Next year marks the fifth anniversary of Ronald Harrison’s death. He was 71 when he succumbed to a heart attack, alone in the house of his niece, Desiree Phillips, in Mitchells Plain. His quiet death was a far cry from the noise his controversial painting caused almost 50 years before.
“We came home that evening and we found him lying on his bed,” says Phillips, who remembers June 28, 2011 like it was yesterday. “I thought he was sleeping, but when I went into the room, I realized that he had passed on. It was a great shock. We knew he was not always well. He had become weaker. The year before, my uncle had undergone cancer treatment, of which he recovered.”
While Harrison’s death left her family bereft, Phillips says that she is, to some extent, happy that her uncle died the way he did.
“He was not the type of person who wanted much attention, or to put anyone of us through any stress – for instance by running around and taking him to hospital,” she says. “I am sure that he died the way he wanted.”
When looking back, Harrison’s death seems to have gone largely unnoticed. Apart from various media outlets carrying the story and some civil society organizations expressing their sadness, there was not much commotion. Phillips is not bothered by this.
“My uncle was a proud man but very humble. He didn’t have the urge to be recognized or rewarded for what he did,” she says, referring to The Black Christ.
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The oil painting, which has been described as one of the most profound and controversial paintings in South African history, depicts apartheid struggle hero, Albert Luthuli, as Jesus Christ and apartheid architect, Hendrik Verwoerd, and former justice minister, John Vorster, as Roman centurions.
“Ronnie was a great admirer of Chief Luthuli, who was banned after winning the Nobel Peace Prize in 1960,” says the artist’s brother Desmond. “In his eyes, Verwoerd and Vorster had crucified Luthuli for his beliefs. That is where the idea for this piece came from.”
Desmond adds that while the family knew the artist was painting something interesting, they didn’t know what.
“In the beginning we didn’t know what Ronnie was up to. We were astounded when we saw the end result. My mother told him that he was going to be in a lot of trouble.”
A lot of trouble, indeed. Shortly after Harrison finished his painting, it was displayed at St Luke’s Anglican Church in Salt River, Cape Town. It didn’t take long before the security police got wind of it. The painting was then smuggled out of South Africa by anti-apartheid activists, after which it toured Europe for a while. In the process it raised significant sums of money for the International Defence and Aid Fund. Established in 1956 by John Collins, a priest from London, the fund covered the legal expenses of those accused of treason by the apartheid regime.
When the authorities realized the painting had left the country, they arrested the then 22-year-old Harrison. Days of interrogation and torture followed.
“I suffered the most severe humiliation and interrogation over a period of seven days,” Harrison told the BBC in 2004. “Everything that they say about those horrendous Nazi-style tactics is true. It’s just too humiliating to talk about.”
“My brother went through hell. He suffered a lot. Ronnie was mentally very strong, but never really recovered. Physically, he was never the same person again,” says Desmond.
Desmond believes his brother knew exactly what he was getting himself into when he started painting The Black Christ.
“It was his way of expressing his support for the oppressed, and raising his voice against the government at the time. Ronnie was a very peaceful person, and not up for violence. This was his way to contribute to the struggle.”
In his book, which carries the same name as his famous painting, Harrison explained that it was his fascination for Luthuli that drove him into the arms of the fight for freedom.
“I became obsessed with the idea of taking some constructive action in the liberation movement through the medium of my artistic talent. How could a government that professes to be Christian perpetrate such immoral deeds and inflict so much pain and suffering on its own countrymen simply because its supporters were of another race, another color, and another creed?”
As the painting toured Europe, Harrison and his family lost track of it.
“In Cape Town, we had no idea where the painting was and where it is was traveling. They didn’t want the security police to get hold of it,” says Desmond.
In the seventies, The Black Christ ended up in a basement in London.
“It survived a great deal, including flooding, which flooded many basements but not the one where the painting was kept. Eventually, Ronnie and The Black Christ were reunited in 1997. He managed to track it down via The Observer and then took it home with him,” says Desmond.
