The late Congress of the People (COPE) leader Mosiuoa “Terror” Lekota may have left the political stage, but the drama surrounding his final years has erupted into a full-blown legal war. In a case that blends high-stakes family law with the murky waters of mental capacity, Lekota’s romantic partner, Advocate Luzzelle Adams, is set to return to the Pretoria High Court next week to challenge a devastating ruling that she systematically drained the veteran politician’s bank account at a time when he was allegedly “not of sound mind.”
The case, which has captivated legal circles and political observers alike, offers a rare and unflattering glimpse into the private twilight of one of South Africa’s most respected—and controversial—anti-apartheid stalwarts. Months after Lekota’s death in February 2026 at the age of 77, the battle over his legacy has moved from Parliament’s corridors to the Probate Registry, with accusations of financial elder abuse, undue influence, and a bitter fight over who truly held the pen to the former defence minister’s checkbook.
The central figure in the storm is Adams, a practicing advocate and Lekota’s companion during the last five years of his life. She has been painted by Lekota’s adult children—and now, by a Master of the High Court ruling—as a manipulative figure who exploited the frailties of an aging, ailing man. Adams, for her part, insists she was a devoted partner who managed Lekota’s affairs with love and transparency, and that the court has been misled by greedy family members eyeing an inheritance they did not earn.
“He was my life partner. I loved him. I cared for him when his own children were absent,” Adams said in an emotional statement issued through her legal representatives this week. “To accuse me of stealing from him is not only false—it is an insult to his memory and to the years I dedicated to his well-being. I will clear my name. I owe him that much.”
The Allegations
The saga began quietly enough. After Lekota’s health declined sharply in 2024—following a series of small strokes that left him partially paralyzed and, according to family members, struggling with memory and judgment—his children grew concerned about their father’s financial affairs. They alleged that Adams had gradually isolated Lekota from his family, moved him from his long-time Johannesburg home to a rented property in Pretoria, and taken control of his banking credentials, including his online profile and debit cards.
When the family finally gained access to Lekota’s bank statements after his death, they claim to have found a pattern of irregular withdrawals, transfers, and payments totaling approximately R4.2 million over an 18-month period. Among the transactions, according to court papers filed by Lekota’s estate executor—his eldest son, Thabo Lekota—were:
- R850,000 transferred to an entity linked to Adams, labeled as “consulting fees,” despite Adams being an advocate, not a consultant, and no contract ever produced.
- R620,000 in cash withdrawals, many made at ATMs in Pretoria and Cape Town on days when Lekota was reportedly bedridden or hospitalized.
- R1.1 million in payments to a construction company for renovations to a property owned by Adams’s sister, not Lekota.
- R380,000 in “gifts” to Adams’s two adult children from a previous relationship, including a vehicle purchase and university fees.
- Numerous smaller, recurring transfers to Adams’s personal account, labeled “household expenses,” that far exceeded any reasonable cost of living for two people.
“The deceased was a man of considerable means, accumulated over a lifetime of public service and private enterprise,” reads the founding affidavit filed by Thabo Lekota. “But in his final years, he was physically weak, cognitively impaired, and emotionally dependent on a woman who exploited that dependency for personal enrichment. This is not a dispute over a shared account. This is a case of predatory financial abuse.”
The Master of the High Court, after reviewing the family’s submissions and medical records from Lekota’s treating physicians, issued a provisional ruling in March 2026. The ruling declared that Lekota “lacked the mental capacity to manage his own financial affairs” from at least September 2024 onward and ordered Adams to account for every cent withdrawn from his accounts during that period. It also froze several of Adams’s personal assets pending a full investigation.
Adams Fights Back
Now, Adams is seeking to have that ruling set aside. Her legal team, led by veteran advocate Jan Spijkerman SC, argues that the Master overstepped his authority and relied on incomplete or inaccurate medical evidence. They have filed a notice of motion asking the court to declare Lekota mentally competent until at least two weeks before his death—and to order the return of all frozen assets to Adams’s control.
“The deceased was a former leader of a political party, a former minister, and a lawyer himself,” Spijkerman argued in the notice. “He was not a vulnerable elderly man easily led. He was sharp, opinionated, and entirely capable of making his own decisions. The suggestion that he did not know what he was signing or authorizing is patronizing and false. The family is using his death to rewrite history and to victimize a woman who was his chosen companion.”
Adams has also filed a counterclaim, seeking a declaratory order that she is entitled to half of the couple’s shared assets under the concept of a “universal partnership”—an often-litigated legal doctrine that allows unmarried cohabitants to claim joint ownership of wealth accumulated during their relationship. If successful, this claim could significantly reduce the amount available to Lekota’s three biological children.
“Advocate Adams is not a gold digger,” her personal affidavit reads. “She is a professionally qualified woman with her own income and her own career. She did not need Mr. Lekota’s money. What she needed was his love. And that, she had in abundance. The financial arrangements between them were mutual, consensual, and entirely appropriate for two people building a life together.”
A Political Lion’s Final Roar?
