In the dusty backroom of a Pretoria memorabilia shop, old Jakob “Spanner” van der Merwe carefully lifted a brittle, sun-bleached notebook from a locked cabinet. Its cover read: “Old South African Number Plates List – Provincial Codes 1952–1994.”
Spanner closed the book. “Your grandfather was taken to a safe house in Bloemfontein. The car that took him? —Orange Free State, 1972 issue. I have a friend there. A former colonel with a conscience.”
Thandi left the shop with a photocopy of the list and a name. Six months later, in a forgotten archive in Bloemfontein, she found prison logs signed by the same man who once drove . And in those logs: her grandfather’s last known address—not a grave, but a secret exile in Zambia.
Thandi felt the past roar to life. A car plate wasn’t just metal and paint—it was a witness. old south african number plates list
Spanner opened the notebook, licked his thumb, and flipped to the "C" section. “CA,” he murmured. “Cape Province, 1960s. But look here—the hyphen in the middle? That’s a special issue. Diplomatic corps, or maybe… police undercover.”
For decades, Spanner had been the unofficial keeper of the country’s automotive ghosts. But this list wasn’t just for collectors. It was a key.
Thandi’s breath caught. Her grandfather had been a teacher who protested the forced removals. He vanished one night after being seen talking to a man in a green Anglia. In the dusty backroom of a Pretoria memorabilia
A young woman named Thandi walked in, clutching a faded photograph. “My grandfather disappeared in 1976,” she said, sliding the photo across the counter. In it, a green Ford Anglia stood outside a remote Cape farmhouse. The plate read: .
He traced his finger down a side column. “Wait. In 1976, CA 789-456 was reassigned to Bantu Affairs Administration , Mthatha. That car wasn’t visiting a farm. It was confiscating land.”
Spanner smiled, added a final note to his old list, and whispered, “Sometimes the past is hiding in plain sight… on a number plate.” The car that took him
Spanner turned more pages, revealing handwritten notes in Afrikaans. “My own father worked at the licensing department,” he said quietly. “He kept a secret register. Cars used by security police had invisible ink markings. This one…” He held the page under a UV lamp. Faint letters glowed: .
Years later, Thandi returned to Spanner’s shop. She placed a new photograph on the counter: herself and an old man with kind eyes, standing beside a restored green Ford Anglia. The plate was a replica——but now it told a different story: one of recovery, not loss.