Today marks exactly ten years since my life changed forever. Ten years since I was gang-raped in Johannesburg.
At the time, I thought rape was something that happened to other people. It was a distant, unfortunate reality that I believed would never touch me. But then, it did. And my life was never the same again.
I was young, hopeful, and ambitious. Johannesburg was supposed to be a city of dreams, but on this day for me, it became a nightmare. The brutal attack shattered not just my body but my entire sense of safety in the world. I went to the police station, thinking justice was on my side. But I was met with indifference.
They took my statement, but their eyes held no urgency, no determination to bring my rapists to justice. I was another statistic to them. Another woman violated in a country where gender-based violence is a pandemic. The case went nowhere. My perpetrators were never held accountable. And I was left to pick up the pieces of my broken self.
A few months later, I relocated to Cape Town, hoping to start anew, only to be met with another betrayal. This time, by someone I trusted—my own manager. He was a man in a position of authority, one who had listened as I confided in him about my past trauma and my lack of faith in the justice system.
And then he took advantage of that vulnerability. Maybe he knew I wouldn’t report him, that I was in a new environment where I feared being seen as a troublemaker. He was also a staunch Christian, respected and seemingly righteous.
Who would believe me over the ‘godly’ man? So, I buried it. I kept quiet. Until 2021.
By then, I had already started The Great People of South Africa NPO, advocating for women's rights and fighting against GBV, particularly within the justice system—because I had firsthand experience of how broken it was.
It was through my legal studies that I began to truly understand how the system was supposed to work, and how deeply it had failed me. But still, no one was held accountable.
Then, fate intervened in an unexpected way. One day, while facilitating a GBV program in Khayelitsha—just before the local government elections—the name of my perpetrator came up in a discussion about GBV in political spaces. I don’t believe in coincidences.
I believe that, by then, I had grown into a stronger, more vocal activist. God and my ancestors had prepared me for this moment. And for the first time, I spoke out.
And then the backlash hit me like an avalanche.
The perpetrator was now a DA councillor. He had powerful friends. And they made sure I paid for speaking out. Suddenly, my family became a target. My ex who was a DA employee was accused of ridiculous charges—printing from home, as if that was a crime against humanity.
They also said he failed to disclose that I was affiliated with another political party. That happened just two days after I posted a picture with ActionSA leader. Imagine that. It was clear: they were out for blood. And all because I dared to call out their golden boy.
My now ex had actually mentioned his concerns about how the DA was handling this case to another councillor. That councillor, a woman, then reported it to the Mayor, who assured her that his people would "deal with it."
(Attached is a text I received from the woman Cllr who informed me about her discussion with the Mayor)
I swear, it was just two or three days later when my ex received an email summoning him to HR. They wanted to interrogate him about why he hadn’t disclosed that I belonged to another political party. Mind you, I have pictures of myself with my ex wearing different political party regalia. From the time I was an EFF member, and it never mattered—until I spoke out against one of their favorite perpetrators.
Then suddenly, it became a problem. How dare I speak out? How dare I expose one of their own? They were out to get me, and get me they did. They took my ex through a brutal disciplinary hearing.
Then, I discovered I wasn’t alone. Another woman had accused the perpetrator of rape in 2016. But, of course, nothing happened to him. He was protected. By this time when they charged my ex, I had already written a letter to then-DA leader Albert Fritz, hoping that someone would take action.
But months later, Fritz himself was exposed as a predator, accused of sexually abusing multiple women in his own office. The media had a fied day and it was clear, the rot was everywhere.
(In this 16 Days of Activism Interview I did last year, I briefly spoke about this case)
Fast forward to 2023-2024, during the trial, as I sat there testifying, the perpetrator and his defense team had the audacity to smirk, reveling in their line of questioning how their friend, who is now MEC had helped them victimize me. His lawyer even had the nerve to ask if I had enjoyed it, the rape that is. Let that sink in.
The man who assaulted me, his powerful connections, and their entire machinery of protection—it was all laid bare in that courtroom. And the final betrayal? Hearing them mention the very person I had long suspected of orchestrating my ex’s political demise. I had no proof before, only my gut instinct. But there it was. Proof. (Oh by the way, as I was writting this blog, I sent a VN to the MEC's office Spokeperson to tell her to tell him that I know what he did and I do not fear the backlash that I anticipate from today)
The man who had destroyed my family to protect his rapist friend now parades around the Province, launching GBV programs, pretending to care. He stands on podiums, urging victims to speak out—while knowing full well that he silences those who do so against his friends.
This is the reality of GBV in South Africa. The justice system is not blind—it sees exactly who the perpetrator is before deciding their fate. If you are unknown, have no connections, and lack power, you will face the full might of the law. And that is how it should be.
But if you are rich, well-connected, and stand beside the right people, you can commit heinous crimes and walk free, shielded by those who prioritize power over justice. That is the injustice we fight against. That is the reality survivors are forced to live with.
That is the truth. That is what happened here.
It is often said that every dog has its day. I do not know when, but I know justice will come. Maybe not from the courts, but from something far greater. I ask my ancestors and God to deal with them in their own time. Because I refuse to be silenced.
I refuse to let this system continue to fail survivors. And I will continue to speak—not just for myself, but for every other Zintle out there.
Every three hours in South Africa, a woman is raped or killed.
Now register that in your head. And ask yourself, how many more of us have to die before something changes?
