Passing

It was Thursday night and I was making my way to a friend's place who was leaving South Africa for Chile the next day. I hadn't seen her for months and was excited to be able to finally catch up. Having move to Pretoria a year a go, and not owning a television, I always have Talk 702 on. It's a great radio station, with brilliant news coverage, and gives a newbie like me an exceptional insight into the workings of the South African nation. It was around 9pm and the news was this: an emergency family meeting had been called at Nelson Mandela's home in Johannesburg, and there had been speculation about his grandson Mandela rushing out of his own trial earlier in the day.

We all knew it was going to happen, and many had been continually praying that it would happen sooner rather than later. Most of us believed that he was being kept alive by a life support machine and that the family were taking their time in switching it off; trying to resolve family feuds over the estate before putting 'Madiba' to rest. It seemed a cruel irony that a man that had attempted to bring peace to the world presided over a such fiery cauldron of bitterness and descent within his own family. The Mandela family seemed to be more concerned about their financial cut of 'Madiba Magic' than his legacy, to the point that his own grandson Mandala was willing to desecrate the graves of his own ancestors and move their bodies to his land in a bid to cash in on the potential passing tourist trade. Or was it more to do with ancestral traditions that you go back to the village or soil on which you were born? Who knows? And it was not for us to judge, anyway. We had not spent years of our lives brutalised by an oppressive regime and had our personal family life unwillingly sacrificed and broken for the benefit of a nation. The Mandela family pain was beyond what most humans can bare and all strung out and serialised for us in a never ending tragic stream of books, films and media snippets. They deserved their privacy: few were willing to give it to them.

Now at the party, with the red wine flowing, I announced that it was likely that Nelson Mandela was 'going to snuff it tonight', which surprises me given the absolute reverence I have for the man. The party was swinging, and we were discussing the uber-conservative attitude of Pretorian's towards lesbians. Despite being one of the first countries in the world to legalize gay marriage, it's easy to say that many South African's have failed to embraced the liberal base of the 'Rainbow Nation' South African constitution as part of their national consciousness. It was under this backdrop that I learned of Madiba's death. Phoning home to extend the night out, wanting to stay over, Victor my partner sounded sombre. “Can I tell you something?” “Of course you can tell me something. What is it?” “Nelson Mandela is dead.” It was hard to say what my reaction was; it wasn't exactly shock as I turned to the girls to tell them the news, “Your kidding?” With the utmost sincerity “No I'm not.” There was fumbling for the television remote control and there the news appeared from CNN splashed over the screen with a green tinged picture. “Where's the South African News Channel?” I asked, slightly aghast. I was hearing the news from an American while sitting in Africa. They couldn't find it. The beautifully blonde presenter spouted out some archaic shit about the life of this great man who's life really couldn't be encompassed by words. Then came Jacob Zuma, a president loathed by many South Africans, and if not on actual trial, perpetually on media trail for lacking any kind of moral compass. On most occasions it had been unanimously decided that it was better that he shouldn't speak unless absolutely necessary. Now here he was delivering the fateful news that Madiba, Father of the Nation, Tata, was dead. With a group of Afrikaner girls who had barely been alive the length of time Mandela had been in prison, I curled up on the couch and cried. Then we took out the candles a lit them.

We were grief stricken, but they didn't feel what I felt. I felt the world change. I phoned friends and family back home, some had heard the news, some hadn't; to none was the news a blasé interruption to be overlooked in a few days time. When a fifty-five year old Liverpudlian sheds a tear for someone you know that man is loved. We all loved him.

Then came Obama, and then came Cameron. For a moment I gave Cameron the benefit of the doubt and took his words to be sincere. Then I remembered the Young Conservative posters that had been fluttering around Facebook months earlier. “Remember when David Cameron pays tribute to Mandela he was making 'Hang Nelson Mandela' posters as a member of the Young Conservatives.” For a moment it made me angry, then it made me sad. Then I was disappointed. If only David Cameron had opened his speech the way Obama had. “One of my first political acts was to make posters that said 'Hang Nelson Mandela'. Having lived through his release and election as the first democratically elected president of South Africa, I now realise I was wrong.” After all it was what Madiba would have wanted. Madiba had already forgiven him and so should he. Such an act would have also shown the power of the man with the ability to bring together and reconcile the most extreme of view points. I decided to drive home via the Union Buildings, hoping that someone would be there. There was no one, not even at Church Square where Mandela had been sentenced to life imprisonment at the Rivonia trial. This surprised me.

