By Bathandwa Mbola
In all my years as a news reporter, I have come across several heads of state and other high-profile dignitaries.
I had the privilege of covering former President Nelson Mandela casting his vote at the Killarney Country Club in Houghton, Johannesburg in 2009. Then, he was 90-years-old and needed assistance to the voting booth by then Gauteng Premier Paul Mashatile and his then personal assistant Zelda la Grange.
I remember the excitement I felt - being a relatively young black reporter at the time- as Madiba waved in his bright yellow “Madiba shirt” and a black overcoat to the crowds with his iconic smile. That broad, generous grin of his is an image that has been and will be embedded in my mind.
The second encounter was on Wednesday, when his National Flag-draped coffin was being carried into the light sandstoned Union Building’s Amphitheatre with great dignity and ceremony.
Since his passing away last Thursday, I haven’t had a chance to stop and take a few minutes to digest the news of his passing away.
That late evening, like most around the world, I was glued to President Jacob Zuma’s live broadcast to the nation - but doing so as a reporter looking for an angle for a story. We worked into the early hours of the morning and throughout the next day on the numerous tributes as they poured in from all corners of the world.
Unlike the official memorial service at Soweto’s FNB Stadium and the public gatherings at both his Soweto and Houghton homes - which had been celebratory in mood - there was a real sadness at the lying in state phase of the 10-day mourning period. It was so final.
I shed a tear when the National Anthem played as the members of the South African National Defence Force welcomed Madiba’s dark brown casket to the Union Buildings.
As I tried to read the pallbearers carrying his body to the same spot where he had been sworn in as the country’s first democratically-elected president almost 20 years ago, my heart felt heavy and I felt a hard lump in my throat.
I was “fortunate” to be up front with a select group of journalists and photographers and witnessed as the family, past and present Heads of State and politicians passed by the coffin, viewing his body for the last time and paying their last respects to him.
Once my assignment was done, as they allowed ordinary South Africans their chance to view Madiba, a colleague challenged me to use the opportunity and “be part of history” and view his body – a moment, he said, I would be able to share with future generations.
Without thinking twice, I made my way to a policewoman who was directing the flow of mourners at the entrance of the amphitheatre and joined the public queue.
Without preparing and without processing it, I was stepping on to the red carpet at the specially erected structure and I could not make a U-turn.
I made eye contact with one of the four military ceremonial guards dressed in white uniform who stood at the each corner of the casket with sword pointing downward. In that moment, I wondered what my reaction would be and if I would be able to control it.
There was Mandla Mandela, Mandela’s eldest grandson.
Then there was the casket wrapped in white silk – holding the man who has been hailed “as the giant of history, liberator of the 20th century”.
As I got closer to the transparent window at the upper half of the casket, my hand reached to my chest.
I realised that Mandla Mandela was looking at me and as a sign of respect I looked away to my other side.
There he was - the Father of the Nation, the giant, the icon - in front of me. His face looked puffy, but still recognisable, as though he has not been sick for months. He looked as handsome in his famous Madiba-style shirt, which was golden brown and black.
My viewing of this giant was longer than I had anticipated, as the couple in front of me had stopped for a while to take a longer look at him.
I got lost in the moment as I looked at his face, with his grey hair neatly combed. His eyes closed as if he was sleeping - a well-deserved rest after all the hardships he had endured in the prison for the 27 years as number one fugitive.
He looked peaceful. His face expressed kindness and compassion.
It suddenly dawned on me that he is really gone. I bowed my head and said “Enkosi Tata, ngayo yonke into” [Thank you,Tata, for everything].
I am not sure if my words were audible, but I noticed Mandla Mandela staring at me. I realised that seated on that chair was a grandson who had just lost a grandfather. Despite his best efforts, his pain was visible.
He looked at me and nodded very sadly, seemingly acknowledging that it was ok to cry as Madiba was all of ours. It was a special moment. I grieved for Mandla Mandela and the entire Mandela family, especially Mama Graca Machel.
I did not know Madiba personally, but seeing him lying in state – for that minute, he was my father, my grandfather, my icon and my Mandela.
Lala qhawe, Yem-Yem, Dalibunga. - SAnews.gov.za
