EXTRACT | There is no before. There is no after. There is only now

What was supposed to be a short business trip to Equatorial Guinea turned into a journey to the depths of hell.

Black Beach, on Bioko island off the mainland of Equatorial Guinea, is one of the world’s most feared prisons, notorious for its brutality and inhumane conditions.

In 2013, South African businessman Daniel Janse van Rensburg set off to the West African country to finalise a legitimate airline contract with a local politician. Within days, he was arrested by the local Rapid Intervention Force and detained without trial in the island’s infamous “Guantanamo” cells. Later he was taken to Black Beach. This is his remarkable story of survival over nearly two years, made possible by his unwavering faith and the humanity of a few fellow inmates.

In this thrilling first-person narrative, Janse van Rensburg relives his ordeal, describing the harrowing conditions in the prison, his extraordinary experiences there and his ceaseless hope to return to SA and be reunited with his family. A story of courage in the face of overwhelming adversity, Black Beach demonstrates the strength of the human spirit and the toll injustice takes on ordinary people who fall foul of the powerful and corrupt.

EXTRACT

Chapter 33: Sick

Black Beach Prison, Malabo January 2014

I am drowning in sweat, trembling, shaking with chills. There is a tightness in my chest making it difficult to breathe. I feel my muscles contracting, my body twitching. I’m breathing too fast, but my lungs feel empty. I can’t fill them. A voice inside my head is telling me to breathe, breathe, breathe, but I feel paralysed.

I’m helpless.

Later, I emerge from the depths feeling weak and disorientated. I retch, feeling my body spasm in an urge to throw up. My lips are dry and cracked. I vaguely remember someone dripping water into my parched mouth, but I don’t know when that was or how long I’ve been out. It’s too exhausting to think as I slip back into a feverish dream world. Vivid scenes from moments in my life flash by too quickly to grasp as the world around me blurs, racing faster and faster, like I’m on a carousel, then fades into a monochromatic backdrop of emptiness that seems to transcend space and time.

I open my eyes, staring straight ahead, and see nothing but indistinct shapes, a blur of shadowy grey. I blink, trying to make sense of it. How did I get here? I need to find my way back. I close my eyes again. There is no before. There is no after. There is only now.

I must escape. Melanie is waiting. I push against the blackness of the abyss, but it swirls around my body, merging with the shadows, dragging me down into the depths of an ocean. I like it here; I want to stay. It’s peaceful. I relax into the ocean’s warm embrace, drifting slowly back up towards the light. As I near the surface, I hear the gentle sigh of water rushing over pebbles, tumbling, rising, falling back in an ancient rhythm against the shore. I lie back, luxuriating in the warmth of the sun on my skin and watch the clouds drift by, tinged with rose-gold hues, and soak up the salty freshness of the sea, drifting with the current as it carries me into the shallows where I reluctantly step onto the silky golden sand, the water lapping softly at my feet. I turn and look back out towards the horizon and raise my hand to block the sun. Is that Melanie I see in the waves? Where am I? How did I get here? It’s so good to be free ...

Shards of light flash like laser beams into my eyes, penetrating deep into my skull. Slowly, reality dawns. There is no Melanie. There are no waves. No rose-tinted clouds or fresh air. No cool waters to wash away the filth clinging to my sweat-soaked body. I am still trapped in the real-life nightmare of Black Beach. I try to sit up, but my muscles refuse to cooperate, aching with bone-deep tiredness. The effort is too much and I sink back against the mattress, throwing my arm across my face to block out the light that’s filtering inside my “tent” and making my head pound. A crippling spasm hits me and I roll over in agony, clutching my stomach as I break out in a fresh sweat. Sharp, stabbing pains run down my right side. It’s all too familiar as I lean over the edge of my mattress, dry retching, acid bile burning my throat. Malaria.

With no access to medical care, I’m in serious trouble. How can one tiny creature cause such agony and suffering? These minute bloodthirsty vampires are responsible for millions of deaths each year and I’m worried that I might be next. Cerebral malaria is the most dangerous form, and having had it before I don’t need a doctor or blood test to confirm my diagnosis. It’s hardly surprising, considering the hordes of buzzing bloodsuckers tormenting me night after night. The way I feel right now, I’m pretty sure that I am staring death in the face, but I’m too sick and exhausted to care, and I curl up on my mattress, closing my eyes against the light.

Someone shakes my arm. It’s too much effort to emerge from the dark, but they’re persistent, so I open my eyes a crack, blinking, bringing the world back into focus. A young boy is peering down at me. His name is John, a street kid around seventeen years old who, like many others, shouldn’t be in this place. John has grown up on the streets with no guidance and limited education and does what he must to survive. Surprisingly, he speaks a little English, and I’ve spent time chatting with him and listening to his stories. Now it seems that he is taking care of me.

