My Fleeting Moment with Nelson Mandela (in his=20 absence, of course)
THE first time I was in the presence of the man=20 whose influence was to permeate South Africa was in=20 the early 1970s. He was thousands of miles away,=20 but hey, I was in his presence _ in his house in=20 Orlando West, which was quite close to my maternal=20 grandmother’s.
As I was a latchkey child, my mother would drop us=20 _ my older brother and younger sister _ with=20 grandmother Ma-Radebe, a feisty woman whose fetish=20 for cleanliness was legendary. So married she was=20 to cleanliness that even in my early 20s I still=20 felt the need to take off my shoes whenever I=20 entered her house.
On occasion my mother would, on our way home, drop=20 in on The Mother _ of the Nation, that is. Not to=20 discuss some momentous historical event, like the=20 formation of a football club or the stocking up of=20 matches, but to chit-chat some neighbourly=20 nothings.=20
Every time we went to the Mandela house I was, even=20 at that young age, astounded by The Mother’s=20 brooding, seething beauty _ almost terrified by it.=20 It was a beauty that could devour one with its=20 intensity.=20
My mother and The Mother would politely whisper=20 adult things, talking in a code which every child=20 learns not to try to decipher, lest he later=20 mention something about it and get a backhand full=20 in the mouth. I would stare in awe around me,=20 intrigued by the black and white photographs that=20 covered the kitchen walls. I’m afraid I don’t=20 remember who was on them. I was too short to see=20 them properly.
I was also struck by the absence of a male head in=20 that house. This bothered me for some time and=20 eventually I worked up enough courage to ask my=20 mother “where the father of this house” was. My=20 mother, a woman whose tolerance level for=20 children’s nonsense was non-existent, retorted=20 “He’s in prison, and now stop asking me nonsense=20 and go out and play.”
In prison? My memoirs will say that these were the=20 dark days of apartheid, when all our leaders had=20 been imprisoned by the regime and I, a young man=20 barely out of his nappies, was privileged to be=20 touched by the presence of this man. Though he was=20 miles away, I could feel his presence and was moved=20 by it.=20
Of course I was. I resolved at that moment to take=20 things into my own hands. The need to rectify this=20 error of profound proportions grew by the minute as=20 I pretended to be playing in our dusty backyard.
Hours of distress passed. Finally, a solution came=20 to mind. Yes, this was an extreme response and=20 could possibly wreak havoc in people’s lives but I=20 had been left no choice. It pained me to do this=20 but I had to do it. I had to tell my father.
There was something obviously wrong with this=20 woman, my mother. I could not believe it. How could=20 she? She took the beautiful Khumalo children into=20 the house of… of… a jailbird? A bandiet? Mr=20 Khumalo had to know about this.
My paltry toys I gathered and was about to go on my=20 quest as I remembered that there were a few chores=20 I was supposed to do but had, of course, neglected,=20 while trying to think of a way to ensure that these=20 three African children were protected from negative=20 influences. I never did get around to telling my=20 father about his wife’s misdeeds.=20
In retrospect I’m glad I didn’t, for in my mind=20 this would have caused strife in my family. If it=20 had, and if it had gone too far, what would I have=20 told people: that Nelson Mandela was the cause of=20 my parents’ divorce?