Mandela's Visit

It was 1994, around the time the first democratic election was held in South Africa.

I was marking the matriculation final year English papers in a very large room at the Johannesburg College of Education. Marking started at 7.30 am. Twice a day we had 15 minutes for tea. We had half-an-hour for lunch, and we finished for the day between 6 and 6.30 pm.

I was lead marker for the Shakespeare section of the literature paper. At morning tea, one of the other markers, Anne, and I decided to carry our tea outside for some fresh air. We found crowds lining the so-called street leading from the real street to the main lecture hall.

"What's happening?" we asked.

"Mandela's coming."

We joined the crowds, and heard the murmurs growing into shouts and clapping as Mandela walked along. Catching sight of him, we too shouted and clapped. We enjoyed being part of the excitement, and reluctantly returned to the marking hall, after the tall grey-haired man had passed by.

"That's the first and the last time we'll ever be close enough to actually see him," said Anne.

I thought: that's not the case.

It was 1948, just after the National Party had been elected to govern South Africa. They had already declared they would introduce something called apartheid. My father had returned to Johannesburg from a conference on the coast, and said to my mother, "Mandela's coming for tea on Saturday afternoon, from 3 to 5 pm. Exactly. He wants to consult with me. No one must know, or there'll be a riot."

He meant that all the black workers in the neighborhood would rush along our front path, perhaps even into the house, and demand to see Mandela. A neighbor would phone the all-white police, who would arrive with guns and someone would be hurt.

My mother said, "Harry is playing golf, so he won't be here. I'll phone Martha (my aunt's black housekeeper) and tell her that Nunya (our black housekeeper) will visit her and bring a lemon cake, so she mustn't bake and bring a cake here."

"I'll be at Estelle's house," I said.

"I want you here," said my mother, "in the breakfast room."

Harry was my uncle, my mother's younger brother, who lived with us at the time. Martha and Nunya, both off duty on weekends, visited each other on Saturday afternoons, Martha usually coming to our house. She'd bring a cake that she had baked, and Martha and Nunya would come into our kitchen to make tea for themselves and would always include us if we were at home, and offer some cake.

Nunya didn't bake, or use the telephone.

First my mother spoke to Nunya, then phoned Martha and told her that Nunya would be visiting her, bringing a lemon cake.

On Saturday afternoon, at 3 pm, my father, mother and I were gathered at the front door. We heard a car draw up and the steel gate clanging. My father opened the front door. The car had gone and a tall man with curly black hair took two strides into our entrance hall, across the path that ran between the front of the house and the fence. Our garden was at the side of the house. My father closed the door and took Mandela's hand. "Nelson, welcome," my father said. "You've met Julia."

"Welcome, welcome," said my mother, and introduced me to Mandela. I shook his hand. We walked along the hallway, that we called the passage, past the telephone, to the fairly small room next to the kitchen known as the breakfast room. There we had all our meals, except for Rosh Hashana and Pesach. Then the whole of my mother's family joined us in the large dining room. Once a month the dining room was also used for Communist Party meetings.

The first thing one saw in the breakfast room was the floor-to-ceiling cupboard with a key in the lock, across one corner. Another corner held a tall bookcase. One wall was filled with net-curtained casement windows. No one could see into the room unless the light inside was on. Against a fourth wall stood our fridge. The motor, at the bottom, was open – a round cylinder that kept the fridge cold. Mandela was fascinated. "Your motor doesn't have a cover, a front piece?" he asked.

"It was my mother's. I inherited it, and I've never seen a cover," said my mother.

My father sat at the head of the table, I at the foot. Mandela had his back to the windows, and my mother faced him. I took my small farm animals from the bookcase and arranged them on a green cloth spread over the foot of the table and the book Mafeking Road, by H. C. Bosman. Mandela asked me if I had read the book.

"I'm in primary school," I said. "My mother says it's for 16-year-olds."

My cat, Battle, walked into the room and jumped onto my lap, curled up and went to sleep. I hardly listened to the adults talking, but I did learn a new word: Bantustan.

After a while my mother said, "I'll make tea," and went into the kitchen. Soon she returned with a large wooden tray holding a tea pot, milk jug, cups and saucers, teaspoons and cake forks and a lemon cake, all on a tray-cloth. I had milk and a slice of cake.

In the middle of the conversation Mandela said, "On the way to this room we walked by a number of cupboards. None had keys. But that huge one across the corner has a key."

"To keep it locked," said my mother. "Otherwise, that cat Battle gets in and knocks over the Goldberg and Zeffert soft drinks, strawberry, raspberry, cream soda and such."

"That's a strange name for a cat."

"The Battle of Stalingrad," I said, "and quite a few other battles."

"What do you know of the Battle of Stalingrad?" said Mandela.

"It's the longest battle the world has ever known," I said.

The adults continued talking and the telephone suddenly rang. In the breakfast room we were silent.

"Tapped," said my mother. "We hear clicks, and sometimes breathing," she said.

"I'll answer it," I said. "I don't mind the clicks."

"Stay where you are." said my mother.

At two minutes before 5 o' clock we were at the front door. We heard a car stop. My father opened our front door and Mandela stepped out and into the car, which drove away.

It is 2024. My mother, father and Nelson Mandela are no longer alive. I found myself recently talking about Mandela's visit. I can talk about it, but I have no photographs. At the time we didn't have a camera. When we needed one, we'd borrow my uncle's. We didn't have an indoor flash, so we would stand outside facing the sun and one of us would take a photo.

When my son and his twins visited Johannesburg during the summer holidays in December 2017, they went to the University of the Witwatersrand. The buildings were closed and they couldn't see the door which declared in black letters: Mandela Institute.

Beneath was stated: The Issy Wolfson Chair of Law. They had been told to look for it.

That door has now changed, and uses colors, I'm told.

We used some words different from today's usage. We had different objects, different lives – not better or worse. Different. Now I can talk about Mandela's visit.