Old and new, black and white, they all marched to Pretoria to witness the new chief ascending his throne. John Matshikiza was also there
Thank goodness the African National Congress, since the Oliver Tambo days, has elevated (or demoted) everyone to the level of “chief”.
“Howzit, chief?” “Fine thanks, chief.” “Chief, what time are we meeting with the chief from the RC?”
It made it easier to deal with this extraordinary moment of saying farewell to Madiba, and giving a fulsome and heartfelt welcome to his successor.
When Nelson Mandela walked off the presidential platform for the last time, he remained “the chief”.
And Thabo Mbeki, being who he is, simply continued to be the same kind of “chief” he has always been.
At the same time, he was effortlessly slipping on the mantle he had been preparing to adopt for so many years: that of being, finally, the chief “chief”: the president of the Republic of South Africa.
It was a fabulous day. It began and ended in the dark of night.
We hit the black highway towards Pretoria in the tense pre-dawn, guided by the eerie blue lights of slow-moving and watchful flying squad vehicles.
The assembly point was to be the Centurion Cricket ground. Centurion was still not marked, but we slipped off at John Vorster Drive into Verwoerdburg – the road towards the new South Africa still signposted with ghosts from the past.
It was heartbreakingly cold, but the silent hundreds pressed determinedly towards the accreditation tents.
We boarded the fleet of buses, each passenger clutching the paper bag that had been thrust into our hands.
“It’s your breakfast,” we had been told, impressed at this thoughtful efficiency. “Mind you don’t spill the coffee.”
As the buses rumbled towards the capital, we furtively felt around inside our precious parcels. There was a T-shirt, a programme of the day’s events, a ballpoint pen and a couple of postcards of Mbeki’s face in Picasso-blue. No coffee.
We got out obediently at the Union Buildings and sat in the slow-breaking chill below the curved arches for the next four hours, waiting for Mbeki’s moment to arrive.
It was the unlikely camaraderie that kept us going. Kaizer Matanzima, Richard Branson, Stephanie Kemp, King Xolilizwe Sigcawu, Ethel de Keyzer, Colin Bundy, Peggy-Sue Khumalo, Hermanus Loots – the company was mixed and meaningful.
The super-VIPs started to arrive. It stirred memories of days when we were still living in the Third World, killing time before liberation in other people’s African countries – the arenas where Mbeki had won his spurs.
Organisation for African Unity (OAU)conferences and Non-Aligned Movement summits came and went, as the lean and hungry footsoldiers of the South African revolution watched and bided their time.
The joke used to be that as soon as an African leader left his home town to come and swagger his anti-apartheid fire-and-brimstone in the frontline states, his best friend would stage a coup back home, and probably pinch his favourite concubines.
Accepting an invitation from an OAU member state was like going out to a dinner party in Johannesburg – you didn’t really expect to find your house or your family intact when you got back.
And yet here were the survivors and victors of those times, come to salute the very same Mbeki who had lurked so patiently in their shadows all those years: Daniel Arap Moi, Omar Bongo, Jerry Rawlings …
And the newcomers, the faces of hope for Africa’s “renaissance”: Yoweri Museveni, General Olusegun Obasanjo. The biggest cheers were raised for the arrival of Moammar Gadaffi and Yassar Arafat. Africa knows who its heroes are.
The sun was beginning to make a difference to the cold pink stones. White and black schoolchildren piped happy-sounding African songs for the crowd, and old friends hugged each other. Govan and Epainette Mbeki sat patiently on the platform, waiting to see their son.
Whistles and cheers for the arrival of Thabo and Zanele Mbeki, and then roars and waves for the entrance of Madiba and Graa Machel.
The significance of the transition was represented in the persons of the very instruments of justice that were to confer this new presidency on our behalf: Judges Ismail Mahomed and Arthur Chaskalson, themselves icons of the struggle for transformation.
The old president gracefully gave way to the new president. After blessings and dedications, they simply swopped seats, and the painful thing was done.
There was an unfussy but impressive fly- past by the air force, then Mbeki spoke: plain, to the point, with no outrageous promises.
Cannons boomed and three jumbo jets roared over in tight formation, close enough to touch, as the ceremony came to a close.
We were wined and dined on the west lawn, and then found ourselves brought back down to earth as we trudged endlessly up the hill again, looking for the convoy of buses that would return us to the assembly point in Centurion.
It was like the women’s march against the pass laws all over again, but this time we were all one: Murphy Morobe, Mary Slack, Sipho Mzimela, Wendy Appelbaum, Irene Menell, Charlie Jassat, Queen Nomdo of the Xhosa, former Zambian home affairs minister Aaron Milner, ex-South African telecommunications minister Jay Naidoo …
The fireworks were over, and it was time to get back to work.