A Night in Cape Town

It was 2001, a year that would soon be marked by an unimaginable tragedy—the September 11th terror attacks. I was young, thin, impressionable, and a bit naïve, still discovering the world around me. South Africa was fresh into its democracy, and there was a constant buzz of excitement and optimism in the air.

I worked for a government entity, which often took me to Cape Town for annual government events. On one of these trips, I found myself staying at the Holiday Inn, somewhere near Adderley Street and Strand Street—I can’t recall exactly. Memory tends to play tricks on us after so many years.

After arriving in Cape Town, I checked into my hotel and went up to my room. After a quick shower to freshen up, I decided to have dinner at the hotel's restaurant, which also functioned as a pub. It was a popular hangout for many veterans from exile, especially with a government event happening nearby. The decor was vintage, with a Victorian-era feel—lots of dark wood and heavy curtains, creating a dimly lit atmosphere. Even for the early 2000s, the style felt outdated. It was there that I met a man who introduced himself as being of royal descent. He didn't call himself a prince, but he made it clear that he came from a royal family. We will call him Prince.

The Prince was charming and persistent. He offered to take me to the Waterfront for a better meal experience and a chance to "get to know each other." Despite my reservations about leaving with a stranger, his persistence won me over. We drove to the Waterfront in his car, and as we made our way through the streets, I noticed his heavy smoking and his bad teeth—perhaps a result of the habit. He spoke of his life in exile and his time as a commander in one of the liberation armies, sharing stories of the respect he commanded and the battles he had fought.

At the Waterfront, we had a quick bite at a restaurant before wandering around the mall. It was my first time there, and everything felt surreal. I had heard so much about the Waterfront, and being there in person was a sensory overload. As we walked, I found myself drawn to a pair of very expensive boots in a shiny store. They were priced at R1700—a fortune in 2001! The Prince noticed my interest and offered to buy them for me. I was tempted but politely declined, fearing that accepting the "gift" would come with strings attached—strings I wasn’t willing to be tangled in.

We later wandered into a bookstore, where The Prince proudly pointed out a book he had written, displayed prominently among the bestsellers. I was genuinely impressed, but I didn’t buy the book. Looking back, I wish I had.

After a while, we drove back to the hotel. As we parked, I felt a wave of relief wash over me. I chuckled at the thought that this man might have had ill intentions, but here I was, safe and sound. The Prince suggested we have a drink at the bar before I retired for the night. Not wanting to appear rude, I agreed.

At the bar, we joined two of his friends, who seemed to hold him in high regard, frequently calling him "Commander." Their admiration for him confirmed his stories, and I felt both intrigued and a little out of my depth. It was clear that these men revered him, and I couldn’t help but notice how they eyed me with curiosity, perhaps wondering what a young woman like me was doing with a man like him.

Just then, a journalist I recognised from my work entered the bar. He approached me cautiously after The Prince left the table for a moment. “What are you doing with this man?” he whispered urgently. “Do you know the heinous things he did while in exile? If I were you, I’d get away from him.”

I brushed off his warning, thinking he might just be jealous or overprotective. But his words left a mark, unsettling me more than I wanted to admit. I tried to focus on the conversation at our table, but my mind kept drifting back to the journalist's warning.

Among the Prince’s entourage, there was a younger guy who immediately caught my eye. He was handsome, and I was instantly drawn to him. Suddenly, he was the only person I wanted to talk to—not just because he was cute, but because he seemed to understand everything I was saying.

After another round of drinks, I decided to call it a night, mentioning that I had a busy day ahead. As I got up to leave, the Prince insisted that the handsome guy escort me to my room. The walk to my room was awkward; we barely spoke, likely because of the Prince’s insistence that he accompany me, something I could have easily done on my own. When we finally reached my door, he hesitated for a moment before saying, “I like you a lot, but nothing can happen between us. It would upset the Commander.”

Surprised, I replied, “But nothing is going on with the Commander. I just met him today!” He just smiled and said, “You don’t understand. See you tomorrow.” I found that brief exchange very strange.

After the cute guy who liked me left, I sent an SMS to my cousin about my eventful day and mentioned meeting a man called the Commander who seemed to be feared by everyone – I think it was fear, not respect. Her reply came quickly, and it sent a chill down my spine: apparently, someone she knew had served under the Commander. "If what I hear about that man is anything to go by, stay away. He is not a good man," she warned me. "That person is traumatised for life by that man." I wanted to ask for more details, but I knew I wouldn’t get any answers. I wasn't close with the person and I doubted he would open up to me about such painful memories.

The following day, September 11th, I decided to walk from the hotel to the office. It was a bit of a trek, but I welcomed the exercise. The day unfolded like any other, filled with meetings and events. At one point, I stepped into the library to take a call from a friend. As we chatted, I glanced at the TV screen, which was tuned to CNN. A building was exploding, and at the moment, I thought it was a scene from a movie. But it wasn’t. It was live.

“What’s happening on CNN?” I asked my friend, confused. “A building just exploded on TV.”

“I’m at work,” he replied, “I’m not watching the news. I’ll catch up later.”

As I hung up, I glanced at the TV and saw a plane crashing into the second building. The newsreader was momentarily speechless, and the camera quickly shifted to focus on the unfolding disaster. I was stunned. Gradually, other colleagues began to fill the library, which was the only place in the office with a TV. Word had spread about the terror attack happening in real-time, and everyone wanted a front-row seat to witness the events.

The older colleagues, whom I considered wiser and more sophisticated, started giving their commentary on what was happening. There was a lot of speculation about what exactly occurred and who might be responsible. It didn’t take long for the news to confirm that these were coordinated terror attacks carried out by two suicide bombers. Soon after, reports began circulating about an attack on the Pentagon as well. At that point, I lost interest in following the chaotic updates. It was all too depressing. But one thing was clear: the world would never be the same after that day.

September 11th was a day that would go down in history, and there I was, in Cape Town, caught between the echoes of the past and the shockwaves of a future no one saw coming.