How long have you been doing this job?
A short meeting at Heathrow left an impression, writes Mandla Langa
IN December 1993, Nelson Mandela disabused me of all notions of becoming a diplomat. I had always envied people who had met Mandela, pumping them for titbits at our ANC office in Islington, London, where I was still technically in exile, although the ANC had been unbanned and the most iconic of political prisoners released.
Our chief representative in the UK, Mendi Msimang, frequently visited home. But, because he had worked with Nelson Mandela and Oliver Tambo in the early 1960s, hero worship left him jaded and I think he believed that there was already too much drama around Mandela, so he was sparing with information. But I remember him telling me that Mandela had a great sense of humour.
I also remember Gill Marcus, normally a hard person to impress, explaining the impact of a newly freed Mandela on her: he stood for a fearlessness that had less to do with invincibility or arrogance than confidence — a man who could neither be tempted nor threatened.
Mandela’s charisma shone in the words of a young British woman who had been at the concert in his honour at Wembley Stadium on April 16 1990. With tears streaming down her face, she had stood transfixed as Mandela strode across the stage, waving to the world. “He came out of 27 years of imprisonment with a smile like that,” she said in wonderment. “What a geezer!”
So it was with a certain trepidation that I accompanied Denis Goldberg one Monday morning in December to Heathrow to meet Mandela, who was on his way to the Bahamas. My understanding was that we would assist with customs and immigration and Mandela’s transportation to his suite, and that would be that, a doddle, as they say in those parts.
But it was not as easy as all that. We drove through the special entrance for VIPs all the way to the huge British Airways aircraft, where the stewardess charged with looking after Mandela was visibly relieved that we had come to take him off her hands. I suppose there must be something nerve-racking about safeguarding someone treasured the world over.
We greeted Mandela, who wore a trench coat over his grey suit, a white shirt and a tie, and looked relaxed even though it had been an overnight flight. He and Goldberg had a cheerful exchange that must have been informed by their history together — Goldberg had also been one of the accused in the Rivonia Trial in which Mandela and eight others were sentenced to life imprisonment. Goldberg was released after 22 years and, as the only white accused, had been imprisoned in Pretoria Central Prison.
From the tarmac we went to the Spelthorne Suite at Terminal 2 to wait for customs and immigration clearance. It was here that Goldberg pulled me aside and told me that Mandela’s minders did not have visas for the Bahamas. My job then was to sit with Mandela and make sure he was comfortable while Goldberg sorted this out with the Bahamian high commissioner in London. I did not particularly relish the task. Mandela was calm on the settee across from me, still wearing the trench coat as if he really did not expect a delay.
We chatted a bit, and I reminded him that I had met him briefly in London at the residence of Sir Shridath Ramphal, who was then the general secretary of the Commonwealth; he knew my brother Pius. I gave him a briefing on what was happening in the UK and the activities of the ANC to raise funds for the elections. I told him about the efforts of the anti-apartheid movement in the UK, which was the strongest in the world, to the point that even members of organised crime were contemplating supporting the struggle in South Africa. I informed him of the work we had done in the campaigns for the isolation of the regime and the fact that people in the UK were so taken up with the ANC’s penchant for formulating policy that I was even asked by university students whether the ANC had a policy on the royal family.
As I spoke, I realised that Mandela’s attention wavered, but he still could not bring himself to ask what the holdup was. I scanned the suite for newspapers and, because it was early Monday morning, there were papers such as Sunday Sport and News of the World, which both featured buxom blondes in various stages of undress. I did not think it would be proper reading material for Mandela. Where the hell was Goldberg with the visas?
The minutes ticked by slowly and I am certain that Mandela could sense my anxiety. I looked at him — tall even when seated, his lined face still as if he was done with wrestling with the problems of his troubled country.
I know that he was feeling the weight of the people of South Africa on his shoulders, especially because he was now the president of the ANC and there was no doubt that he would ascend to the highest office in the democratic government that was being born in the halls of the World Trade Centre, in Johannesburg, where the negotiations were being held.
I figured that the weight was even more onerous now that his comrade and friend, Oliver Tambo, had passed
I looked at him, tall even when seated, his lined face still as if he was done with wrestling with the problems of his troubled country
away, soon after the two men had seen the country reeling from the cruel assassination of Chris Hani, whom they had both loved. I sensed a great loneliness in Mandela, which, I supposed, must have come from leading a political party from which so much was expected, especially as the body count was increasing every day throughout the land.
It was then that I thought that perhaps I could tell him a joke and take his mind off the troubles. And because he was going to the West Indies, I would tell him the one I had got from John Matshikiza. There is this super-duper cool hipster called Bobo Jones, a man so cool and hip he even stopped for green lights. Then, one day, BJ, also known as Mr Refrigerator, was strutting his stuff among friends, sipping a pina colada and smoking a joint. Then a bolt of lightning entered one window and went out the other and struck a tree outside, followed by a resounding crash. Bobo jumped with a start. His friends jeered, saying he had finally been jolted out of his supercool style. Bobo, without losing a beat, said: “Jah take a photo; man pose.” When John first told me this story, I had found it hilarious. I gazed at Mandela, checking if he had got the punch line.
“Very interesting,” Mandela said, nodding and looking at me as if seeing me for the first time. And then he asked: “How long have you been doing this job?”
Before I could answer, Goldberg arrived with the visas. Phew!
Langa is an award-winning novelist, poet and short-story writer