Saying Goodbye
A few months after his first long hospitalization, it was decided to move Madiba to Qunu. He often asked about people he grew up with or deceased family members. Qunu is a remote area in the Eastern Cape and since it is the place where Madiba got sick the previous December, we met the instruction with scepticism. At home in Johannesburg he was close to medical attention, close friends popped in from time to time and some family occasionally visited. One could call on people like Ahmed Kathrada and George Bizos to pop in to visit him but in Qunu that would be difficult. We didn’t know what to expect in Qunu. The family insisted and there was no way that Mrs Machel could object. Madiba was emotionally stable wherever she was, whether that was in Qunu or Johannesburg.
I started travelling to Qunu weekly, through the support of the Nelson Mandela Foundation, or every second week at least. Madiba stopped being talkative but he wanted company. Hardly anyone visited him and Mrs Machel was the only one apart from the medical staff and household staff that he had around him. Qunu is remote and it was difficult to travel there. One had to set an entire day aside to travel there and back and it would mean getting up at 3 a.m. and arriving back home at 8 p.m. if you only went for the day. It was probably not easy for everyone to travel there but Qunu became quiet and isolated.
* * *
It was announced at the Foundation that the organization was about to restructure to focus more on its core work. I understood and supported the fact that the Foundation had to become a Centre of Memory, similar to a Presidential Library, to preserve his legacy. Madiba supported the setting up of a Centre of Memory, and the conversion of the Foundation in to a non-governmental organization specializing in memory and dialogue work. He launched the project in 2004, and during the years thereafter made donations of private papers, gifts and awards to the Nelson Mandela Foundation for the Centre’s permanent archival collections. However I didn’t agree that Madiba’s office had to be closed. While Madiba was alive people wanted to remain connected with him even though it was not personally possible for him to reciprocate. His friends and associates, people who all had relationships with him, wanted to feel acknowledged. By closing Madiba’s office that would become impossible. But it was expected that we should close his office and transfer relationships to people who did not have the institutional memory our office had. It was envisaged that his friends would be treated as part of the process which I felt would lack acknowledging their respective individual relationships.
Prof. Gerwel and Mrs Machel protested and said that Madiba deserved to have an office and a Personal Assistant to the day he died. Prof. Gerwel, who was Chairman of the Foundation, said that Madiba handpicked me and that he would refuse to sign off on me being made completely redundant when Madiba made that choice when he was in a position to choose the people around him. Madiba’s office was closed and we were all made redundant, although I was reinstated on a part-time basis. But I was undermined and sidelined to such an extent that my position really became a ceremonial job. Both Maretha and Thoko, the other two staff members, with equally long service histories with Madiba, were told to go. I had luckily never been in it for the money, and I had been rewarded in ways money can never buy, and decided that I would remain committed to Madiba and Mrs Machel even if I was not paid anything. Loyalty and dedication can’t be bought or paid to go away. I had also made a promise to myself and to him that I would never desert him until indeed the last day.
By the start of 2012 Madiba was permanently living in Qunu. I would travel there every week for a day or two to spend time with him. On 28 February 2012 I worked my last day as a full-time employee for Nelson Mandela. I didn’t expect the next day to be any different but it was. I suddenly felt empty and without purpose. I know Madiba wouldn’t have allowed it, but he was no longer making decisions or able to voice his wishes. In fact, he seemed to be slowly distancing himself from us. He was visibly old, needed permanent care and was no longer the jovial man we knew.
I was informed by the Foundation’s CEO that my rank had to be changed from Executive Personal Assistant to Personal Assistant. In eighteen years I had gone from Typist to Assistant Private Secretary to Private Secretary to Manager and Spokesperson for his office and now finally back to Personal Assistant. It was actually laughable that love, care, loyalty and trust could take you on that roller-coaster ride.
I never had any aspirations to become anything other than whatever served his best interests, and I was not fazed by these latest attempts to marginalize me. You see, if Nelson Mandela believes in you, handpicks you and defends you until he is no longer able to do so, despite even criticism from the party that moulded him, little else should distract you in life. I never used these events to defend myself but allowed things to happen as they were probably supposed to happen. I never referred to the fact that I was chosen as I thought that it could be interpreted that I am conceited, but I always believed that there would come a time when I had to defend myself and on that day I would rationally think differently about things.
It is, I believe, one of the least attractive characteristics of us Afrikaners: we are brought up believing that we deserve nothing, we are nothing and we can accomplish nothing. Well, those who have achieved did so sterlingly and managed to raise themselves beyond these mental limitations. I really had to work hard at accepting the fact that I was chosen by Madiba to be anything. The upside is that you never ponder about these things and that probably prevents you from becoming absorbed with self-importance. I am the first to admit that I am nothing, was nothing, without Madiba gracing and blessing my life.
