I don’t know if ex-convicts are supposed to fit a particular mould, but Mothei Sejakgomo certainly does not look like he has been inside. For the entire hour that we spent together last Friday afternoon, my mind kept wondering what devils would drag such an innocent-looking chap away from the straight and narrow and land him behind prison walls.
But that is exactly what happened. In 2002, he was given a seven-year sentence for car theft, breaking in, and escape from lawful custody. He was aged just 25.
He is good looking, well-toned, and very articulate.
In the parking basement below the salon where he works as a hairdresser, Sejakgomo narrates the experience of four years (three were remitted) spent in prison, and what led him and other former prisoners to launch Botswana Institute of Rehabilitation and Reintegration of Offenders (BIRRO), which he chairs.
Sejakgomo explains that BIRRO was formed four years back out of realization that former prisoners faced discrimination at various levels, which frustrated their reintegration into society. He puts the organization’s current countrywide membership at just over 100.
“A lot of former offenders have rehabilitated; all they ask is to be given a second chance,” he pleads. “But others haven’t reformed, and they need everyone’s assistance.”
Like someone who has learnt his lines well, he states that no government department can adequately deliver on its mandate without involving the community it seeks to serve. He is explaining the apparent inadequacy of the prisons department’s rehabilitation programme.
“The prison department’s record of rehabilitation is not impressive at all because there is no community involvement,” he says. “What happens is that people are routinely convicted by the courts, sent to prison, and come out at the end of their sentences without being rehabilitated.”
He says for those like himself, who took time while in prison to confront their past and decided to turn a new page, it was mostly an individual effort, with very little credit due to the rehabilitation programme.
“Unless you make an individual decision to change your ways, you can keep on going back to prison because our system is not about rehabilitation,” he states.
He gives his case as an illustration of what happens with everyone who is sentenced to a prison term.
“When I got into prison, I was largely on my own” he recalls. “No social worker sat me down to discuss what led to my situation. There are no psychologists to guide offenders. If someone reforms, it’s really an individual’s effort that has nothing to do with the prison system.”
Sejakgomo advocates a radical change to how Botswana currently seeks to reform those who occasionally fall foul of the laws of the republic. For instanmce, he suggests outsourcing rehabilitation to organisations that are not part of the prison service. Sejakgomo’s experience has convinced him that prison officers cannot adequately drive the rehabilitation programme because they have an antagonistic relationship with offenders.
He relates that once you’ve done time, it is difficult to win back trust; whenever something goes amiss a former prisoner is always a suspect. It’s a permanent mark that writes off many opportunities, especially employment prospects.
“Because people don’t trust us, one is always in an awkward position,” he explains. “When being interviewed for a job, for instance, you don’t know whether to volunteer the truth upfront that you have been in prison, and thereby risk your chance of being employed, or conceal the fact and risk being fired later after your background is found out. That is if you would have managed to explain the gap in your employment history.”
He talks of many former prisoners who, when least expected, had the past come back to mess up lives being built afresh. The most common is getting the boot after employers learn that the new guy on the company payroll has done time.
Sejakgomo says companies get the cue from government. For instance, the police service, prisons department and the military do not employ anybody with a criminal record.
“I know that company bosses often say, ‘if your government can’t employ you, how can we?’,” he explains the dilemma. “It’s not only individual members of the community who don’t trust us; the government t doesn’t trust us either. We don’t know what to do to win back that trust, and it can be very frustrating. We have the energy and we want to pay back the nation to atone for our past mistakes, but we are denied the opportunity to do that.”
The one key that opens doors is a presidential pardon. Unfortunately, for many former prisoners this, too, is illusive. Sejakgomo knows of many applications for presidential pardon that were rejected without any reasons provided. He has come into contact with some of the people whose applications for presidential pardon were not granted, and he vouches that they have truly, truly reformed.
“Some of these people have become pastors, and they genuinely want to turn a new leaf,” he says. “I would understand if a rejection for presidential pardon were accompanied by a reason; for instance if someone has some pending cases.”
His deduction is that government has no confidence in its own rehabilitation programme.
“In developed countries they have done away with these archaic policies that discriminate against former prisoners. It’s like saying someone is unfit just because they were once hospitalized. Does it make sense?” he asks.
Sejakgomo makes a moving observation that to be imprisoned is a challenge, and to walk out of prison is an even bigger challenge.
“When you are released you don’t know where you are going to spend the night,” he relates. “You have lost contact with friends; some might not want anything to do with you ever again; you don’t know who is prepared to give you another chance; you don’t know how your family is going to react to your being around because you are probably seen as someone who has brought shame to the family name.”
He says if there is one thing that prisoners are unprepared for, it’s their day of release.
“On the morning you are released, you are called to a short meeting where you are told that you have completed your sentence, the prison officer might thank you for having been easy to work with, and then the gate is open. You are on your own. Suddenly you are free and you don’t know what to do with the freedom you have dreamt about since the day you walked into prison. It can be very scary. At home, nobody prepares your family for your coming. People just see you rocking up at home unexpectedly,” he recounts.
Once again, he points to how far some countries have travelled to help former prisoners to reintegrate at the end of their sentence. France, he tells, would release you to a halfway home to prepare one for life outside. This is in realization that one needs to be helped to transition because time would have moved so much that they would be completely out of touch. Another innovation that Sejakgomo mentions is an after-care programme through which former prisoners are assigned social workers to help them cope with life outside.
Sejakgomo’s personal story of his first days of freedom is hilarious, yet touching. Firstly, he didn’t understand the latest lingo. He had no clue what Facebook was, yet everybody talked about it. He sometimes enquired about people, only to be told that they had long died.
And for the inevitable question. Does homosexuality happen in prison?
“Instead of flatly refusing to provide condoms in prisons, what government should be doing is to commission a professional study to determine how many prisoners are in homosexual relationships,” he responds. “The national response against HIV/AIDS cannot ignore what happens behind prison walls. To ignore prisoners in the national campaign against HIV/AIDS is fatal because they will come back to the community at the end of their sentences. Prisoners are a high risk population. We know of people who came out of prison infected, yet they were healthy when they went to prison.”
While he supports introduction of conjugal visits for prisoners, Sejakgomo argues that the current prison structure would not allow such innovation. He says Botswana’s prisons should be upgraded to allow for such visits in an atmosphere that permits some privacy.
One critical problem that Sejakgomo feels can be addressed tomorrow is the overcrowding that is common in Botswana’s prisons. He attributes this mainly to lack of legal aid, which denies many people legal representation.
“Some people shouldn’t be in prison, but they have been convicted mainly due to ignorance and lack of legal representation,” he states. “I don’t think it serves any purpose to send people to prison for minor offences. Flogging should be considered as alternative sentence for some minor offences.
The police should also be trained to formulate the right charges; for instance snatching a woman’s handbag shouldn’t be presented as robbery.”
