Police watchdog completes probe into Khayelitsha torture case

The narrow alleys of Khayelitsha’s Town Two never really go quiet. After dusk, the dirt tracks between zinc shacks throb with music spilling from shebeens, the air thick with brandy fumes and the flicker of cheap TVs balanced on crates. Nonkululo Fente’s place was different - no blasting speakers, no cue sticks, just a patched-together shack of pallets and corrugated iron, a single couch, a kettle for warm pap-wine, and an overworked fridge that buzzed louder than any customer.

On the final Monday of April she bolted the burglar gate at seven-fifteen, shooed out the last two drinkers and killed the flickering fluorescent tube that served as her “open” sign. Barefoot, in grey track-pants and a Springbok jersey bleached almost grey, she was rolling a cigarette when the lane exploded in white light, according to her longtime friend Mandla Bawuti. Four police vans, high beams blazing, radios crackling “like someone choking a dog,” he says.

Between half-past seven and a quarter past eight, Fente died. What exactly happened is now locked in an IPID docket, but the skeleton of the story survives in Bawuti’s five-page sworn statement, corroborated by a neighbour’s peek through a fence knothole and by an ambulance sheet that records “no vitals” at 20:27. Ten officers barged in, he writes, none wearing visible badges. A woman in a beanie announced “Operation Fiela” and demanded “the merch.” When Fente asked for a warrant, the reply was “ask later.” Phones were pocketed, the TV hurled face-down.

A cruel choreography followed: Fente, cuffed, was marched to the back room where beer crates were stacked. Bawuti was ordered onto an upturned Lion Lager crate. Questioning turned to slaps, then punches, then a blue municipal bin-liner spritzed with pepper spray, pulled over their heads.

This is not a one-off trick. IPID flagged a surge in “plastic-bag asphyxiation” complaints against Cape Town cops after a 19-year-old man died in Delft cells in 2018. A UCT forensic paper in 2021 found petechial haemorrhages - tiny facial burst vessels - on eleven of twenty-three detainees who described the same ordeal. The method needs nothing more than a supermarket packet and leaves few outward traces.

Bawuti says Fente folded during the fourth cycle. He recalls her last sentence in isiXhosa: “Ndiyaphuza, ndicela amanzi” - “I’m choking, bring water.” Instead, an officer fetched a Castle Lite from her own fridge, cracked it open and poured the cold beer over the plastic. A neighbour heard the hiss, then silence. Cops tried revival slaps, finally radioed a superior. For forty minutes her body lay between the humming fridge and a sack of potatoes while, Bawuti claims, stories were rehearsed. He was driven to Lingelethu West station, booked under “Section 50” but charged with nothing. At 22:00 he asked about Fente; he was told she had been “taken for observation.” In truth, the mortuary sheet shows, she was declared dead at 20:27 and logged into Salt River by 23:05. The family heard at 02:00, when a detective delivered two curt lines: “Your sister collapsed during a search. IPID will reach you.”

Blue Uniforms, Red Eyes: A Station Defends Its Own

By sunrise, voice notes zipped across WhatsApp groups: “They bagged her like rubbish.” Two days later roughly one-hundred-and-twenty residents - some still in slippers - walked the three kilometres from Town Two to Lingelethu West police station. They carried a laminated photo of Fente in a bright red dress and a handwritten memo listing four demands: suspend the implicated members immediately; publish the final IPID report; pay for her repatriation to the Eastern Cape; and appoint a community liaison within seven days.

Lieutenant-Colonel Klaasen, the station’s complaint coordinator, met the crowd beside the vehicle pound. On a resident’s phone video he concedes: “Some of the members involved in that operation are from this very station and are on normal duty.” The crowd erupted. A woman waved a sign: “Your salaries still arrive - her heartbeat doesn’t.”

Sergeant Xoliswa Nyalambisa accepted the memorandum, repeating the official script: SAPS cannot act until IPID confirms criminal conduct. Legally she is right - section 30(2) of the IPID Act bars the employer from jumping the gun. Emotionally it sounded, to Fente’s kin, like a licence to kill time.

Inside the charge office, protesters noted that the very faces on the wanted list were strolling past in boots and berets. One constable reportedly joked, “They can’t touch us.” The gag ignited fresh fury, pushing elders to link arms across the gate until nyalas revved and public-order police formed a cordon. By dusk the crowd dispersed, but the message was clear: trust had snapped.