It was displayed at St Luke’s for a while, after which it was moved to the South African National Gallery in Cape Town.
While Harrison will always be remembered for The Black Christ, his name adorns many more paintings. Most of his pieces he painted as a teenager and adult were influenced by politics.
“He was inspired by icons who left their mark, like Mother Teresa, Thabo Mbeki’s mom, MaMbeki, Hector Pieterson, who was shot during the Soweto Uprising, and Nkosi [Johnson], the little boy who died of Aids,” says Phillips, adding that she doesn’t remember much of the The Black Christ controversy. “I was one year old at the time when he painted it, but I do remember how passionate he was about his art.”
“He started painting from a very young age. He must have been eight or nine years old, I think,” says Desmond. “He used to get my mom and dad to pose for him as his models. He really had a natural talent.”
Harrison fed his passion for the arts until the day he died.
“Before he passed on, he was busy with a series of six paintings. He finished the fifth one two days before he died. The sixth one, he never touched. We still have those pieces,” says Phillips.
Harrison’s family remember him for the role he played at home.
“He lived with us since my mom and dad got married, him and his mom,” she says. “He was a real father figure. I remember him as a very caring person, someone who always put other people’s needs ahead of his own. He never married, and looked after his mother until she died at the age of 90. That was the type of person he truly was,” says Phillips.
Harrison rests in peace at St Luke’s in Salt River, the same place the The Black Christ caused so much turmoil.

Pain And Torture  The Price Of  The Black Christ

When Mornay Walters met FORBES AFRICA in 2013, he was the cellphone wielding Jeremiah who warned that your business wasn’t safe from hackers. This was the year when Edwin Snowden, the former CIA employee, blew the whistle on global government surveillance programs. From the streets of Sandton to the stock markets of New York, Snowden revealed that no text, email or Facebook account was safe, unless you had military-style protection.
“You are fighting a shadow war. It could be a kid in a basement or it could be a highly skilled team; you don’t know,” says Walters.
“The reality is communication in the internet has changed drastically from where we were five years ago, to where we were two years ago, to where we are today. Ultimately it’s about one thing, data.”
Walters went into business at the right time, with the right app, to protect classified government installations; he realized he could do the same for businesses. With a team of 15 programmers, he created Seecrypt. It protects metadata, the information embedded in every SMS and email, to make it almost impossible for hackers, or governments, to get your precious secrets.
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Two years on, Walters’ small team of 15 has grown into a $130-million company that is home to 130 geeks; another world for the man who grew up in a Free State farming town that you would struggle to find on Google Maps.
“If you look hard yes, when I lived in Sasolburg the population was only 26 thousand people, today there is only 113 thousand people, 20 years after I left for the big city,” he says.
There are plenty of people to protect: whether it’s Facebook’s 1.49 billion users; WhatsApp’s 800 million users; Twitter’s 316 million users; or Instagram’s 300 million users.
“Personal data is the new black gold,” says Walters.
“You don’t know what you have until you’ve lost it. Ask any A-list celebrity what’s the first thing they want back, privacy… We can tell you horror stories about the perceived way how they take information from you, how they can harvest your address book for example. Listed companies have made billions, yet don’t charge a cent for their product. One has to ask where the money comes from, is your privacy worth the price of your app?”
Think of the app like armor-plating on a Range Rover, says Walters.
“The smallest grain of information that leaks out of that process could affect what we have… Every night, we have what we call sweep attacks. It could be a kid, an automated bot, or a person that hits our system. We spend an enormous sum of money on unified threat management. We do our own penetration tests.”
“We see it as flattering. We are getting interest from the US and China. Literally every modern nation is tapping on our front door or poking us from the side.”
Believe it or not, the company also encourages the people they want to crush.
