Year-end is always an unsettling time for me. I can’t put my finger on any real reason other than the fact that memories of my childhood Christmas festivities always seemed tinged with brushstrokes of sadness. It is perhaps just a fitting end to a year, the tying of loose ends and the wrapping up of the life events and experiences both good and bad of the year almost past that casts a shadow to my end of year. It may also have to do with the fact that, in our family at least, most deaths seem to occur at the end of the year, throwing a sombre shadow of what should be a time when families get together in celebration and not in mourning.
This year seems to be ending on the same sombre note with the passing of Nelson Mandela, a man whose name I heard in the whispered adult conversations I shamelessly eavesdropped on as a child. I remember his capture, I remember the trial and I remember his banishment to Robben Island. I don’t pretend to have understood it all, but even back then I read newspapers with a voracious appetite.
By the time I started work as a fledgling reporter I was better informed. If there is one thing I can be thankful for, it is that when history was being made in this country, I was witness to it. There’s something special about being part of that history, of watching it develop and being able to say I was there.
This past week we have been immersed in thousands of tributes, messages, stories and recollections of Nelson Mandela. I am not ashamed to say, I’ve read most of them, some more than once and I’ve shared in the heartaches and the joys as have the majority in this wonderfully dynamic country we call home. And like the many hundreds of thousands who have a story about their Mandela Moment, so too have I. It is not an awe-stopping moment, it is not a glamorous moment and it wouldn’t even register on a status scale. But it is my moment and one that I now treasure along with those other moments where I came face to face with history.
It happened soon after Nelson Mandela had been released from prison and was on a countrywide trail raising funds for the ANC in preparation for the coming general elections which had the dual effect of thrilling and terrifying the masses … it just depended on which side you were on. As a young reporter I was sent to cover his visit to a venue in Westmead, Pinetown. I remember the excitement that buzzed like electricity in the air around us as we waited and waited under a boiling sun. There were strict instructions from organisers: We weren’t allowed to rush at him, we weren’t allowed to use camera flashes because his eyes were too sensitive, and there would be no interviews as he was on a tight time schedule and we were literally just snapping photographs of him as he moved out of a building to his waiting car that was to whisk him away to his next meeting.
And then suddenly, he was there. Smiling. I remember the warmth of that smile, it was a real smile not the smile I’ve come to associate with politicians trying to ingratiate themselves with the media. There was a lot of pushing and shoving as photographers and journalists jostled for position to capture the moment on film. (No such thing as digital back in those days!) I remember standing back and moving to the side, content to just watch this man who had had a ghostlike presence throughout my childhood. I remember taking a couple of not-very-inspired photos, enough to keep my editor of the time satisfied, and then just standing and watching as he made his way through the crowd.
Suddenly, he was in front of me, smiling and his eyes barely discernible behind the dark glasses he wore. Hestretched out a hand and I automatically held out mine only to have it enveloped in both of his. His hands were as warm as his smile as he bent slightly and said: “And who are you?” I think I may even have blushed as I stammered out my name. “Ah very good,” he said squeezing my hands, “that is a wonderful name!” He chuckled at his own humour and I could have told him I’d heard every play on my name possible … but I just laughed along with him and watched as he moved away.
As I reflect on the year that is almost done I place that moment with the other defining moments in my treasured box of memories. This is how I shall remember Nelson Mandela, a smiling, warm-hearted man who took a moment out of his busy schedule to stop and say hello. It’s a ‘wanda-ful’ memory, you have to agree!