The next day was grey, a proper overcast grey. It is quite unusual weather here in South Africa. We were a nation in mourning. Nobody cracked a smile, not a proper one. Everyone was sheepish, removed, going through the motions, rather than their cheerful engaging selves. Victor phoned work to check everyone was there and I was teary; the kind of teary when you just think about it and you well up. The world had changed. I had a beauty appointment, and blabbered away for what seemed like hours with my therapist. You see, most Afrikaners didn't know much about Nelson Mandela, and when they did find out they were assured it was something that would blow over. I think increasingly, over the years, the Afrikaners themselves have been on a tremendous journey of growth from guilt to anger, and now gratitude. They know only too well that they could have ended up like Zimbabwe, if it hadn't been for Madiba. He saved the country. We also had to talk about the sometimes overt racism among some people, and the ever to near rumour of 'The Night of the Long Knives'. Some Afrikaners believe on the day after Nelson Mandela's funeral there will be a full scale black revolt against the whites. This rumour stems from a prophecy of Seiner van Rensburgh a Boer minister who died in 1926. Strangely enough, in the same prophecy he also saw the burial of a great black leader in a glass coffin. Afrikaners and blacks alike widely dismiss it as nonsense, but you know. There is always one. In some ways this rumour here in Pretoria has largely surrounded the imminence of Mandela's death.

I went to sign the condolence book the next morning, turning up just as it opened. Within minutes the queue was a couple of hundred people long. One guy asked to leave the queue to say hello to a friend. Someone degraded him for it; another said “What would Madiba do?”

When it was first announced that Mandela was ill, in June, the second night after he was admitted we headed down to the Medi-Clinic Heart Hospital, Pretoria fearing the worst. The media literally circled like vultures, and along the road at the hospital there were tens of media teams with generators on full blast and burring away. Of course, the film crews had set up next to the hospital entrance hall. It was off putting to see the potential passing of a great man consumed in such a way; the world's media forcing their way into many people's private distress, especially that of the Mandela family as they went to and from the hospital. I wanted to light a candle, but chose not to under the intense media glare.

Oddly Victor and I had been invited to attend a wedding in Houghton on Saturday 8^th. So we also had the opportunity to go to Mandela's house. That was strange. I remembered Diana, even in Glasgow there there was a silent hush that fell over her memorials. At the Mandela house we followed another corridor of media well wishers, and now hawkers hoping to make a well intentioned quick buck or self-promotion. Selfies ruled, with people lacking enough restraint to remember not to smile. I wasn't so much a memorial to one of the greatest men in history, but a storm of self validation for those who had made it to the moment. We brought a candle and lit it. It the meantime people sung and danced in circles, people of all races, joining in at any given time. There must have been 200 hundred people ebbing and flowing from the site, while close-by some guy had found an audience for his views on African communism.

The sky remained grey and I debated as to whether I wanted to go to Soweto or not. Back and forward I shifted. They were expecting massive crowds, beyond the capacity of a 90,000 seater stadium. Buses were running from all over the country. It was a 4am start for all. I knew Mandela was going to lie in state in Pretoria, so decided against the trip to Soweto. I wanted to see his coffin; to be in his presence. It bucketed down with rain, so Victor and I decided to buy a television instead, enabling us to watch the memorial live. I was disappointed: too long; too much tribute, and not enough action. Obama was great (except for the fact Guantanamo was still a news story, along with the black hills) The Chinese President made it a mockery, behaving more like it was a trade conference than a memorial for a human right activist. China's shame was further enhanced by the absence of the Dalai Lama, due to the fact that he probably wouldn't have been given a visa, having been already refused twice by the South African government. It poured that day all day, and I have been told that in Africa it's a blessing. Truly in Gauteng it doesn't rain like that often.