“We have what we call honeypots, where we trap hackers, and they think they are getting into the system, so we can learn more about them,” says Walters.
So even if you are shopping in Africa, look over your shoulder, he warns
“Credit card SMS notifications can betray you. With SMS notifications you can track someone through a shopping mall. But that information is sent in the non-secure to me. If you are a high-end user, then these texts could make you a potential target. They display bank balance, your name and location. It’s a problem.”
“That’s the thing about cybercrime. It’s invisible. It’s only when I use your information publically against you that you will find out about it. While tech is making our lives easier we are exposing ourselves in a glass box. You are literally walking naked in the streets.”
Whether it is on your child’s Xbox or their cellphone, Walters believes access to the internet is an integral part of our lives, like oxygen and water.
“Your TV has a camera on it; your Xbox has a camera on it. It’s been demonstrated that one can be hacked and you could see into a living room. These things most people are oblivious to. We don’t even realize it,” he says.
It’s a thriving business that has taught the international market never to underestimate an Afrikaans accent from the Free State.
“We are dealing with customers who have never dealt with South Africa. We are naturally underdogs&#8230; The benefit of South Africa becoming the next Silicon Valley is that we’re cheap. We can develop software cheaper and pay developers more,” he says.
“I spend more time in an airplane than at home. But we are so excited about the opportunities coming our way; we expect to become a 500-man company in the next two to three years. It’s not an easy road. But we have made some good impressions.”
Walters’ business is a far cry from the start-up app run by a crew of 15. His next stop: becoming th

Making Millions From Paranoia

On any given day, you can find Mike Lawrie sitting on the patio with a cup of tea in his hand or watering his plants. His wife, Christine, plays scrabble on Fridays. He prefers to dress in khaki shorts and a cotton shirt in the summer heat. This is the 75-year-old who brought the internet to Africa, making it possible for kids, and their parents, to watch movies, play games and surf the World Wide Web from their homes.
His vigour as the father of the internet in South Africa is reflected in his twilight years. He also brought the internet to this retirement village in Pretoria where he is teaching his neighbors how to use their cell phones.
“We’re having a whale of a time doing it. It’s keeping me busy. But today for the first time, one of the old ducks came with a Samsung S4. She’s got a grandchild who lives here with us, and he knew exactly how to use this phone. This kid can’t be 10 years old. It’s fantastic. If I told this kid, 10 years before you were born, there was no internet, he would look at me and say ‘what the hell are you talking about?’”
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When the sun was high on this summer day, the friendly and polite Lawrie offers a glass of iced water and biscuits on his shady patio, ringed with dozens of succulents in pots.
Lawrie’s journey begins in Cape Town where he grew up with a flair for mathematics and science. He struggled to find a job, until he turned to punched card machines, the primitive form of computer programming.
“It was the early computer stuff. Ever wondered why there are 80 columns on a screen? It’s from the punch card system,” says Lawrie.
Along came 1962. Computers were into their second generation and were a little smaller; they could now fit into a lounge, recalls Lawrie. He was one of the few people in South Africa who could work on them.
A purchase made by Rhodes University of an ICT 1301, in 1965, changed everything for Lawrie. The computer had to have a technician. It meant 25-year-old Lawrie moved to Grahamstown, from Cape Town, with his wife, on her 21st birthday, to babysit the ICT 1301 at the university’s computer lab.
“You had to rattle electronic circuits to check for faults. You hit it with a hammer… tap, tap, tap… if the computer still runs it means there is nothing wrong and you move onto the next one. They made them to last. It was a great machine to work on. It taught me computing through and through. These days techies haven’t got a clue about how a machine works.”
The backwater could’ve been the last place you would expect a computer techie to thrive, but Lawrie did.
“Grahamstown has no great industries. It has no electrical noise. Electrically it’s a quiet town. We arrived in November and came back to Cape Town in December, and told people about this pokey little town. The next year we went home, to Cape Town, the same streets you have lived in all your life now looked narrow.”
