S AT U R D AY S TA R M a y 2 6 2 0 1 2 15INSIGHT

AS THE fury over The Spearpainting grows, Brett Mur-ray has been hounded by

journalists on a soundbyte mission.He has managed to evade most ofthem. However, we convinced theartist whose painting has touchedthe president on his studio andinspired this crossword clue – Um, aSA prez may be well hung (4, 5)* – toanswer our questions.

Brett, the Zuma Spear may bea painting, but is it art?

Art? Absolutely not. I love Bridgeover Troubled Water, and anyone

who thinks I would paint my fa-vourite singer’s schlong can Gar-funkel themselves. Besides it’s clearthat the man in The Spear is theprez.

You’ve received flak frommany quarters but where has theworst hate come from?

From satirists and lampoonistswho think I’ve pushed the spoofenvelope so far I could get a job withthe post office.

Zapiro told me he’s throwing hispen away because anything hecomes up with now will be limp.

So, who actually bought thepainting?

I promised not to reveal his iden-tity but contrary to media reportsthe buyer is not a European penisart collector. What I can say is thatthe buyer’s name starts with a “J”and ends with an “Uliusmalema”.

He told me he can’t wait to nailZuma to the wall and hang him outto dry. The buyer is my biggest sup-porter and has offered to bail me outshould people decide to “Kill theArtist for Zuma”. It’s good to knowa used condom has my back.

What do you think of calls foryou to be stoned?

It’s insulting. I have spoken tolawyers about the possibility ofsuing. The stereotype that all artistsare dagga rookers is unfair. Sure,some smoke weed occasionally butit’s not right to, um, paint all artists

with the same brush. What’s your response to the

president’s accusation that youmade him look like a philan-derer?

All I did was paint the Honour-able Member’s not-so-honourablemember. He has had it out so oftenthat I’m surprised more peoplehaven’t seen it. Besides, politiciansdo most of their talking from theirunderpants and I wanted to give anaccurate representation of this.

What right do you have tobring the president’s private

parts into the public domain? I used the president’s pubic

affairs to prick a nation’s conscious-ness.

What do you think of TheSpear now it has been defaced?

I think you’ll find the technicalterm is “dedicked”. I’m not sure whythe president is going after me. Ifanyone he should sue the vandals. Idepicted him in all his glory andtheir Jackson-Pollock-style collabo-ration has castrated him. At leastthe Vatican had the decency to useover-sized fig leaves when they went

after Michelangelo’s phalanx ofphalluses.

What’s next for Brett Murray? I’ll stick with penis art until this

storm in a JZ Y-front blows over. I’vebeen commissioned to do portraitsof Dick Cheney, Dick Nixon, the twoWillies (Clinton and Nelson), LBJohnson, the Dick of Edinburghand Dickgang Moseneke. I’ll havemy hands full for a while. After all,the world is full of dicks.

* ZUMA SPEAR: an anagram of“um a SA Prez” (“may be” is theanagram indicator).

ANGRY UTTERANCES(10)

JONATHANANCER

If a president’s portrait is hung should the artist be hanged?

GRETHE KOEN

THE FIRST time I sawClarence Mohale was at aprize-giving at DiepkloofPrison. About 200inmates were receivingcertificates from the non-

profit organisation Fear Free Lifefor completing social and psycholog-ical programmes facilitated behindprison walls.

As Clarence walked into theyard, unassuming and neatlydressed in a button-up shirt andjeans, at least half of the orange-clad men burst into applause, grin-ning and waving.

Later, as the prize-giving drew toa close amid a blaring kwaito per-formance by two prisoners, he tookthe seat next to me.

“I used to be one of them,” hesaid, nodding towards the inmates.“Two months ago I was also wearingorange.”

Clarence’s first entrance intoDiepkloof (or Sun City prison as itis also known) was hardly as cele-bratory as the one I had witnessed.

He stood accused, with two oth-ers, of the rapes of two youngwomen. They were 19 and 20, he was18.

Clarence lived with the twowomen in the same house.

“I was in love with one of thegirls. She was so beautiful. But shewanted nothing to do with me. Shestarted dating a taxi driver.”

Clarence was in Alexandra onthe day of the rape. Two men hadcome looking for him, accusing himof stealing a gun.

“They wanted to fight with me,”he says.

In an effort to calm them down hetook them to a tavern. “I took outsome money to make them happy.We got drunk.”

He then took them back to hishouse. The two men forced thewomen into a room at gunpoint andraped them. Clarence joined them.

“Part of me was feeling like Iwanted revenge – not only onwomen, on anyone, even men.”

The women reported the men

the next day. Clarence was arrestedand sent to Diepkloof.

After two years in the section forpeople awaiting trial, he was foundguilty and sentenced to 30 years’imprisonment. He entered SunCity’s sentenced section as a scared,angry 21-year-old – convinced thathis life was over.

“I felt anger for everyone – mystepmother, my father, my uncle…none of them came to see me whenI was inside.

“I just thought that whatever isbad in the prison, I’m going to do it.If I’m going to die, I don’t care.”

Two months into his sentence hejoined the notorious 26s gang.

“I thought if I was not a gangsterI would die or get raped because Iwas young.”

There are many gangs in SunCity prison, the 26s, 27s, 28s, the Big5, Airforce Three and Airforce Four.All perform specific functions in theprison, strictly regulated by rank.

The 26s’ primary function is deal-ing with money. They also stab otherinmates and warders.

“I hear people talking aboutgangsterism outside,” saysClarence. “Gangsterism outside andgangsterism inside the prison arevery different. Inside its very dan-gerous, when you’re outside you canstill run away.”

During his first year in prison he

asked another inmate for a piece ofnewspaper to roll a dagga zol.