I had made a commitment to see Madiba, and had chosen just to make sure that I would see him in cortège at the very least. I was pretty lucky. I had friend who had lived opposite the Union Buildings and had decided to stay there overnight before Madiba arrived. I slept in the bright lights of the Union Buildings. I had been there only a few weeks before, and I had counted only four lights on, expecting somehow for Zuma to walk past the window. Now I counted over 20, the buildings illuminated for the the whole world to see, and the world's media was watching. It was an early start and the sirens sporadically fired through the night. The military arrived in convoy first armoured cars and then busses filed with soldiers, hundreds of them. We watched them fill out, waiting for orders when suddenly they all ran into the Union Gardens. They'd all gone to take a piss before what would be hours of work. We were on the corner of Madiba and Government Street and could watch it all form the rooftop.

ABC had been renting parts of the building for years, and yet on the roof there was nothing. I decided to get down on the street for the coffin's passing. There seemed to be a very small crowd. A friend and I ran a block down to find larger crowds and groups singing some kind of lament. To hear people singing that way, to a Europeans at least, is unusual. It vibrates through your whole body. You think of the film Zulu and you feel the meaning saturate your soul in words you can't understand. A lady was giving out small South Africa flags for free. All of a sudden I thought of Diana. We need to get some flowers, I thought, and we ran into the mall. It was 6.30am. The supermarket was closed. Luckily, as we ran upstairs to the next level, we found one singular florist open. I bought a bunch of yellow roses for friendship and my friend bought some yellow asters. We thought yellow was fitting as it is one of the colours of the South African and ANC flags, representing the sun and riches of the soil. We ran back to the corner of Madiba and Government street and started handing out the flowers for people to throw in front of the hearse. The media was all set up to get a wide angle shot of the funeral car travelling up Madiba Street, then all of a sudden the police moved in and wanted everyone to move. It was ridiculous. A lot of people were angry, and the policing and the military seemed very overstated for such a sombre moment of peaceful passing of respects. The hearse flashed by with the coffin in the back covered with the South African flag. I threw my rose. It missed.

After that I went back to the rooftop and watched a crowd a 1000 strong grow, singing and dancing. At one point a loud speaker was produced and and official started to announce that they would now put buses on from this point to the Union Buildings. The crowd spilt, half staying where they were singing and dancing, the other half heading off on a march round the block that would be repeated several times. In the building, in the lift, we could still hear the people outside singing. It was an incredible sound. I stayed in the house trying to catch up on my sleep, and the marching crowed would go past as if singing, and wave of music would fill the whole flat. It struck me that the state funeral had been designed for an European audience, that would accept their role in history, line the route, and submissively melt away once it was over. It wasn't an European state funeral: it was an African one. Filled with singing, dancing, and celebration..

Eventually we saw from the balcony that people had started to queue. As I was here I thought I would take my chances, rather than getting up at 6am to go to the pack and ride at VC Villiers, the Pretoria University Sports Ground. My friend joined me.

We queued for six hours to see the great man himself on Wednesday. Brilliantly unusual atmosphere, the hawkers took care of our queuing needs, drinks, frozen juice, umbrellas (for the sun), the works. Everyone in the queue was supportive, they let you jump in and out with no problems and we warned them people might join us and they had no problem with that and vice a versa. We were meant to get on buses to the Union Buildings but in the end they let us walk up to the Union Buildings. They completely altered the queue and got everyone to hold hands. That was quite special. The military stepped in and told us "Hold hands and don't let go" and then a policeman said "It's what Mandela would have wanted, for us to all hold hands and be joined together". Well worth the wait. Very special moment indeed, one I will never forget. I was totally thrown off step by seeing Mandela's grandson right next to the coffin, watching over him. It was also a great privilege. Honoured and humbled to see Mandela, he looked beautiful and at peace. Adrio, my friend, dropped his head and remained silent for most of the walk back down through the Union Buildings Gardens.

Today I had intended to go to the top of Klapperkoppie to see the plane take off from Waterkloof. Victor had an errand to run before going to work, so it wasn't possible. We were blessed all the same to see the plane take off with two fighter jets and circle back round us as we travelled along the road. Madiba was going home to as a great peacemaking warrior to where he wanted to be: among the rolling hills of his true people. I couldn't help but sit in the car and cry.