To say Lawrie is a mere techie is an understatement: he brought the net to Africa, as an experiment, in his own time.
“The doing of it was pure technical. It was fun, it wasn’t a project. It wasn’t our job at the university to specifically do it. It was never part of the reports for the university. The main thing was to run a computer service in the university. Low and behold we tweaked the system and got it working.”
Lawrie took the first step in  linking the world in Grahamstown. With 100 meters of copper wire he set up a primitive computer network that connected the physics department to the university mainframe. He then tried to connect something a bit farther, his house, two kilometers away.
“We found out that if you take two wires from Telkom, then the South African Postal Service, you can put five volts in this side you get five volts on the other end. If you jumper it, [the computer] thinks a modem is connected to the other end.”
By 1985, Lawrie developed an internal email system. Academics could now speak to each other on campus through their computer. Its commonplace now, science fiction then.
The next phase took three years, Lawrie wanted to connect to other universities. The issue was some used IBM computers; the university used a VAX operated computer.
“Low and behold we got the thing to work, using IS protocols. This was magic, connecting two independently controlled computer systems. By 1988, we could take a VAX computer, take an email, put it into our homegrown system, pull it out again, pull it through a sausage machine and then make it an IBM mail and send it off to Potchefstroom,” he says.
It dawned on Lawrie that the system had the potential to send an email around the world.
Lawrie contacted a network called Bitnet that agreed to let South Africa join their network. But, he first needed to get approval from Uninet, run by the CSIR, the government research facility that spearheaded network projects in South Africa.
“I took this proposal to the board, and the board laughed me off. They said I was out of my mind, because Bitnet is run by countries that have a stance against apartheid and would be shut down.”
“I was cheesed off and I don’t get cross that easily. I decided the best thing to do was never to go to a committee again. It’s so easy for a group of people to say it can’t be done.”
Lawrie found an alternative solution in FidoNet, a TCP/IP freebee package designed by Randy Bush in Oregon, in the United States (US), which was smuggled into South Africa on a floppy disk by a friend named Pat Terry.
“This was luck beyond belief,” says Lawrie.
With floppy disk in hand, Lawrie also needed to negotiate an account with the University of Delaware to give him access to the internet. From his computer in Rhodes, Lawrie was able to send mail to Delaware, to Bush in Oregon, to a Unix system, and then over FidoNet.
“The point about the FidoNet was in the testing phase of getting ‘some’ form of international email to work prior to releasing the email service for general use to Rhodes staff and students. This testing was in 1988, the service to Rhodes folk was operational early in 1989.”
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“We are now at the point where I can sit at home and I can log into our mainframe, create mail and send it to someone in the US. You would sit at eight o’clock at night and type an email out to this guy, he doesn’t know when it’s written, and writes back. In his email he invites me to come to this conference saying he wants me to come and talk about what we are doing. I then reply back and say great. He then writes back, how did that mail get here so quickly? How could the interchange of email to Africa be so quick? It was like instant. This guy was expecting to get a response from me in three weeks and he got it in about two minutes. This opened eyes all over the place.”
On November 12, 1991, at 10.44AM, Lawrie set up the first permanent link to send mail, via file transfer protocol (FTP), it was a long walk to the internet for Africa.
“He’s quite an anomaly. Even at that time he was a visionary,” says Dinesh Balliah, New and Social Media lecturer at the University of the Witwatersrand.
In 2003, Balliah came across Lawrie when reading archives for her master’s degree.
“I found on the internet a bunch of usenet groups, which were archived, by whichever browser was there back then. They were literally archives of text messages sent by individuals over the internet.  One of them related to South Africa. It related to the original internet work that existed in South Africa at that. I became interested in following this trail, it became a forensic trail. I picked up people’s names and eventually it led me to Rhodes University where the network was started.”
