It was still dark when Daniel Greyvenstein and his father boarded the military Hercules C-130 at Hoedspruit Air Force Base. His father, Colonel Dan Greyvenstein, tried to encourage his teenage son with a few words, but the humming of turboprop engines droned his voice out. He then attempted a smile, but Daniel could not return it. The skinny teenager was not well, and he was going for medical tests at 1 Military Hospital in Voortrekkerhoogte. His father, an officer in the South African Air Force, had to attend meetings at the Air Force headquarters in the Nedbank Square Building in downtown Pretoria.

A few passengers sat on the webbed seats lining the sides of the aircraft as it taxied down the runway. The plane stopped, turned around, and turboprops roared as they ascended into the dark African sky. When the sun peeked over the horizon, little light streaks entered the small portholes, but Daniel noticed little of it.

The local military doctor in Hoedspruit arranged with Professor Zaidy, a civilian physician, to examine the young man. The uncertainty of what was wrong created a sombre atmosphere in the Greyvenstein home, and they pinned their hope on what the doctor would say.

They landed at 7.30 am at Waterkloof Air Force Base, where Major Lindeque waited for them. The major arranged for a Datsun Nissan duty bus to take Daniel to the hospital while Colonel Greyvenstein and Major Lindeque proceeded to the Air Force headquarters.

At the hospital, Daniel handed the large file to a lance corporal at the reception desk, and thirty minutes later, he sat in front of Professor Zaidy. The friendly physician put him at ease, and Daniel relaxed a little. The doctor conducted a thorough examination and, by 11 am, released Daniel and promised to contact them as soon as the results returned. With the feeling that the doctor was sharing their burden, Daniel was relieved.

"Where are you going now?" the doctor enquired. "Will anyone pick you up from the hospital?"

"My father is at the Air Force HQ until four this afternoon. Perhaps I can catch a bus into town and see a movie," Daniel replied.

"Come with me. I have to go to HF Verwoerd Hospital now, which goes right past Sterland. I can drop you off there."

At Sterland, Daniel watched the doctor drive off and then walked across Beatrix Street to a small café where he bought a toasted sandwich and a soft drink. The film An Officer and a Gentleman was turning in the main theatre, and Daniel got lost in the romantic drama. It was after 3 pm when he briskly walked the 2 kilometres to the town centre.

As Daniel crossed Church Square, he squinted his eyes when he looked up at the bronze statue of President Paul Kruger. In his time, Kruger, a father figure for the burghers of the Transvaal, was depicted wearing a top hat with a presidential sash and a cane. The Dutch sculptor Anton van Wouw argued that "Oom Paul", as he was affectionately known, should be portrayed as the "everyday" Kruger. He told his critics that no one would recognise Kruger without his tophat and tailcoat. Four bronze Boer soldiers surrounded the paternal figure in the centre.

The statue looked sternly down at the young man. Perhaps it was the sun in Daniel's eyes, but it seemed as if Oom Paul was smiling at him. Daniel looked down at the pedestal and read the inscription of Psalm 91:15-16 that says, "He will call on me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble, I will deliver him and honour him. With long life I will satisfy him and show him my salvation."

"Thank you, Oom Paul," Daniel said softly and walked down Church Street towards the crossing with Bosman Street.

It was already cold that May morning as Ezekiel Maseko and Freddie Shongwe accepted two cups of sweet tea from Ezekiel's mother. A faint light from the kitchen helped little as Mrs Maseko studied her son's face. She knew something was up, and she feared for him. A few years ago, he was sentenced and imprisoned for housebreaking, theft and armed robbery, and this friend, Freddie, was not good company. She was unaware that they were members of uMkhonto we Siswe – the Spear of the Nation. It was a paramilitary wing of the African National Congress (ANC) founded by Nelson Mandela in June 1961.

They arrived in Mamelodi-East early that morning in a Mitsubishi Colt Galant. They removed the engine number with an angle grinder, and she guessed they must have stolen the car. Ezekiel handed her a metal box containing cash and asked her to keep it for him. They left again by noon with two vehicles, the Galant and Ezekiel's Volkswagen Kombi.

The Galant was indeed stolen, but already a year ago in the East Rand. They did not know who stole it, but they were summoned to Swaziland for training and saw the car there. Their commander had the car prepared for their operation, and a woman drove it to Pretoria. They had their instructions, and set out to execute them.