The poison within the family was leaking out everywhere. Many of his family had never wanted me around, and they were now getting their chance. But I still refused to abandon him. They didn’t want me to fly down to Qunu every week to see him and I heard them asking our CEO ‘What does she do there?’ Even if I had to find a sponsor to fly me to Qunu every week for me to see him, I was willing to look for that. It was just Mrs Machel, household and medical staff there. He was lonely. President Zuma passed through from time to time and so did a few very close friends who went through the trouble to make the tedious trip to Qunu, but more and more he became isolated from the rest of the world. Whenever someone important visited, there would, however, be a sudden influx of interested parties. And from time to time we called on people like Ahmed Kathrada and other old friends to visit for the day, and one could see how they lifted his spirit whenever they came around.
Madiba always appeared very happy to see me. There was very little conversation but whenever Mrs Machel was around he enjoyed watching us converse and exchanging stories. He needed life around him. He needed people to touch him, care for him and create a sense of normality around him, so that he would not feel left behind. Some days the totality of our conversation would be: ‘Oh Zeldina, you are here. How are your parents?’ and I would tease him and say, ‘Are you not going to ask how I am, Khulu?’ and his shoulders would shrug with laughter. He would drowse off and wake up only to reach out to your hand. He did so with most visitors.
It was decided that the house in Qunu needed refurbishment and Madiba returned to Johannesburg for a while. Weeks quickly passed and it was easier to visit him more often. On a particular Friday afternoon Mrs Machel and I spoke about the son of Queen Beatrix of the Netherlands who had been seriously injured after a skiing accident. Mrs Machel tried to reach the Dutch royal family to convey our support. We had been close to them and therefore felt personally affected by the news.
That Friday night I went to bed thinking of the family in suffering. I sometimes put my phone on silent when I go to bed and the next morning I slept in for a little while. When I woke and picked up my phone I noticed that something was wrong. I had seven missed calls and sixteen messages. We were no longer working and there was no reason for the amount of communication in normal circumstances. The first message I opened was from Robyn Curnow, a journalist friend: ‘Madiba is in hospital.’ I responded: ‘What, are you serious, how do you know?’ She then told me it had been all over the news. I traced things back and discovered that indeed he was in hospital. I knew nothing. No one had told me. I contacted Josina and she confirmed it. She didn’t know any details either. I then texted Mrs Machel to ask whether they were OK. I told her not to give me any detail of where or when but simply to tell me whether they were OK, as I didn’t want to be blamed if it leaked. She gave me a brief overview about what was happening.
I don’t know of any person alive who has been treated with the amount of disrespect that people have shown towards Mrs Machel. Politics within the family about his funeral took place for years before his death. In April 2005 the first article about funeral arrangements and a special committee dealing with such eventualities appeared in the Noseweek magazine. Mrs Machel and some of the children had refused to be party to arrangements about Madiba’s funeral. He was still in fairly good health and it was unthinkable to be planning someone’s funeral while the person was still happily alive, still being cared for by his wife. It is only much later in 2013 when the Minister of Defence Nosiviwe Nqakula empathetically reeled Mrs Machel in that she was consulted about certain arrangements and briefed about what had been planned. I do know that Mrs Machel had to put up a fight to get my name added to the funeral list. I made a promise to him though. I was going to be there right to the end, even if it meant I had to stand at a fence outside his farm in Qunu when they laid him to rest. Unbeknown to me, that would be close to the truth.
It is true what Madiba referred to sometimes . . . to test a man’s character, give him power. Once people have power they will always reveal themselves.
Every time Madiba was admitted to hospital we held our breath. I knew by now that I had to seclude myself when he was hospitalized. I became a hermit at such times, not speaking to anyone, not answering my phone or even having conversations with my parents. I would not speak to anyone but Prof. Gerwel, Mrs Machel and Josina. They understood that if I was ever seen to break trust or leak information, I would simply be refused access to Madiba for the rest of my life because then the family would have reason to get rid of me. I was not going to give them that pleasure and I kept my distance and relied on updates from Mrs Machel. I was also becoming worried about her. She had a huge burden to deal with. The family was as divided as ever while she was worried sick about her husband’s wellbeing.