The man refused and theystarted arguing. The man thenstabbed Clarence in the shoulderwith a sharpened spoon.

“I didn’t go to the hospital,”Clarence told me. “It is a sign ofweakness. We tend our ownwounds.”

Clarence wanted to become ageneral, the highest rank, in the 26s.He was given a knife to kill anothergang member. Gangs do not usuallycommit violence against each other,but at that time there was warbetween the 26s and 28s.

Although becoming a generalwould have ensured Clarence influ-ence in the prison, he decided he didnot want to stab someone. “I thoughtto myself, if I do this thing I will bestuck in prison for longer. I couldn’tgo through with it.”

The 26s punished Clarence byganging up on him in a cell and beat-ing him, using All Star takkies heldby the laces.

“They beat me 26 times, for thegang number. I still have the scarson my chest today.”

Clarence clearly remembers theday he decided he had to leave thegang.

“It was the 23rd of December2002. I went down the passage. Oneof our members had stabbed some-

one. The prison sent in a task forcecalled External A to beat all the 26s.”

Clarence’s expression becomespained. “The warder almost beat meto death. They beat us with shockshields. I will never forget that day. Irealised I’m taking my life down tothe river now. I realised if I don’tquit gangsterism I was going to die.”

He quit the 26s in 2004. “I criedthat day. It was not easy. They havethe saying E loku ngena la phela, eloku phuna alikho, which meansthere is a way in, but no way out. Ifyou become a gangster, the only wayout is death.

“But I had to tell myself I have todo this. When I walked through thepassages I had to check my back,people wanted to stab me. They werescared I would give out informationabout what they were doing. But Itold myself I have to do this becauseI’m doing it for no one but myself, Iwill die for this.”

Clarence slowly started reform-ing his life. He finished high schooland became a qualified drug coun-sellor as well as an educator for theadult education programme in theprison.

He became known for his naturalability as an orator and was soon themaster of ceremonies for all theprison events.

“I won an award for being thebest facilitator inside prison,” saysClarence.

Another pivotal moment came in2004 when one of the women he hadraped came to see him in prison aspart of a community and familyreintegration programme.

She had heard about the goodwork Clarence had been doing andwanted to see him.

“I said to her, ‘I don’t want tomake excuses to you. I admit what Idid. I don’t expect you to forgive me.But I want to say that I’m sorry. Andeven now, to the community of Tem-bisa, I want to say I’m very sorry forwhat I did. And it will never happenagain, not from me. I will pay backto society. I apologise to my family. Iknow they may not walk in peacebecause I’ve disgraced them. But I’mfighting now with everything that Ihave to do the right thing.’

“She said to me: ‘There are peo-ple who cannot do this (ask for for-giveness), but you did it. I have been

looking forward to hearing yourapology.’ “

The woman accepted Clarence’splea for forgiveness, but he hangshis head when he tells the story.

“When I look back now, thinkingabout the street, when I rememberthe faces of those girls…”

When I ask him why he commit-ted rape, he is forthright.

“I felt inferior.” Clarence believes that men rape

out of feelings of jealousy, inferior-ity or anger.

He had been committing crimesfrom the age of 13 – robbery, hijack-ing and theft.

“I grew up with anger inside ofme. People might think that’s anexcuse. My mom left me when I wasfour and I lived with my grand-mother. She was on a pension. It wastough – no school shoes, no food. Mydad was living with my stepmother.She used to tell me I was a son of abitch.”

In 2009, Clarence joined FearFree Life, a Christian organisationfounded by inmates in KutamaSinthumule prison in 2004. Theorganisation comprises offendersand former offenders and facilitatesmoral and psychological pro-grammes intended to help therehabilitation of inmates and fightgangsterism.

Parole officers take account of

classes completed through Fear FreeLife.

Clarence worked as a volunteerand quickly became known as oneof the prison’s best motivationalspeakers.

“I spoke in front of a thousandinmates about being an ex-gangmember.”

Due to his work for Fear Free Lifeand as a drug counsellor, Clarencewas freed on parole on March 28. Hehad served 10 years.

Mpho Kolisang, managing direc-tor of Fear Free Life, believes thatClarence has shown a great deal ofendurance.

“For a person who just came outof prison he’s experiencing thingsdifferently now. He has changed.The world outside is cruel for peoplecoming out. But he is very deter-mined, that’s why he has managednot to go back into gangsterism.”

Clarence is entering an economywhere thousands of people who donot have criminal records struggleto find employment. Although hefaces an arduous struggle to rebuildhis life, he has hope.

“I am not afraid of telling peopleI was a criminal. If I get a job inter-view I will tell them, ‘I’m fromprison, if you decide not to employme that’s fine. But I’m from prisonand you must know that.’ “

Clarence wants to register as amotivational speaker so that he canaddress the youth about the horrorsof prison and the futility of a life ofcrime.

“I want to warn the young peopleof South Africa who are thinking ofcommitting crime: prison is not anice place. You lose everything.”

Clarence wrote a book while inprison called The Stepping Stones toSuccess, which he hopes to havepublished. It details his life of crimeand redemption.

“When I walk around the streetpeople see me and say, ‘Ah, he was aprisoner’. They don’t believe youcan do anything but crime. But I’mtelling you, watch this space.”l Grethe is a journalist at the WitsJustice Project, which investigatesalleged miscarriages of justice.

A rapist’s long walktowards the light

Violent crime can haunt both the perpetrator and the victim

A NEW BEGINNING

Clarence Ngwako Mohale was convicted of assaulting andraping two women in 2000. In 2004 he left his prison gangand slowly started reforming his life. He finished highschool and became a qualified drug counsellor as well as aneducator for the adult education programme in prison. Hehas now been released on parole.

PICTURES: REFILWE MODISE

I’m fighting nowwith everything I have to do the

right thing