All roads lead to Rhodes. At the end was a meeting with Lawrie and two days of lessons in internet history. It prompted Balliah to write a book on the history of the internet in South Africa.
“I’ll never forget he told me once ‘Everyone at a university complains about how students are only downloading porn, and I look at them and say at least they reading something’. It’s always been his approach. He will complain about how much students consume data, but his approach is let them just play,” she says.
Back in the retirement village, Lawrie is as happy as an email on a server. He presides over the most internet savvy retirement homes in the country.
“What was I driven by? I don’t know. It wasn’t a pioneering nature. It definitely wasn’t the politics of it that motivated it. What’s this concept of emails and why would one want to sit at a computer, type something in and see it somewhere else. How do you go about selling something in a world that doesn’t use email? So I didn’t set about selling it. I set about making it work,” says Lawrie.
You can take the technician out the computer lab but you can’t stop him from joining the dots.

Once Upon A Time There Was No Internet…

The year was 1980. Ramachandran ‘Ram’ Ottapathu and his classmates would frequently boycott college and take to the streets holding ‘Free Nelson Mandela’ placards, appealing for the release of the jailed anti-apartheid hero. Mandela’s fight was their fight too, and his freedom, their freedom.
Except that this street protest was not in South Africa, in fact not anywhere in Africa, but in Kerala, 4,200 miles from Johannesburg.
Kerala, that leafy green state in the south of India, famously known in tourism brochures and puff travel pieces as ‘God’s own country’, was where Ottapathu, the man who would one day become a retail king in Africa, grew up. His home is in Ollur in Kerala’s Thrissur district.
Ollur, a small town with quaint little churches, is known for its entrepreneurial energy and commercial bustle. It boasts ubiquitous saw mills, side shops selling rolled gold ornaments, and factories making endless wooden packing cases.
It is said that during the First World War, it was here in Ollur that the wooden packing cases were crafted, for military use. The locals are so enterprising and the town, so filled with entrepreneurs that if a young man left Ollur for a job overseas, he was brushed off as useless, never to return.
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But not Ottapathu, the now famous ‘O’ of Ollur, who changed this narrative for good. Known to his neighbors as ‘Kannan’, an endearing name in Malayalam (language spoken in Kerala), even now, when he left Ollur for Botswana in 1992, in time, he also took Ollur with him.
It would seem that Ottapathu, the CEO of Choppies, Botswana’s biggest retailer, has employed almost half of Ollur.
More than 500 qualified men and women in his hometown have made the crossover to Gaborone, he says.
“Earlier, they didn’t know what I was doing in Africa,” says Ottapathu. “It was a distant place.”
Even before he arrived on African shores, Africa was on his mind.
In 1980, when Zimbabwe gained independence, a young Ottapathu featured the country on the cover of his college magazine. He wrote the words: “You must be loyal to your past, otherwise, you will go back to your past again and again.”
The Africa affinity was in his destiny, somehow, by default.
“My friends and I used to closely observe what was going on in Africa, because of the struggles in those days,” Ottapathu tells me, a fellow Keralite, in chaste Malayalam, when we meet at his plush duplex apartment at The Regent in Johannesburg on one of his many visits to the city from Gaborone.
While in college, studying for a commerce degree, he admits he was unabashedly leftist, and with his friends, always searching for a cause célèbre. For the uninitiated, communism features heavily in Kerala’s political history.
“At the age of 20, if you are not a communist, you are not a human being,” chuckles Ottapathu. “There are a lot of qualities you possess when you are an ideologist. It’s always helpful going forward.”
Evenings in Thrissur as a student were spent with friends by the busy town square, ironically called ‘The Round’, near the Vadakkumnathan Kshetram (a famous Shiva temple in Kerala), devouring the left-leaning Kerala Kaumudi and Deshabhimani publications and discussing the politics of the day. They also played cricket.
“We would always be on the look-out for a theme [to espouse]… We used to have a sort of defiance to everything, we had totally rebellious thinking at the time,” says Ottapathu.