He raises my head with one hand, pouring some water into my mouth, and then helps me to sit up. The effort is draining, but he props me up and hands me a sheet of paper and a pen, telling me that the drug dealers said I must write a note asking for medicine and help from the embassy. My grip on the pen is weak, but I manage to scrawl a short note and sign it, knowing that smuggling out the note will be tricky. Clearly, even the most hardened criminals here realise how sick I am if they’re willing to send out a message together with their “prescriptions” for the day via their crude washing-line system from the guard tower to the toilet window.

John tells me that the others have been checking up on me and say it’s not just malaria — I have typhoid too. It’s only treatable with antibiotics, which I definitely won’t find here. He heads off to deliver my note. Next door, my neighbour is moving about in his tent, groaning and vomiting onto the floor in the space between our mattresses. It stinks and I shudder as the urge to throw up resurfaces, adding to my misery. I roll over and stick my head out of the tent, overcome with nausea as my stomach clenches and I retch, feeling like my insides are being torn apart. Nothing comes up and the exertion makes my skin prickle as a fresh layer of sweat runs off my body.

I fall back against the mattress, shivering, and drift off into a fevered, delirious sleep, disappearing into a void that straddles the divide between life and death. My lucid moments are punctuated by hallucinations of people calling out to me, but I’m stuck at the bottom of a well and in my weakened state I don’t have the power to make my way back to a reality that is just a continuation of the nightmare.

Days go by as I drift in and out of consciousness, occasionally emerging from the dark thinking that I am going to die, and then, as the darkness descends once again, I pray that I do. At some point, I’m vaguely aware that someone is giving me medicine, dripping water into my parched mouth and washing down my body with a bucket of cool water.

As my fever breaks, there are fewer moments of oblivion, and each time I resurface, I become more aware of my surroundings. I am weak and have lost a lot of weight, but I’m surprised and relieved to have made it through to the other side. Although I can barely stand, I make it off my stinky mattress and stagger on shaky legs, leaning heavily on John as he helps me to the bathroom where I splash myself with water. The effort is draining but invigorating and I feel slightly better.

Each day it gets a little easier, until eventually, with my friends propping me up, I make my way outside and, for the first time in days, experience the simple joy of “fresh” air, revelling in the warmth of the sun on my skin which lifts my spirits and provides much-needed vitamin D to aid my recovery. I feel vaguely human again basking in the sun, looking up at the miracle of a clear blue sky. I praise God that I have survived, overwhelmed with gratitude to John and the others who have taken care of me.

I have no idea if my note ever found its way to the embassy and don’t know where the medication came from, but it’s clear that one of my brothers is responsible for getting it for me. I am constantly amazed that these dangerous men are the ones showing compassion and fellowship, supporting me through my weakest, most vulnerable moments, even though I have nothing to offer them in return.

I hear that while I was locked in my personal vault of suffering, the warden decided that writing or receiving letters is forbidden, and to underscore this message he has also banned pens. Paper is now even more scarce and must be smuggled in. Crazy times, and I have slept through it all! Luckily, my friends know how important writing is to me and pen and paper materialise so that I can write more letters that may never be delivered. It’s important that my family is spared the details about the depths of my suffering on the off chance that my letters ever find their way to them, so while I’m sitting outside with my shirt off, I write to tell them that I’m relaxing at the tanning salon. Keeping it light-hearted, I add that I’ve joined the Weight Watchers club and have just been made “Member of the Month” due to my consistent weight loss. I add that this exclusive weight-loss club guarantees you amazing results, unlike all the fad diets on the internet.

On the first afternoon that I feel strong enough, I collect my takkies from Old Man Luis’s cell. Even though putting them on takes effort, I accomplish the task and manage to do a couple of stretches and walk up and down the stairs twice. By this point I’m exhausted, but I know I have to push on. Once I get my breath back, I pick up my newly acquired “skipping rope” — a cable from the surveillance cameras. It’s perfect for the job, and although skipping doesn’t come easily, what I lack in talent I make up for in determination. On my first attempt and in my weakened state, I can barely manage about five turns of the “rope” before becoming too lightheaded and giving up. Next, I attempt some sit-ups. The effort is gruelling. I get to six with a lot of grunting, straining every inch of my body, much to the amusement of my fellow inmates who have gathered to watch, discussing my feeble efforts with laughter and derision. In my next letter home, I announce that I have joined the Virgin Active gym.

• Extracted provided by Penguin Random House