Johannesburg - It’s 6am outside the Mediclinic Heart Hospital in Pretoria. Tuesday, day 25 of Mandela Watch.
The sky is dark, the air cold.
Pedestrians walk past on their way to work, past the street of vans and generators and satellite dishes, past the empty patch of abandoned tripods cordoned off with police tape, past the wall drowning in posters and cards and hearts and balloons, past the flowers, the few lit candles, the Virgin Mary.
The few journalists already on the scene sit in their cars, the engines idling to keep the heaters running.
They are not looking when the young woman in the brown jacket approaches the wall. There are no cameras to capture the moment she lays down the letter: two yellow A4 pages taped together and covered in tight, neat capitals.
It’s an apology letter, a letter from a child to a father, a “sorry” for all the disappointments, the expectations.
“We’ve shackled you to your increasingly frail body and say that it’s because we love you. But real love never imprisons… We release you.”
Other letters leave names, photographs, cellphone numbers.
The yellow letter is signed: “Your children, the children of South Africa”.
The young woman looks at the wall for a long time and leaves just as the first generator is turned on.
It’s 9am
Pedestrians are stopping by regularly. They take out phones and pose in front of the wall of worry. None come crying. They pick up the cards and posters on the wall and floor. Click. They kneel next to dying bouquets. Click. Girls thrust out their hips. Click. Pout. Click.
Maxwell Mudau is here for business: a camera in one hand, a small printer in the other. Parents will pay R20 for a shot of their kid next to the Madiba wall. They all want to pose with the same giant Mandela face poster. “MQM South Africa (Pakistan)” it says on the bottom.
“Baba, put your hands like this,” instructs one dad. The little girl makes as if she’s praying. Click.
Still, business is slower than Mudau would like. “All the phones and iPads,” he says.
A minivan pulls in and a bureau of suits pour out.
“Zo, would you mind taking a picture of us,” asks a blue tie, handing his phone to a red tie.
The group stands with their heads bowed and their hands behind their backs and pace slowly as the red tie snaps.
Then they turn and line up, smiling for the group shot.
They climb back into the bus and leave.
The exercise takes less than two minutes.
It’s 11.30am
There are five video cameras trained on the pastor leading the police in worship. Half-an-hour earlier, there was a mad dash as a military escort of about 15 police motorbikes drove by, but they disappeared around the corner without delivering a VIP to the hospital entrance. This police prayer service could be the media’s only shot for the day.
The pastor’s suit shimmers when he moves. Blue shirt, pink embroidery.
His back is to his congregation of police officers as he quotes James 4:6.
“God favours not the proud, but those who humble themselves,” he tells the cameras. “In the most glorious name of Jesus, everybody say amen!”
Behind the lenses, a father sits his daughter on his knee in front of the wall and quietly reads out the cards to her.
It’s lunchtime
Daniel Sello arrives. A feathered headdress. A leather skirt. A wooden spear. A Bible.
“Mandela is God!” he shouts. “Mandela is God! Mandela is God number two, and I am Mandela number two!”
One of the cops shakes his head. He used to take the same train as Sello.
“He always talks like this,” he says.
The pedestrians laugh, but most journalists don’t pay attention. This isn’t Sello’s first visit to the wall.
He stalks up and down the street, pointing his spear at the media in their camping chairs.
“Voetsek, all of you!” he shouts. “Go back to your country. Pack and go! Pack and go! Do you hear what I’m saying? Pack and voetsek!”
He turns to see a video camera pointed at his face.
His glare breaks into a gummy smile. He waves.
“Ah, thank you,” he says. “Thank you for your support.”
It’s 1pm
Pavement business is good for Godfrey Mooketsi. He’s got Sadtu T-shirts and SACP caps and camouflage Castro ANC caps.
“But you know, anything with Mandela’s face is a big seller,” says Mooketsi.
R120 for a Mandela face T-shirt. R100 for a Mandela face table cloth. Mooketsi’s wearing one around his shoulders. “Me, I’m selling the real Mandela.”
Across the street, behind four media vans, lines of police tape and a number of satellite dishes, business has stalled for Fatima Bara.
For seven years she’s run her tuckshop from the small fenced-off yard across the street from the hospital. Fruit. Sweets. Airtime. She pulls in about R700 on a good day.
Then, three weeks ago, she was parked into invisibility.
“Even people who know I’m here say they don’t want to come because of the media,” she shouts over the drone of nine generators. “Now, maybe I make R200. I have airtime from last Monday but nobody comes to buy.”
It’s 4pm
Cosatu comes in singing and clapping in red. It’s a small group, maybe 30 people. Priorities were divided by the day’s e-toll protest.
They clap. They stamp. They form a circle. A member idling outside the circle is called out for petty contempt.
“Long live the icon of the world, long live!” calls Tshwane chair Effens Clouw.
“Long live!”
“Viva Nelson Mandela, viva!”
“Viva!”
“Comrades, we are here from Cosatu Gauteng to pay a visit to our leader, our father, our icon, our president – the first democratic president of South Africa,” says Clouw. “But first, can I call on our regional secretary to make some introductions of the leadership here.”
Comrade Mandla Hlatswayo defers back to Comrade Clouw, who calls on Comrade Dumisani Dakile to open the floor for Comrade Phutas Tseki.
“Comrades, let’s not waste time…” begins Tseki, the provincial chairman.
The journalists lean back in their camping chairs, basking in the sun. It’s day 25, and the light is fading.
It’s 6pm
The sun has set on the vans and generators and satellite dishes and abandoned tripods with no update from the Presidency.
A group of journalists discuss where to get dinner and Mooketsi and Bara are closing shop, but Mudau is still clicking for the after-work crowds as they trample on the posters and cards and hearts and balloons, on the flowers, the melted wax, the Virgin Mary, and the words on the yellow letter from the young woman in the brown jacket.
We release you, we release you. Pack and go.
The Star