“I tell South Africans the number of days I have spent on the streets in Kerala demanding the release of Nelson Mandela is much more than what an average South African would have done. I must have boycotted more than 100 academic days [to the cause] in the five years of my college life.”
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However, that life, and his thinking, changed when Ottapathu enrolled for his articleship training as part of his chartered accountancy course.
For one, the hours were very demanding. Whilst in college he enjoyed the freedom of bunking classes, he found it difficult to sit for hours hunched over accounting books. He quit in a week. A close friend forced him to return, saying “you don’t have a choice, if you don’t become a professional, your life will be doomed”. Ottapathu is grateful he took his advice and returned to focus on his career. In three years, he passed his chartered accountancy exams in the very first attempt, and “there was no looking back”.
The first son of five children, Ottapathu was born to “a working class family”. His father was a handloom weaver and his mother a housewife who did odd part-time jobs at a construction company. The family was deplorably poor, and from a young age, there was pressure on Ottapathu to make money, so he undertook various part-time accounting jobs.
“We suffered a lot. We were never able to make ends meet. The family had three full meals only about once a year,” says Ottapathu.
“My aim was to get a job, it didn’t matter what job, to earn any income, and take care of the family. For me, everything revolves around family. There is nothing beyond giving a decent living to one’s parents and siblings.”
Ottapathu toiled to lift the family out of poverty, marrying off his sisters, finding jobs for his brother and cousins in the years that followed. His first decent job was in Kochi, a metropolis in Kerala, as a chartered accountant with Apollo Tyres. Soon, he got promoted and transferred to Baroda in the Indian state of Gujarat, further north. It was around this time that the first chapter of his Africa story was written.
While on holiday in Kerala, it was a chance meeting with the managing director of a medical company he visited that launched his career in a completely different geography.
“I had gone there to meet my cousin, and the managing director, seeing me, asked what I was doing and said he had a brother who owned an accounting firm in Botswana and was looking for qualified accountants and if I would like to go. He asked me to send him my CV, which I did and I promptly forgot all about it.”
Ottapathu returned to his regular nine-to-five job in Baroda. The envelope that arrived soon after containing a visa and work permit to Botswana completely took him by surprise. At the time, all he knew about Botswana was it was an African country, and that it had “a lot of diamonds and elephants”.
“I knew it was one elephant for every 50 people,” he says.
On December 18, 1992, Ottapathu left his wife Jalaja and boarded the plane from Mumbai to Gaborone via Nairobi and Harare. On the Air Zimbabwe flight to Gaborone from Harare, his co-passenger was the son of the then Indian High Commissioner of Botswana. His prophetic words still ring in Ottapathu’s ears.
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“I was feeling very gloomy leaving my family. But he told me ‘don’t be sad, you are an accountant, and you are going to paradise, you will be a multi-millionaire one day, because that is the opportunity Botswana offers’,” recalls Ottapathu, who arrived in Gaborone with $20 in his pocket, all that was left after giving away $20 to the immigration officer in Nairobi.
Ottapathu joined the Mazars accounting firm on a dour December day. His first assignment was handling the ailing finances of Choppies’ fledgling predecessor, the Wayside supermarket, in Lobatse, in southeastern Botswana, roughly 70 kilometers from the capital Gaborone and close to the South African border.
To Ottapathu, it was the middle of nowhere, far from the bustling temple precincts of his hometown in Kerala.
The company had huge financial issues. Founded by Farouk Ismail of the Chopdat family (of Gujarati origin) in 1986, the Wayside supermarket was largely a shopping destination for Zambians and Zimbabweans not allowed access to South Africa during apartheid. There were regular train services that terminated in Lobatse, where they would buy goods such as watches, radios and sewing machines, and return.
“When apartheid ended, the train services stopped and the business just collapsed,” says Ottapathu. “But the one good thing about it all was that I could experiment. Anything we attempted was an improvement. The business slowly started turning around.”
