Man Detonates Nuclear Plant, Then Vanishes

At 21, Rodney Wilkinson was South Africa’s top fencer: national champion in foil and sabre, runner‑up in epee. He had competed across Europe and in Argentina, but never reached an Olympic podium because the apartheid government barred the country from the Games. The regime stripped him of that opportunity, as it did to countless others.

One August evening in 1971, Wilkinson stood in the University of the Witwatersrand gym in Johannesburg, foil in hand, facing his coach Vincent Bonfil. Bonfil, a 25‑year‑old Englishman who had been a reserve for Britain at the 1968 Mexico Olympics, was completing a master’s thesis in metallurgy while living in Johannesburg. They were drilling a maneuver where both fencers lunge at the same time, and the one who anticipates the opponent’s move a split second earlier scores the point. As they clashed, Wilkinson’s foil nicked the edge of Bonfil’s sleeve. A sharp pop followed.

When a foil breaks, it sounds like a lightbulb shattering, and a free steel blade flies through the air, uncontrolled and swift. The broken tip pierced Bonfil’s chest beneath his right arm. Blood filled his mouth; he hit the floor within five seconds. Medical students were present, but nothing could be done. He died en route to the hospital.

A Johannesburg magistrate declared the incident accidental. Bonfil’s mother travelled from England and told Wilkinson she now regarded him as her son. He spent time with her family in the UK afterward.

I spoke with Wilkinson not long ago about the lasting impact. He replied, “Badly,” and then fell silent.

Eleven years later, the same man—who had learned what physics can do to a body—was employed as a contract engineer at the Koeberg nuclear power station, 19 miles north of Cape Town. He was angry with the regime that had conscripted him, sent him to fight a war in Angola he did not support, and turned his nation into an international pariah. In December 1982, in what could be seen as either folly or bravery, he carried four explosives into South Africa’s sole nuclear plant, weeks before it was scheduled to go live. On 17 December he pulled the pins, exited the control room, shared a farewell drink with colleagues, and vanished.

The proprietor of the Hide‑Away guest house in Knysna, a tiny coastal town six hours’ drive from Cape Town and three from Port Elizabeth, claims to know everyone in the area. Her name is Colleen Harding. In her sixties, a former airline worker, she runs the establishment with the calm authority of someone who has appointed herself the suburb’s intelligence service. At breakfast she interrogates guests: What brings you to Knysna? How long will you stay? Who are you visiting?

I told her I was there to see Rodney Wilkinson—white, 76, with no guest house, no website, and no public listing that would help her locate him in her system. She had never heard of him.

But the moment I mentioned Koeberg, her eyes brightened.