I recently found myself in a rather animated conversation as we watched on television Nelson Mandela’s 90th Birthday Bash held in London, England. The bone of contention involved Mandela’s legacy in Africa. Actually I had started the argument by recalling how once when I was still a varsity student in Jo’burg I met my Madiaba on my way to a vending machine in mid (must have been mid because I remember the night as being quite cold) of 1992.
While passing the long deserted passage through the main entrance of Great Hall to Senate House, where the vending machines were, I was suddenly shoved aside by rude gigantic, mostly white men, in black suites. Before I was able to realise what was happening Madiba came to view. He had apparently noticed how the men had rudely shoved me out of the way. He broke with the procession, extended his hand in greeting to me. I just froze, afraid the security men might not allow it.
“Hallow young man. What is your name?” He said in that hoarse, almost shrill voice of his. I was dumbfounded. He asked me also what I was studying, and when I told him he said in conclusion. “Good! The country needs people to build this country.” The encounter must have lasted less than 20 seconds but I never forgot it. Unfortunately for my ego, none of my friends believed me when I told them I had just met Mandela. I don’t know, but for some reason I felt distant from them and no longer in need to prove myself after.
As I was saying, the argument with my friends was about how black people, especially in Africa, respect the likes of Kwame Nkrumah, Aimé Césaire, Julius Nyerere, Thabo Mbeki, even Robert Mugabe more. The trend was mentioning presidents who happened to be intellectuals. But where did their intellectualism lead us? I pointed to the mess that drove Ghana into Nkrumah’s assignation and military coup after another. I recalled what happened in Tanzania when Ujama failed. Say nothing of present Zimbabwe. In conclusion I said I prefer presidents who are leaders than visionaries. Visionaries tend to be blind to anything outside their vision, and usually ruthless in pursuing their vision.
“What has Mandela done since he came out of jail.” One of my friends asked. “We all know he was just a ceremonious president, with Zizi (T. Mbeki) playing his prime minister and running the show.” He nearly got me there. I recalled how in 1990 we travelled from Jo’burg to Cape Town to listen to Madiba’s first speech since coming out of jail. All our difficult lives in the township we had idealised the moment of Mandela’s coming out of jail as the day of our liberty. We thought he would come sounding trumpet blast with explosive wisdom from all the years he (they) spent in contemplation of our future in jail. To say his speech leaved much to be desired that day is to be respectful. I was awfully disappointed.
But what is Mandela’s legacy?
For me it is seeing a helpless person being shoved around and taking time to reassure them that they matter. It is not intellectualising or moralizing about this or that, but having a heart in a right place, and inviting others to share in the aura of goodness by spontaneous generosity. It is not the aesthetic pleasure of philosophical musing, but life given meaning by ability to forgive, to extend your hand even to your enemies and shame them by goodness if need be. When your heart is in the wrong place, all the education you acquire affords nothing, except you end up being a contradiction even to your own mind.
I’m lucky enough to come from a (African) culture that values what’s in your heart more than what’s in your head. My head has been trained in Western education—I’ll admit to regarding it as a better way of living an authenticity life until, with maturity, I became appalled by some of its falsified posturing and too individualist way of life masquerading as enlightenment. I’ve since strived to liberate my mind both from Western excesses and African atavistic oppressions.
My friend says my choosing Madiba as my best African leader of all time is a symptom of having fallen for ‘white trickery’, what he termed ‘Mandela Cult’. They’ve claimed him away from us. I do not mind that if it is our goodness they’ve claimed. I get the feeling that my friend confuses eloquence with truth. I’ve read enough to discover how sometimes learned men use charm of elegantly arranged words to collapse truth to the fascination superficial charisma; that used to be called sowing silk over sackcloth. I’ll rather be a priest in the Madiba oracle than a malleable automaton in quibbling visions that loose their saltiness with passing years.
Ngxatsho ke tata uMadiba, siyabulela, for all you’ve given up for the freedom of all of us. Now at last, I too, am able to extend my hand to you.
Fourscore and ten, you are very strong tata. But then again the lime quarries of Robben Island knew that already when they could not prevail over you. Ahh! Dalibhunga!!! Madiba omhle!
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