By 1997, things were looking better, much better. Ottapathu had managed to steer the company out of its financial quagmire. In 1999, the company opened its first superstore in Gaborone West, which still exists. Ottapathu was appointed CEO in 2000.
“It opened our eyes to the potential of the business,” he says.
But the real turnaround was yet to come, in 2002, when Choppies’ first hyperstore opened in Gaborone.
“That store was the biggest success. It gave us an address and identity. It is still one of the biggest trading stores turnover-wise, in Botswana, doing almost BWP200 million (about $18 million) a year,” says Ottapathu.
The Choppies model was providing high-quality retail products at good value to the lower and middle LSM in smaller towns, through acquisitions of smaller franchises, but also effecting Botswana’s switch from informal to formal retail.
In Botswana, 20% of Choppies’ revenue is from its own branded products, about 50 of them, including sugar, flour, rice, juice, maize and cooking oil.
“In 2004, when the first devaluation of the pula came, all the [informal] Indian traders got a shock. So that gave us an opportunity to buy out a lot of stores from them at very good prices. They were running franchises. In 2003, we were operating Friendly Grocers, OK Foods and Spar. In 2003, we started doing well, so they wanted us to buy more from them, and started putting pressure, so we said ‘we are going alone, you can take your franchise’. That’s when the turnaround happened. That’s when we changed the name to Choppies [after the Chopdat founders].”
That’s not all. Between 2002 and 2007, the company “grew seven times”.
“We have never since had any financial issues. When we started talking to the banks for finance, and projected our financials in 2003, that we were going to have a BWP1 billion ($89 million) turnover, the bank manager would tease me saying ‘you are not normal’. He said ‘even bigger South African companies won’t get half of that, so where will you get it’? And we achieved it in 2004-2005.”
Festus Mogae, the former president of Botswana, was appointed Choppies’ chairman in 2008.
The company’s turnover in 2015 was BWP6 billion ($533 million).
Today, Choppies runs 170 stores across Botswana, South Africa and Zimbabwe. West Africa is not being considered for the moment, but Choppies is entering new and underserved markets in Kenya, Tanzania and Zambia; even Rwanda is on the cards. It is on course to roll out 200 stores by the end of 2016. The company is growing at 25% every year, and Ottapathu says Choppies is cash-plus.
“We need to grow at 50% to get to 200 stores, and we can see it,” he says.
Listed on the Botswana Stock Exchange in 2012, Choppies’ secondary listing on the Johannesburg Stock Exchange, Africa’s biggest stock exchange, from May 2015, is doing well. Choppies is expecting to eventually get “$700 million that will be put into the Africa expansion”.
Choppies entered South Africa in 2008 with a distribution center in Rustenburg, located strategically on the transport route to Botswana. It currently operates more than 60 stores in the country, and that number is growing every month. In an intensely competitive retail environment, with majors such as Shoprite and Pick n Pay, Choppies targets Tier 2 and Tier 3 towns, and says it’s doing extremely well in Limpopo, North West province, northern Free State and Mpumalanga.
“We have been competing with South Africa for a long time. Our market share is over 36 percent. There is no other African retailer with that kind of market share in any market,” says Ottapathu, who became a shareholder in 1999, and currently owns 20% of the company.
And his personal net worth, considering he came to Africa with $20 in his pocket?
“I haven’t counted,” he laughs. “I normally don’t.”
Prod him further, and he reluctantly says it could be $300 million.
At heart, he is a simple man who has not forgotten the poverty, pain and hunger that defined his youth.
He says he wears suits only when he meets Botswana president Ian Khama, and displays few trappings of wealth, although he owns two private planes, a Beechcraft and Embraer, parked at Lanseria airport when in Johannesburg.
“It’s quicker connecting to Africa that way,” he says.