They drove slowly down Shilouhane Street and turned left into Tsamaya Avenue. Schools came out at 1 pm, and Ezekiel's nephew waved at him. Usually, he would have taken the boy home, but was too focussed on this operation to even see the child. One mistake, his commander said, and he could be dead.

As they passed the Denneboom train station, Freddy hit a pothole with the Galant, and in the Kombi, Ezekiel cursed. The Galant was a mobile bomb packed with 40 kilograms of Semtex - not something they wanted to activate in Mamelodi. Freddie saw the horror on Ezekiel's face in the rearview mirror. They cautiously drove down Stormvoël Road, trying not to draw attention to themselves. They tensed up when they noticed an Army Unimog (Buffel) and behind it a yellow and blue Caspir police vehicle.

They arrived in the town centre after 3 pm but could not find a suitable parking spot for the Galant. They needed it to be in front of the Air Force headquarters. The plan was that Freddy should activate the receiver on the bomb in the Galant. He would then join Ezekiel in the Kombi. They would drive away and then flip a switch on the transmitter in the Kombi from a safe distance. If they do this at 4.30 pm, they would likely kill scores of Air Force staff exiting their headquarters.

They drove around the block several times. A delivery vehicle vacated a loading zone, and Freddy used it to park the Galant. To his left was the Golden Egg, a restaurant adjacent to the entrance of the Air Force headquarters on Church Street. Ezekiel parked his Kombi on Schubart Street and walked towards Freddy. Between the front seats in the Kombi was their transmitter. The plan was to flip the switch at 4.30 pm. No one would ever know why, but the transmitter’s switch was already flipped – perhaps by the pothole in Mamelodi.

Freddy looked at Ezekiel from across the street, and they made eye contact. Ezekiel nodded, and Freddy activated the receiver, not knowing that the transmitter was already sending it's deadly signal.

The bomb detonated at 4:20 pm.

Not far from the explosion, Colonel Basie Smit and Major Suiker Britz of the South African Police's Criminal Investigation Division (CID) met in a restaurant, Club 34. They rushed to the scene and were the first police officers to arrive. Death and destruction reigned. Shards of glass had rained down on the moving crowd below, cutting and killing wherever it went. Strewn over the pavement were corpses, the severely injured or maimed people, limbs, pieces of scorched flesh and bones. And there was blood - lots of blood.

In front of the Nedbank Square Building was the wreckage of the car with human remains, and they believed that to be the origin of the carnage. More police arrived and cordoned the area off. Major Britz observed the corpse of a man opposite the street of the Galant's wreck. The man looked familiar to him, but he could not recall where he had seen that face before.

After helping at the disaster scene, Major Britz went home, where he consulted files and photos of people he arrested before. He identified the corpse as that of Ezekiel Maseko, a hardened criminal whom he had sent to jail for armed robbery and theft years ago.

As Daniel crossed Bosman Street, he saw the flash in front of him, and his vision distorted as the shock wave hit him and pushed him back. It seemed as if time froze. The deafening roar of the blast mingled with the terrified screams of the crowd. The air was filled with smoke and debris, and the once-familiar surroundings were now obscured. An acrid scent of burning wreckage and flesh filled his nostrils as he struggled to comprehend the chaos surrounding him.

Daniel closed his eyes and blacked out. What felt like hours were only a few minutes, and he woke again as he felt someone tugging on his left ankle.

"There is someone wedged below this car," a voice shouted.

"Careful how you move him!" another voice retorted.

Two emergency responders scraped the glass and aluminium on the tarmac away from the car. Three policemen lifted one side of the vehicle so that the paramedics could haul Daniel from underneath it. As they placed him on a stretcher to take him to a waiting ambulance, one said, "That car covered you from the glass raining from above, saving your life!"

Daniel was moving in and out of consciousness when a sudden thought brought him to his senses. "Where is my dad?" he tried to say. Or perhaps he did say it, but no one seemed to hear him. The ambulance rushed him to HF Verwoerd Hospital.

