwei met his father was a few years later. He was a bit older, probably 14 or 15. His dad came into town and he again got the call.
“Skwei, your dad is here” his mom shouted.
That day his dad had asked if he could take Skwei to a rugby match. To a teenage boy in South Africa, there aren’t many things more coveted than a rugby match with your father. So Skwei agreed. For several minutes, Skwei described to me the joy he felt walking alongside his Dad, approaching the stadium. His friends were with their dads, and he finally got to point at a man and say to them, “This is mine!”
Half a rand is what it cost to get into the rugby game that day. Even in the 90’s, this was not an impressive sum of money. Skwei told me his dad pulled out a wallet full of bills that day while they were in line. After paying for himself, he told Skwei to meet him along the fence at the back of the stadium. Skwei was left to watch his father go into the match without him.
Skwei listened to his dad and went around to the other side of the stadium where his father lifted a part of the gate and, in front of all Skwei’s friends, had Skwei crawl under it.
“Umgwenceli” – it’s the Xhosa word for trespasser. It’s a word reserved for people who are caught somewhere they’re not supposed to be. It’s a word with a negative connotation and it was also Skwei’s nickname for years following that rugby match.
The first thing Skwei’s father ever told him was “You’re not good enough,” and the second thing Skwei’s father ever showed him was “You’re not worth half a rand to me.” The legacy Skwei’s father left in his life was one of Umgwenceli — the legacy of being unwelcomed.
As always, this is the PG version of the story. You’ll have to trust me when I say that Skwei had infinite reasons to become an awful father and an abusive husband, a product of his environment. Skwei chose something different. Skwei looked at his story and refused to let his life be another chapter of the same book. Skwei chose to love, and it shows in his character, his interactions, and his laughter.
Our second story begins sometime in July. Our main character is a young man named Zwelethu (Zwel-eh-too. He’s got a smile that can charm a room and a story that’ll make it cringe.
I heard about Zwelethu when I first arrived in June. Everyone told me about this ex-inmate they had been working with who was an honest candidate for employment by the ministry. It wasn’t until I met him that I really understood what they meant. We cannot employ most inmates we work with, so when Skwei is talking about hiring someone, it’s a conversation I take very seriously.
If I’m 100% honest, I’m still learning to trust the guy. My natural tendency is to doubt someone until they’ve proven me wrong, but I’ll admit he is well on his way. Over the past months, I’ve grown to call Zwelethu a friend. He’s not quite like anyone I’ve ever met.
If he had a baseball card full of crime stats, he would land himself in the hall of fame. Sentenced to 167 years for 34 murders by the age of 18. One victim was a well-known political voice. He escaped four times, once by smuggling a gun into the prison itself. He’s been shot 18 times and has a bullet wedged next to his spine, making it impossible to remove. He’s been through our restorative justice course 7 times; how that happened is beyond me (we only let people through once).
This is the story of what happened when I interviewed Zwelethu about his life, two weeks back. I asked him if he would tell me his life story – he said yes. He asked me if I would take him to Spur (basically a South African version of Chili’s) – I said yes.
We sat down and prayed. Tapping into my vast experience as a journalist writing for the high school newspaper, I pulled out a pen and paper and asked a question: “What did you go to prison for?” His response was simple.
“I was a hitman for the gang,” he said.
As we made our way through my list of questions, I heard story after story that shaped the way I viewed this man. Some answers inspired hope. Others didn’t.
When I asked him how he had to change to conform to what the gang had called him to do, this was his response:
“The change from being an innocent boy to a gangster isn’t an easy one.
I had to watch people being butchered – being put into fire – people being buried alive. I had to take part to prove my commitment, to prove I was with these guys.
I had to die to the old Zwelethu, who had wanted to be a police man, and become the killer. I had to get a heart operation – they took out my old heart that wanted all those old things and gave me a new heart that beats to the glory of the 28 gang.”
Zwelethu joined the gang when he was 14. The life he chose to pursue required him to change who he was. It required him to lay to rest his old self and bring into existence something very different and very dangerous. There wasn’t room in his heart for both the boy and the killer – one had to go. The boy fought to survive, but 34 concluded murder trials show who won.
The gang gave Zwelethu a new heart – they removed his innocence and replaced it with bloodlust. They gave him a new family and a new meaning. Piece by piece, they chiseled away the last pieces of that young boy and molded him into a weapon. They tore down what had been built for 14 years and rebuilt something very different in its place.
We challenge our inmates to take responsibility for what they’ve done, and I imagine Zwelethu would tell you that he made this choice — he chose to kill the boy. He chose to become a weapon. He chose to rain destruction where God had intended life, and he chose to burn where God had intended to build. If any single paragraph of this post sticks with you – let it be that. The reason I am writing this is because, more than any inmate I’ve encountered, Zwelethu understands that he made the choice and he pulled the trigger.
As Zwelethu told me his story, we cried together and we laughed together. With tears in my eyes, I was reminded of why I fell in love with this ministry: because no one is more playful than a man who lost his childhood to horror. If you ever get the chance, I challenge you to play a game of duck-duck-goose with a group of ex-inmates and ex-gangsters. I promise you, it will be the best game of duck-duck-goose you’ve ever played. When you find a group of men who were robbed of their childhood by circumstance, you will find a group of men who are desperate to take it back. No one laughs like gangsters. No one plays like gangsters.
As Zwelethu and I spoke, talking through his story, I saw something. For a few brief moments, behind the eyes of a gangster, I saw a young boy. I saw a young boy who almost everyone thought had died long ago. Despite the gang’s best attempt – the boy lives. Despite Zwelethu’s best attempts – the boy lives. Despite Satan’s best efforts – the boy lives.
I want to be clear that Skwei introduced me to Zwelethu. Skwei was the one who brought me to Zwelethu and said, “You two should talk.” I write this knowing full well that people don’t exactly like prisoners. People say they’re not worth the money it will take to rehabilitate them. People say that they aren’t strong enough and that they are a waste of space and time.
Skwei has been a father figure to Zwelethu over the past year since he got out of prison. Skwei has walked with him and Skwei has chosen to invest in him. Skwei has given Zwelethu what Skwei himself never had – a father who says you are worth the “half rand” it will take to rehabilitate you, and you are strong enough to fight this. Skwei believes that the boy lives.
We as a ministry are trying to figure out what it means to invest in Zwelethu. We want to bring him onto our team, and I offered to give an honest shot at funding that endeavor. I want to set up a monthly stipend so that Zwelethu can join our ministry team. Zwelethu has lived as a soldier, and I believe God is calling him into a new army. I believe God is calling him to do something I myself can never do: walk back into the cells of Pollsmoor and, simply by standing there, testify that change is possible.
And here is my invitation: say that with me. Change is possible. Join me in celebrating it. The boy lives. Zwelethu is living proof that God is the God of revival and of restoration. I believe Zwelethu is once again a new man with a new heart. With an honest chance from us, he can have a new life.
“Tell them what you’re going to tell them, tell them, tell them what you told them.” I told you about Skwei and Zwelethu. I told you parts of their stories hoping, that you’ll get to see what I see – hope. $400 USD a month will keep Zwelethu afloat and cared for, and allow him to walk into his new calling. If you’re willing to help us out as we put this together, please reach out to me and we can talk, or find our GoFundMe page and donate.
Daniel Monnet
https://www.gofundme.com/zwelethu-support-fund
DeanBishop 