It may seem that Ottapathu’s destiny was a foregone conclusion to many. Misty-eyed, he recalls the words of his mother’s sister, an aunt he truly loved, who had no children and passed away before he made that first trip to Africa. His greatest regret to this day is she didn’t live to see him successful.
“She used to like me very much, and often told me, the way you are growing up, you will even one day own a plane, and I would laugh. My regret is I couldn’t look after her.”
Ottapathu lost his father in 2002, but is grateful both his parents saw his success, visiting him several times in Botswana. His 80-year-old mother lives in his family home in Kerala.
He says the true value of wealth is beyond money, it’s enjoying what you do, and never losing focus. After he first arrived in Africa, it took him four years to visit Kerala &#8211; he was that involved in his work. From 1992 to 2003, he says he may have visited India only for 30 days in all.
“I don’t have any aim to achieve so much wealth. I would rather have ambitions relating to the business. My immediate aim for Choppies is to get a billion-dollar turnover. And increase the number of employees from 11,000 to 25,000,” says Ottapathu.
He is known to be a shrewd businessman, never mincing words, but his enterprise and clean reputation have won him admirers on the continent.
“The most remarkable thing about him is the sort of speed and ease with which he moved from working for this accounting agency to taking the opportunity to turn entrepreneurial; the ease with which he saw how parochial we tend to be in big businesses in South Africa and by extension in Botswana, that the approach is local, and he saw that was the niche, in the process explaining how he managed to quickly move into new markets. That sort of global outlook makes him a true citizen of the world,” says Luke Spiropoulos, who met Ottapathu three times as part of his master’s degree research on the migration and mobility of Indian communities in Southern Africa, with the Centre for Indian Studies in Africa and University of the Witwatersrand.
“When he came here, he didn’t have a lot of options at the time but his professional advantage over the others seems to be a particularly sharp knowledge of tertiary education in India, by bringing people in with high-end qualifications. He has a good feel for the human resources market in India,” says Spiropoulos.
Ottapathu says his humble upbringing shaped his belief-systems.
“I am a strong believer in karma. I always say my two hands are my God. Whatever I do the right way, I always get it back. Being a knowledge worker, you use your brain and your hands.”
And not for him ephemeral success.
“Have a long-term view. Don’t look at fortune created overnight. It’s a long-term process rather than an accident,” says Ottapathu.
This is the advice he constantly gives his 23-year-old son Balram, a finance and economics graduate from Wharton, currently studying in Princeton in the United States. His daughter, Bhagyasree, is only 10.
Will his son take to retail like him?
“My father didn’t give me anything,” says Ottapathu. “So he must decide what he wants to be. Sachin Tendulkar [Indian cricketer] said about his son, ‘I can put cricket into his brain, but not into his heart’. Likewise, it has to come from his heart. Eventually, he may take to retail consultancy.”
And the future of Africa?
The future of retail, he says, is smaller stores, given that “hypermarkets are shrinking around the world”.
“The politics is what is putting Africa behind. At Choppies, we try to be neutral, and not align with anything, and work with official channels. Africa is certainly open for business. The growth opportunities here are much better. One day, companies like Walmart will do much better; it will start flexing its muscles. But it will be good for retail in general.”
Will he ever take Choppies to India, just like M.A. Yousuf Ali, the Dubai-based billionaire from his hometown in Kerala, did? Ali opened the gargantuan LuLu Mall in Kerala after a slew of hypermarket-successes across the Middle East.
No, says Ottapathu.
“Currently, we have better returns for our capital here in Africa. We don’t want to lose focus on what we are doing here, if we start doing things in many places.”
But he just might forge the Africa-Kerala connection on celluloid though.
“I have been approached to produce films. I just may. If it happens, the movie will be shot in Kerala and Botswana, linking both countries.”
You just cannot take Africa out of him.
“Africa is an addiction,” concludes Ottapathu. “I don’t even want my dead body to go out.”

Tag: March 2016

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