For those who remember Mosiuoa Lekota at the height of his powers—as a fiery young activist convicted alongside Nelson Mandela in the Rivonia Trial’s lesser-known cousin trial, as the last defence minister of apartheid’s dying days, as the founding president of COPE after breaking from the African National Congress in 2008—the current legal battle is a sad and sordid coda to a remarkable life.
“Terror Lekota was one of the most eloquent and principled men I ever met,” said political analyst and former colleague Professor Mcebisi Ndletyana. “He was never afraid to speak truth to power, even when that power was within his own movement. To see his legacy reduced to a tabloid-style fight over bank accounts and romantic betrayals is deeply undignified. But it is also a reminder that even the greats are human. And humans, at the end of their lives, are vulnerable.”
Lekota’s family has largely remained silent, issuing only brief statements through their lawyer. But those close to them describe a deep sense of betrayal—not just financial, but emotional. The children have reportedly told friends that Adams deliberately kept them away from their father in his final months, claiming that he was “too tired for visitors” or “not up to seeing anyone.” By the time they were finally allowed to see him, days before his death, they found a man they barely recognized: frail, confused, and unable to hold a coherent conversation.
“We were robbed of our final moments with him,” a family insider quoted Thabo Lekota as saying. “And we were robbed of the money he worked a lifetime to earn. The two thefts are connected. We intend to prove that in court.”
The Legal Stakes
The upcoming hearing, scheduled for May 15 before Judge Nomonde Mngqibisa, will address several key legal questions:
First, the standard of proof for “lack of mental capacity.” South African law recognizes that a person may be capable of making some decisions (e.g., what to eat for breakfast) while incapable of making others (e.g., managing a multi-million-rand estate). The family will need to show that Lekota’s cognitive decline was such that he could not understand the nature and consequences of the financial transactions he was authorizing.
Second, the burden of proof on Adams to justify the transfers. Even if the court finds that Lekota was mentally competent, Adams must still demonstrate that the payments were legitimate—either as gifts, as loans, or as compensation for services rendered. The “consulting fees” to her company, in particular, are likely to face intense scrutiny.
Third, the validity of the universal partnership claim. Adams has the difficult task of proving that she and Lekota explicitly or implicitly agreed to pool their resources and share in the profits of their joint lives. This is a notoriously fact-intensive inquiry, often decided on the basis of emails, text messages, and witness testimony about the couple’s living arrangements.
“We have seen many such cases in recent years as South Africans live longer and the lines between marriage and cohabitation blur,” said family law expert Adv. Palesa Mkhize. “The courts are increasingly skeptical of claims made after death that could not be proven during life. If Adams had no written agreement, no joint will, no explicit documentation of a partnership, she faces an uphill battle. The law does not easily rewrite a deceased person’s estate plan based on the word of a grieving partner.”
The Human Toll
Away from the legal arguments and the media glare, the case has taken a personal toll on all involved. Adams, who has been subjected to online harassment and has reportedly received threats, has withdrawn from her legal practice and is living under the care of a therapist. Friends describe her as “devastated” and “unable to understand how the love of her life’s family could hate her so deeply.”
“Luzzelle is not a monster,” said a close friend who spoke on condition of anonymity. “She is a woman who fell in love with an extraordinary man. Did she make mistakes? Probably. Did she handle the family relationship poorly? Yes. But draining his bank account? Stealing from him? Absolutely not. She would have given him her last cent if he needed it. The truth is somewhere in the middle, as it always is. But the middle does not sell newspapers, and it does not win court cases.”
The Lekota children, too, are said to be struggling. Public figures thrust into a private nightmare, they have had to watch as their father’s name is dragged through mud, his final years dissected by strangers on social media. One of the children, a professional in her forties, has taken leave from work due to stress.
“We are not doing this for fun,” she told a friend. “We are doing this because we believe it is what our father would have wanted. He worked too hard, sacrificed too much, to have his legacy stolen by someone who appeared only at the end. We owe him this fight.”
What Comes Next
The May 15 hearing is expected to last three days, with both sides calling expert witnesses, including geriatric psychiatrists, forensic accountants, and character witnesses. Judge Mngqibisa is known for her meticulous approach to family law matters and is unlikely to issue a ruling from the bench; a written judgment is expected several weeks later.
Regardless of the outcome, the case will almost certainly be appealed. The stakes are simply too high—both financially and reputationally—for either side to accept defeat quietly. Legal fees are already estimated to exceed R2 million, a sum that will ultimately come from Lekota’s estate, reducing the inheritance for everyone, including the children.
In the meantime, Mosiuoa “Terror” Lekota lies buried in his hometown of Ladybrand in the Free State, a small town that never forgot its famous son. His grave, marked by a simple headstone, faces east toward the rising sun. Visitors say the inscription, chosen by his children, reads: “A fearless voice for justice. A loving father. Now at peace.”
Whether that peace extends to his estate—or whether the courts will continue to pick over the bones of his final years—remains to be seen. What is certain is that the drama is far from over. And as the lawyers prepare their arguments and the witnesses rehearse their testimonies, one question lingers in the air, unanswered: Who really knew Terror Lekota in the end—and who was just waiting for the curtain to fall?
The Pretoria High Court will attempt to provide an answer. But in matters of the heart—and the bank account—the truth is rarely as simple as a judge’s ruling.
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