WE never expected Madiba to appear around the corner. Before we had the chance to take it in, he was gone, leaving us wide-eyed and kicking ourselves for our slow reactions.
It was back in the late 1990s on a cold, winter morning at Ysterplaat Air Force Base. A handful of journalists were being flown up to a small town in the Northern Cape where one of the ministers was to turn on the first tap in a community that had never had piped water before. We were yawning in the pre-dawn dark, huddled on the porch of a building out of the biting wind.
“Sorry, but we have to wait until President Mandela’s jet has landed,” an air force men told us.
We waited, assuming it would land out of sight – it did – and that he would be whisked away unseen. I was still leaning sleepy-eyed against the porch wall, staring at nothing, when Madiba’s face was suddenly in front of me. Right there.
He stopped, gave an “oh” in surprise, and then with a broad smile he put out his hand and took mine.
“Well, good morning. How are you? Very nice to see you.”
And he was gone.
As a journalist I had seen Madiba several times before when covering stories, but this was the first time I had been up close with a chance to chat – and I blew it.
When I think back to the times when I covered Madiba stories, whether it was a visit to Pollsmoor Prison or casting his vote in Newlands, there was one thing that always stood out about him. Unlike other dignitaries, cushioned from the ordinary people by bodyguards and their entourages, Mandela made a point of approaching those who are so often overlooked, certainly by the rich and powerful.
Not Madiba. He would almost always single out an old lady on a street corner, a cleaner in a passage, a gardener in the background, approach them, shake hands and chat. And when he did so, he shone light on those in society who are so easily the invisible people.
Another quality he had was that he could get away with actions that were, well, not quite politically correct (PC). Take the time he visited the Cape Times offices in 1998. All the staff were crammed into a small space, everyone wanting to shake his hands and have a few words. When he came up to colleague Jenny Crocker, who was heavily pregnant, he reached out and laid his hands on her swollen belly. I knew Jenny, and any strange man who presumed to do that would have probably been punched. Not this time. Jenny beamed up at him adoringly. She later named her little girl Grace, after Graça Machel.
Colin Howell, our news editor, asked Madiba if he had a special message for us. Yes, he said. Those of us who had had the privilege of a good education when most under apartheid had not, must pass on our education and training to those who had not. The government was committed to pulling people out of poverty and to educating all, “but the government cannot succeed alone, we need your help”.
I have often thought back to those words, which were along the lines of JF Kennedy’s famous statement: “Ask not what your country can do for you – ask what you can do for your country.”
So many of us are quick to whinge and complain, to criticise and moan, but how many of us in privileged positions, young or old, black or white, put back into this fractured society, try to build rather than break down, to lift up rather than lament?
Watching Madiba’s memorial service, I thought that of all the things I will remember about Madiba, it was his message to us that day in ’98 that had the most impact: that it is up to each one of us to try to make this country prosper. And the more privileged one is – in whatever form – they greater one’s obligation.