* * *
At work pressure finally subsided from the public and apart from a few people who could not comprehend that Madiba would ever stop being actively involved, correspondence and requests became less. There was always that one request or proposal that someone thought had to be the exception to the rule and people would find reasons beyond logic why Nelson Mandela was the only one to support their ventures, or at least lend his association to endorse their efforts. I had realized over the years that if you continuously do negative things in your job, like saying no to people, it inevitably has a very negative impact on your psyche. You tend to become cynical by nature and it takes constant effort to pull yourself back from that negativity. With fewer requests and the negativity that came with them it was easier to find balance in life. I was opening myself to the next phase of my life.
People often ask me whether I don’t regret not getting married or having children. It would be selfish and extremely ungrateful to use ‘regret’ when describing my life. I gained so much being with Madiba but I suppose I gave him my youth, and perhaps I gave him my future too. But I will never blame him for it – ultimately, I made that choice. Was it sacrifice? Or not? I don’t feel burdened or sad that I might have lost oppportunities. I gained so much. I gained myself. I am completely content with the life that I have.
My part-time status and compromised income meant that I had to generate a salary and find something to challenge me again. I still had limited responsibility to Madiba and was adamant that I was not going to take another full-time job unless I was financially forced to do so. I was determined that I wanted to remain available to Madiba and Mrs Machel whenever they needed me, and I needed to make myself useful, but it was impossible and illogical to think that you could find another part-time job and be available to someone else when there was a need for it.
It is the weirdest experience though. From being on a constant adrenalin rush for about eighteen years to a complete shutdown of that adrenalin overnight is not a joke. One needs to find purpose. It was hard. Certain factions within the family still wanted me out. On the first day of the ‘rest of my life’, 1 March 2012, I had a tattoo engraved around my left pulse to be reminded what I had discovered about myself along this journey. ‘Pursue your passion.’ As long as I did that, I knew I would be happy for the rest of my life. My passion is to serve and I find fulfilment when I serve people. I had the words tattooed in French because I also wanted to remind myself for the rest of my life about what Madiba had said: ‘Find your roots’, and since my family is of French descent I wanted the words in French.
* * *
The first few months of my new life were difficult. I still went to the office from time to time to do some administration and then went to see Madiba occasionally. It was announced that he would return to Qunu once they had renovated the house there. So soon I was back in my routine of travelling to Qunu weekly or every second week. Sometimes Madiba was talkative, sometimes he wasn’t. Sometimes Mrs Machel and I would debate for the entire day about whatever was happening in the world and South Africa, the politics in the ANC, and world events like the Arab Spring and developments in other African countries, and occasionally Madiba would just smile at us with approval of the liveliness around him. We would sit in the lounge and converse, with Madiba suddenly pointing out to me that my handbag was on the floor and that I needed to pick it up. He was always there and totally aware of things happening around him. Sometimes I would call Prof. for Madiba just to say hello to him over the telephone. It always lit up Madiba’s face whenever he heard Prof.’s voice. ‘Oh Jakes,’ he would say. ‘I am happy to speak to you.’ While sitting with him Madiba often drifted off into a nap in his favourite chair but then would suddenly wake up to check that we were still there. And once one thinks your privileges come to an end, there’s sometimes even more. I had the most precious and valuable times there with them then.
Whenever Mum wasn’t there, he would repeatedly ask: ‘Where is Mum? When is she returning?’ and then you had to recite the day of the week and exactly when she would be back. Mrs Machel and I would sometimes pass each other in mid-air – she would be off to Johannesburg for the day and I would visit Qunu – and by the end of the day it felt like Madiba asked one about two hundred times: ‘Where is Mum?’ He was totally reliant on her presence and unsettled whenever she was not around.
People were busy and hardly anyone visited. It was really a schlep to get there, in addition to the fact that Madiba didn’t feel like seeing people every day so it was not always easy to invite even his closest friends for social visits. We stopped scheduling visits by people who weren’t very familiar to him, but of course later realized that whenever we were not there occasionally some of the family would take advantage of our absence and take strangers to see Madiba. The Foundation then had to defend Madiba again when photos or reports of such visits appeared in the media. People would say: ‘But if so and so got to see him, why can’t I?’ and the battles would start all over again, with us trying to diplomatically tell them that we didn’t approve of the visits as we had been instructed that visitors would not be allowed any longer. On some occasions the Foundation declined a particular request for him to endorse or sign something, or even see certain people, and then would learn afterwards that the request had been agreed by someone in the family and they had allowed whatever to happen when Mrs Machel or I wasn’t there. Some people started to take advantage of this when they realized that he no longer had the ability to argue or stand by his principles. Business people would call us to ask about strange requests they’d received from Madiba personally.
