At just 21 years old, Rodney Wilkinson stood out as South Africa’s top fencer, having earned national titles in both foil and sabre, and finishing second in epee. His accomplishments included traveling across Europe and Argentina. Unfortunately, he was unable to compete in the Olympics due to the country’s ban, a consequence of the apartheid regime that stripped many South Africans of their opportunities.
In August 1971, while practicing at the University of the Witwatersrand in Johannesburg, Wilkinson was engaged in a drill with his coach, Vincent Bonfil, a 25-year-old Englishman who had been a reserve for Great Britain at the 1968 Mexico Olympics. Bonfil, who was in Johannesburg to complete a master’s thesis in metallurgy, and Wilkinson were focusing on a technique where both fencers lunge simultaneously, with the quicker one gaining the point. During their practice, Wilkinson’s foil accidentally struck Bonfil’s sleeve, resulting in a sudden break.
The sound of a snapping foil resembles that of a lightbulb shattering, followed by a loose blade flying uncontrollably through the air. The broken tip pierced Bonfil’s chest, beneath his right arm, leading to immediate, catastrophic consequences. Despite the presence of medical students in the gym, there was nothing that could be done; Bonfil succumbed to his injuries while being transported to the hospital.
A magistrate in Johannesburg later deemed the event an accident. Afterward, Bonfil’s mother traveled from England and expressed a desire to consider Wilkinson as her own son. He spent time with her family in England following the tragedy.
When I recently spoke with Wilkinson about the incident, he simply remarked, “Badly,” before falling silent.
Fast forward eleven years, and Wilkinson, who had gained a deeper understanding of the impacts of physics on the human body, found himself working as a contract engineer at the Koeberg nuclear power station, located 19 miles north of Cape Town. He was angered by the regime that had drafted him, forced him to fight in Angola—a war he did not support—and turned his country into an international outcast. In a move that some may see as reckless or brave, in December 1982, he smuggled four bombs into South Africa’s sole nuclear facility, just weeks ahead of its scheduled activation. On December 17, he pulled the pins from the bombs, exited the control room, shared a final drink with his coworkers, and then vanished.
In Knysna, a small coastal town located six hours from Cape Town and three from Port Elizabeth, Colleen Harding runs a guest house and claims to know everyone in the area. At 60, and with a background in the airline industry, she manages the establishment with a calm authority, acting as the unofficial intelligence hub of the neighborhood. During breakfast, she interrogated me about my purpose in Knysna, my length of stay, and the person I intended to visit.
Upon mentioning that I was there to see Rodney Wilkinson, a 76-year-old man with no guesthouse, website, or any online presence, she revealed she had never heard of him. However, the moment I mentioned Koeberg, her expression changed. She informed me that her neighbor had spent his entire career at the nuclear power station and was part of the Old Boys WhatsApp group, knowing someone who had been on duty the night of the bombing. Colleen quickly began typing on her computer, ready to connect me with someone from the plant.
Even though she had no knowledge of the man who bombed the facility, it turned out Wilkinson lived just 20 minutes from her home and had been a resident there for many years. Unlike most individuals who remain anonymous through mediocrity, Wilkinson achieved it by becoming South Africa’s most notorious saboteur and then opting for a quiet life over the following four decades.
His ability to maintain a low profile was aided by Matilda Knill, a 49-year-old dynamic individual, and her husband, Greg Knill, a former game reserve manager. Matilda met Wilkinson years ago at a pub, and they developed a friendship. Following her mother’s passing, Wilkinson began visiting her home uninvited, bringing soup and tranquilizers. He cooked for her and her family without being asked, and over time, they welcomed him into their lives. For many years, Matilda remained unaware of his past until a film producer contacted him, prompting Wilkinson to show her the phone and suggest she search for his name along with “Koeberg.” Her expression changed, and she invited him to live with them permanently.
Like many white South African men of his generation, Wilkinson was conscripted at the age of 18 but chose to flee. The South African Defence Force captured him and, in 1976, dispatched him and others north to Angola in unmarked vehicles. The country was engaged in a war that the government publicly denied. Soldiers were dying, but their deaths were misrepresented in the media as accidents, leaving grieving parents to cope with the falsehoods.
Wilkinson served at a radio relay camp in Angola, where his unit processed and transmitted coded messages. He would often delay these messages until they were rendered ineffective. One particular message read, “We’ve spotted an unmarked silver helicopter. What should we do?” The response was to shoot it down. By the time Wilkinson relayed the order, the helicopter had already left the area. On another occasion, he fell asleep while driving a commandeered troop carrier loaded with beer, leading to an accident that left him with a permanent scar on his forehead.
Given his background, one might assume he would be kept away from critical infrastructure, yet it turned out the military experience was merely a rehearsal for his future actions.
After completing his military service, Wilkinson, at 29, relocated from Johannesburg to a commune in Cape Town, where he made a living teaching fencing—hardly a lucrative career. He formed a close relationship with a woman named Heather Gray, and they became inseparable. During this time, he also indulged heavily in dagga, a term that suggests a different connotation than the more clinical “marijuana.”