With more than 200 casualties at the scene of the bomb, all hospitals overflowed with patients needing care. Professor Zaidy's speciality is not emergency care, but he threw himself into discerning which cases were life-threatening and which cases could wait a little longer. He recognised Daniel Greyvenstein by the clothes he was wearing and took his hand. "This young man should be transferred to 1 Military Hospital in Voortrekkerhoogte. I will call them," he told an orderly and picked up a phone. He arranged for a military ambulance to fetch Daniel and asked his assistant at 1 Military Hospital to phone Daniel's parents.

"Colonel Greyvenstein is here, Professor," his assistant said, "but he was dead on arrival."

Professor Zaidy looked at Daniel and decided to accompany him to the military hospital in the ambulance. He needed to break the news to him gently and also phone Daniel's mother.

Anna Greyvenstein heard about the bomb blast in Pretoria on the radio and dropped everything to make phone calls. The phone rang as she was about to pick it up. It was her brother-in-law.

"There was an explosion in Pretoria at the Air Force HQ. Have you heard anything from Dan?"

"No, and Daniel went with Dan this morning to see the doctor. I had no news from any of them. I will let you know as soon as I have some news." She replaced the receiver and looked for Major Lindeque's office number. She dialled it and received no answer. She found the switchboard number for 1 Military Hospital and was about to dial it when the phone rang. It was Professor Zaidy.

"I am afraid I have bad news," he said after they exchanged greetings. "There was an explosion in Pretoria, and Daniel was hurt. But he is alright. I am with him now. But..."

He paused. "Colonel Greyvensteyn died in the explosion."

Anna thanked him softly and replaced the receiver. She phoned Dan's brother, and they mourned their dead.

The police gathered information from the crime scene and informers. They knew that Ezekiel Maseko and Freddie Shongwe were the perpetrators who planted the bomb. They met with their mothers, who confirmed much of their information. They found Ezekiel Maseko's Kombi in front of a parking lot on the corner of Schubert and Vermeulen Streets. Inside was the radio transmitter still sending its signal. In the Galant, they found remnants of the receiver, which detonated the bomb.

Many years later, during the amnesty hearings, Aboobaker Ismail and John Mnisi disclosed more information. Ismail was the commander who planned and executed the operation. Mnisi recruited Maseko and Shongwe and trained them in Swaziland as members of uMkhonto we Siswe. They were instructed to activate the bomb and its remote detonator, but this training obviously failed.

Hélène Passtoors, a Belgian citizen and member of the Special Operations unit of uMkhonto we Siswe, drove the Galant loaded with the explosives all the way from Swaziland to Pretoria on May 19, the day before the detonation. Joe Slovo recruited her, and Oliver Tambo approved the operation.

The bombing killed 19 people, including the two perpetrators, and wounded 217 civilians and two Defence Force members. Of those killed, 12 were civilians. Although the ANC claimed that it was a success, many said afterwards that the bomb attack was a tactical failure. It was detonated 10 minutes too early to target military staff and instead killed and maimed more civilians. Those were the darkest days in South Africa's history of its armed struggle.

Daniel Greyvenstein, his mother, and his sister returned to Hoedspruit. He had to finish school within the next 18 months, and it would be hard work. They had to rebuild their lives after the trauma and knew it would not be easy. He planned to study engineering at Pretoria University, and he knew it would require hard work.

His health improved slowly as he followed Professor Zaidy's instructions to donate blood every eight weeks. He had a condition of hemochromatosis, which meant that his body retained too much iron. The iron affected the liver, which in turn became dysfunctional.

His late father had told him that it would be advantageous first to complete his studies before he could join the Defence Force as a National Serviceman for two years. The stoic young man knew he would comply with his father's wishes and looked forward to a new beginning in his life.

[Author's note: The Pretoria Bomb of May 20, 1983, affected all South Africans severely. Most of the details surrounding the planting and detonation of the bomb are factual. At the time of the explosion, I was a National Serviceman on an officer's course at De Brug between Bloemfontein and Kimberley.

Other characters like the Greyvensteins and Professor Zaidy are fictional, albeit the real Professor Zaidy examined me in 1987 at 1 Military Hospital in Voortrekkerhoogte.

In my research, I interviewed two survivors of the explosion and consulted newspaper clippings and material from police files. My heartfelt gratitude goes to Marrie Steendam in the Netherlands and Hennie Booyens in Grootbrak, South Africa, who were willing to relive that terrible day and share their experiences with me.]