Gaborone — To look at the bustling, modern streets of Gaborone today, you might never suspect that beneath the pavement lies the ghost of a winter night that shook Botswana.
For a whole generation, June 14, 1985, is a chapter in a history textbook, flat and distant.
But for those of us who woke up to the sound of a country losing its innocence, the echoes of that terrifying South African Defence Force (SADF) raid still vibrate, 41 years later, in the quiet corners of our minds, reminisces BOPA reporter, Anastacia Sibanda.
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For me, the memory is inextricably bound to the scent of melting wax and the biting chill of a June night in White City.
Back then, my absolute sanctuary was a small wooden house built just outside our main family home.
For a young schoolgirl, it was a kingdom of peace. In that wooden room, illuminated by the soft glow of a single candle, I could escape.
There, no one would knock to ask, "May I kindly borrow your candle? I will return it later."
Inside those wooden walls, my thoughts and my homework, were entirely my own.
Earlier that day, life had been ordinary. A police officer had visited our assembly at Ben Thema Primary School. He was there to deliver a well-meaning lecture on the dangers of shoplifting, sparked by complaints from the nearby Leapeetswe Store about missing chocolates and sweet-aid.
Our teacher, Ms Daisy Leburu, turned the visit into an assignment and we were to go home and draw the officer exactly as he looked.
I was never naturally gifted with a pencil. That evening, my sanctuary became a battleground of frustration.
Under the dim candlelight, I rubbed and erased until the paper tore slightly at the edges.
I was determined to capture every detail of the man who had commanded our assembly, his crisp uniform, his stable belt, his swagger stick and his distinct silhouette defined by a tall frame and a prominent belly. Inspired by his words, I fought the drawing late into the night.
Eventually, the bitter winter cold won. I blew out the candle, watched the thin wisp of smoke vanish into the dark, tucked myself tightly into my blankets and drifted off to sleep.
Just four hours later, the peace of White City was obliterated.
At approximately 1:30am, a massive and terrifying explosion ripped through the night air.
The force of the blast did not just wake me but violently shook the frail wooden walls of my sanctuary. Frozen under my blankets, my heart hammering against my ribs, I listened as the neighbourhood dogs began barking uncontrollably into the dark, a frantic and collective panic.
Terrified, my older brother, Matthews, rushed out from the main house to check on us. We were physically unhurt, but the air felt heavy and dangerous.
When I finally found the courage to turn the lock and step outside, another deafening bang echoed through the sky, accompanied by a blinding flash of light that turned night into day.
Because White City sits right next to Bontleng, the unfolding chaos was horrifyingly close.
Panicked and realising that our fragile wooden walls offered no protection, we decided to flee into the freezing early morning darkness.
Our plan was to run towards the traffic roundabout by the Botswana Housing Corporation (BHC) and hide.
But as we tried to join the main road, the shadows materialised into a troop from the Botswana Defence Force (BDF).
An officer stepped into our path. His voice was a calm anchor in a sea of panic, but his command left no room for argument.
"Go back home. Remain indoors. It is dangerous to be out here tonight. Quickly, quickly, return."
We retreated inside, shivering and completely unaware of the historical horror occurring just blocks away. It was only later that morning, as the sun rose over a changed nation, that the grim truth spilled from our radio speakers.
Under the command of General Constand Viljoen, apartheid SADF commandos had illegally crossed the border into Botswana. They had launched a brutal and targeted assault on African National Congress (ANC) refugees scattered across Gaborone.
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By the time they retreated, 12 people were dead.
Four decades have passed since that night. Even now, 41 years down the line, I find myself looking at the quiet Gaborone night and asking the same haunting questions that have chased me since childhood.
What if we had not turned back? What would have happened to my brother and I if we had run into those apartheid commandos in the dark?
Today, the modern skyline of Gaborone stands tall, built on the resilience of a people who refused to be broken by cross-border terror.
The small wooden house in White City is long gone, but the memories bound to its walls endure.
We survived, but a piece of our childhood innocence remained in the cold dust of that June morning.
Gaborone grew and the city moved on, but for those of us who remember, we carry a quiet duty, to ensure that the 12 lives stolen in the dark are never forgotten, even as the shadows of 1985 slowly fade into history.
BOPA
