It was 2004 and I was a cub journalist at a major commercial radio station. It was fairly late in the afternoon when my News Editor received a call that upon Palestinian leader Yasser Arafat’s passing that day, Nelson Mandela would make a statement at his home in Bishopscourt, Cape Town. 

I quickly jumped at the opportunity; a 22-year-old journalist getting the chance to get within touching distance of the Father of our Democracy… it had always been a dream of mine. 

So off I went to Bishopscourt to sit on the neatly manicured kerb across the road from his house to wait for his arrival. 

Madiba would be flying to Cape Town from Joburg, and was expected to arrive within three hours, but there would be the need for security checks, so the journalists had to get there early. 

It wasn’t a large group of us, I recall; perhaps six or seven journalists, one or two television cameras, a handful of photographers.

We sat in the fading November sun, while sniffer dogs went through our bags, drinking Oros from crystal glasses on a silver tray brought to us by one of Madiba’s aides.

The mood was light – some journalists reclined on the cool of the grass, others made leisurely calls to update the office, but mostly we joked and shared the dark humour journalists so commonly are known for. 

From the bend at the top of the road we could see a mint green early 90’s-era Mercedes-Benz sedan approaching slowly; the gates to his modest home opened, and armed guards came out to usher us to the front pedestrian gate. 

We waited there for perhaps another half an hour, but by now, my excitement was palpable. I had butterflies in my belly, and even in the warmth of the Cape evening, my palms were coldly clammy. 

We went inside and arranged ourselves in a semi-circle in the courtyard just off the main entrance’s stoep.

The cameramen frantically set up their tripods, we checked our audio recording equipment, did sound checks and white balances, checked our pens and notepads for their readiness… and then he emerged.

Huddled over, walking stick in one hand, the other clasped around the arm of his private secretary Zelda la Grange, as she guided him to the centre of the patchwork slate stoep. He looked frail, I recall. Was there a mild feeling of disappointment in me? This once powerful statesmen who so confidently took on the apartheid regime, so proudly guided our country through what should have been a traumatic transition, now looked worse for wear, worn out, tired. 

He cracked a joke to Zelda, and his frame shook as he chuckled quietly and endearingly. He looked over us, and smiled.

“Thank you all for coming,” he began, and then, handing Zelda his walking stick, took a step away from her and closer to us, and drew a deep breath in. 

That’s when I witnessed the Madiba Magic. With that breath, he straightened his back, drew back his shoulders, lifted his head to catch the fading light… suddenly, he towered above us.

A giant among men.

He spoke of the loss of his dear friend, and the importance of peace in the Middle East, and repeated his sentiments that there could not be true freedom until the people of Palestine were free. 

It was a brief address, and afterwards he took the one step off the stoep, down to the ground level where we were all gathered, smiled genuinely and deeply as he looked into the eyes of each one us as he shook our hands. 

After I got back into the car I looked at my hand in awe. Would I ever wash it again, I wondered.

I drove back to the office feeling something like euphoria having had the chance to meet Nelson Mandela, and shake his hand, knowing he may never remember my name, but feeling seen by him in that brief moment. 

Back at the office I pulled out the audio recording equipment to cut my soundbites and write my story, when my heart sank… I’d forgotten to hit “record”.

* Lance Witten is the Editor of IOL.

Source link