THE BOK AND THE DRUG LORD
The journey to becoming the third black Springbok was laden with traps and hurdles — such as his friendship with a mandrax dealer, Thando Manana says in this extract from his ghost-written memoir
Thando Manana’s close encounters with mandrax
There was a senior chap we played with at Spring Rose who was very fond of me from the get-go and took me under his wing. He would drop me off at home after games or practices and occasionally take me with him just for a drive.
He was a winger and his name was Lungile “Sticks” Orie. He was quick around the park, had a mean punt, and was a real asset to the team. During the days of sporting segregation he had made the KwaZakhele Rugby Union (Kwaru) juniors. I thought he was a cool guy, especially because he was senior to me and liked my company. There was no car at home, so I enjoyed the fact that I could bum a lift regularly from a team-mate and hang out with him and his friends on weekends.
Our bond developed further as I rose higher in the sport and wanted more representative colours. It was he who introduced me to Edwin Ncula. Ncula’s home was in Zwide and he was apparently the person who could help me get more exposure in rugby’s upper echelons in Port Elizabeth. Ncula was a well-known administrator. He was also part of the old National Sports Congress run by Mthobi Tyamzashe, Mluleki George, Gideon Sam and the like.
Sticks continued to pick me up and take me home from games when I never knew how I was going to get back — something I was eternally grateful for. I could ask him to take me anywhere and he’d help out. He became the older brother I wish I had.
Later in 1995, however, I was shocked to find out that one of the “businesses” he had was selling mandrax. My mother Khathie could not stand the bloke. She kept telling me that he was an organised shoplifter, and she knew this because she worked at Jet Stores and had seen him and his gang in action. She had trepidations when he picked me up and always asked what my involvement was with him. I kept fending her off, telling her that we were only associated through rugby.
He was a nice guy and you would never guess that he was a drug-dealing thug. For a while I never saw him with the mandrax tablets everyone said he was selling but he always had a stash of hard cash. We went out quite often, to parties and gatherings, but Sticks never drank or smoked and was always alert.
But he loved women and changed them like you would nappies. The stacks of cash gave him an authority of sorts over some women who hung around him — they liked the fact that he could provide almost anything. As a hormonal adolescent, I was also starting to get interested by the fairer sex. Sometimes Sticks would “send” me to go talk to a woman, so that I could get “laid”. I have to say, I learnt the art of talking to women from him. He had a silky smooth tongue and could camouflage his drug-lord persona expertly.
A certain respect
The strange thing about living in the township is that drug lords are given a certain respect and carry with them an unmistakeable aura. They are either feared or revered — the line between the two was paper thin. You have to have a ruthless streak to be a successful drug lord. Drug lords always have money and are very generous, and this added to the twisted sense of camaraderie people felt around Sticks.
Sometimes Sticks and I would train