Paperwork Over the Grave: How Red Tape Blocks Burial

Because Fente died “in police custody”, the body becomes evidence. Regulations forbid release until IPID signs a clearance certificate; that certificate waits for toxicology results meant to rule out overdose. Between chemical shortages and Salt River mortuary’s long queue, the test is stuck. The family missed their first hired hearse - R10 000 down the drain - and now the undertaker bills R350 a day for refrigeration.

Nontsikelelo, Fente’s older sister, keeps the receipts. “Each sunrise we lose more money; each sunset we get no answer,” she says. To meet cultural deadlines they need the corpse in Mthatha within days, yet officialdom ticks in months.

The undertaker has offered a discounted “state-assisted” option, but that would mean burial in Cape Town, far from ancestral soil. The clan refuses, insisting the spirit must return home. Meanwhile neighbours hold nightly prayer vigils outside the padlocked tavern, the Springbok jersey still dangling from a wire hanger, stained by beer and pepper spray.

A City That Counts Bodies and Moves On

Khayelitsha has rehearsed this tragedy. Between 2015 and 2022 IPID logged 247 deaths “as a result of police action” in the cluster that includes Lingelethu West - an average of one every ten days. Only thirty-one officers were finally convicted, mostly on lesser assault counts. The rest sit in the National Prosecuting Authority’s swamp, where a docket idles roughly 1 450 days before a decision.

Criminologist Dr Kelly-Jane Turner calls township raids “performance theatre”: smash doors, pad stats, tick boxes. When no drugs surface, the temptation to squeeze confessions out of empty hands is huge. A 2020 Institute for Security Studies report found that 68 % of Cape Town drug-related arrests stemming from such swoops were later withdrawn - evidence of fishing trips, not intelligence-led work.

Plastic-bags fit the same script: cheap, low-skill, hard to disprove. Dr Itumeleng Molefe, a medical jurist, warns that petechial spots can be blamed on “vigorous resuscitation,” handing defence lawyers wiggle room. Without body-cam footage - promised by SAPS since 2018 - cases drown in “he-said-she-said.”

Fury is now digital. By Friday the campaign site justice4fente.org.za had gathered 17 000 signatures. Blue stencils of a supermarket bag and the words “Remember Nonkululo” have appeared on liquor-store walls from Langa to Long Street. Organisers vow to picket Parliament when IPID tables its annual report next month.

Back in Town Two the tavern remains chained shut, but children invent a new skipping-rope chant on their way to school: “Blue lights, plastic bag, shebeen queen never came back.”

What happened to Nonkululo Fente?

Nonkululo Fente, a tavern owner in Khayelitsha, tragically died during a police raid on her establishment. Officers allegedly used a plastic bag over her head, a method associated with suffocation or asphyxiation. This incident has raised significant concerns about police brutality and accountability in South Africa.

What is "Operation Fiela" and how was it involved?

"Operation Fiela" was the name given by a police officer to the raid on Nonkululo Fente's tavern. While the specific objectives of this operation in this context are not fully detailed, the term "Fiela" generally refers to large-scale police operations in South Africa aimed at cracking down on crime. In this instance, it involved a demand for "the merch" (merchandise, likely referring to illicit goods) and led to the tragic death of Fente.

What method of interrogation or torture was allegedly used?

During the raid, officers allegedly placed a blue municipal bin-liner, spritzed with pepper spray, over Nonkululo Fente's head and the head of her friend, Mandla Bawuti. This method, known as "plastic-bag asphyxiation," is a form of torture that has been linked to other deaths in police custody in South Africa and leaves few outward traces.

Why is Nonkululo Fente's body not being released for burial?

Because Nonkululo Fente died "in police custody," her body is considered evidence in the ongoing investigation. Regulations prohibit its release until the Independent Police Investigative Directorate (IPID) issues a clearance certificate. This certificate, in turn, is pending toxicology results to rule out other causes of death like overdose, which are currently delayed due to chemical shortages and backlogs at the Salt River mortuary.

What are the community's demands for justice?

The community, led by residents of Town Two, marched to the Lingelethu West police station with four key demands: the immediate suspension of the implicated police officers, the publication of the final IPID report, financial assistance for Fente's repatriation to the Eastern Cape for burial, and the appointment of a community liaison within seven days.

How common are deaths in police custody in Khayelitsha?

Khayelitsha has a concerning history of deaths linked to police action. Between 2015 and 2022, the cluster including Lingelethu West recorded 247 deaths "as a result of police action," averaging one every ten days. However, convictions for officers involved in these cases are rare, with only 31 out of 247 cases resulting in convictions, mostly for lesser assault charges, highlighting systemic issues with accountability within the South African legal system.