Madiba no longer really talked a lot so it was awkward to take people to him who didn’t know him. There would be uncomfortable silences during visits.
By now I had moved from the neighbourhood I had so loved in Johannesburg because I could simply not afford to live there any longer. I was now staying on the outskirts of Johannesburg, which made travelling to and from the city a daily challenge. I wasn’t bound to office hours but I had to watch my finances. I also started missing the friends and closeness I shared with people from my neighbourhood and I had to stop myself getting depressed. I felt neglected by the Foundation and removed from my friends and I realized that I had not built a steady support structure for myself over the years. Generally people were also getting on with their lives and I really had to struggle to find my feet again and pull myself together. I also lacked the courage to share my fears with many of my friends, probably also because I knew people perceived me to be a strong person and I had to keep up appearances. I also missed politics and having inside information about everything that happened in our country.
* * *
Prof. Gerwel hadn’t seen or spent time with Madiba in many months and we decided that we had to make a special trip for him to go and visit Madiba. In August 2012 Prof. and I agreed on a date and I met him in East London, from where I drove him the 260 km to Qunu to see Madiba. We had a very special day and both Madiba and Prof. enjoyed seeing each other. They had a few good laughs and when I left to take Prof. back to East London that afternoon it crossed my mind that this was really an exceptionally enjoyable day for Madiba.
I loved Prof. but I think Madiba loved him even more. Mrs Machel also hardly ever saw Prof. and enjoyed spending time with him. We left agreeing that Prof. would start writing about Madiba’s Presidency. Prof. and I drove back to East London and laughed about the years in the Presidency, the many things that had happened, the stressful times, and we both agreed that if we had known what lay ahead we would probably have made different choices when we were not so emotionally attached to Madiba. The three hours back to East London took us on a journey through memories of eighteen years, and when we said our goodbyes at the airport I knew Prof. was happy and pleased about the day he had spent with Madiba. He sent a text message later that evening when he got home, thanking me that I’d insisted he made time in his busy schedule to be with Madiba. He was engaged on so many fronts, served on countless boards and was involved in so many things but I was happy that I forced him to take a day out to travel so far to see Madiba.
When a few months later I received the news that Prof. had died, I was sleeping in my bed in the Holiday Inn in Umtata, about 40 km away from Qunu. When Madiba was told by Mum of Prof.’s passing the sadness and sense of loss was visible in his eyes and he went completely quiet for hours. It is difficult to tell how a person of that age will react to such news and Mrs Machel had to ensure that her timing was impeccable so as to soften the blow of such a shock. She was scheduled to travel to Johannesburg for the day but subsequently cancelled her travels to be with Madiba, uncertain how he would digest such shock and sadness.
It is difficult to try and put value to Prof. Gerwel’s role in the previous eighteen years of our lives. Take whatever you believe anyone could mean to you and multiply it by 100. That’s more or less it. Prof. had a way of dealing with things in the most unconventional ways. When we all tended to grapple with a particular issue he would be the one to come up with the most balanced solution that would make everyone feel that they were winners, even though they were actually compromising in a way, as Koos Bekker, the CEO of Naspers, put it at his funeral. He was definitely not a push-over and people easily respected him. He would watch things silently from a distance and then make one pronouncement to steer the issue in a totally new direction and thereby assist you to come up with your own solutions. He listened to every word I ever said to him, no matter how mundane or how much complaining I did, and if I was wrong he was the one person to honestly and openly but respectfully point it out to me.
During Madiba’s Presidency Prof. used to travel with us a lot and he was very involved in our everyday lives. After retirement from government that involvement diminished but Prof. was always just a phone call away. I could call him from anywhere in the world to ask his advice on any matter. And he would be my first point of contact whether it was a major incident or something really stupid or funny that happened. We gossiped and joked, but then when it came to serious matters he was a leading father-figure to me. He loved his Afrikaans and we would have very open, honest conversations and, in joking, then sometimes use very expressive Afrikaans sayings that made us both laugh. He was a person who related to anyone in any situation and he role-played perfectly. He could guide a conversation with a foreign head of state and the next minute address the most junior office staff and make them feel like their interaction was more enjoyable than that of the more important people.
On the day of Prof.’s memorial, Chief Justice Arthur Chaskalson also passed away. He was appointed by Madiba as the head of the Constitutional Court in South Africa, the most senior judicial position in the country. Minutes before we entered the memorial, I received a message from the Judge’s son to tell me his dad had died. One of our favourite ministers, Trevor Manuel, was presiding as programme director during Prof.’s memorial and I told him about the Judge’s passing. So before proceedings started we also observed a minute of silence for Judge Chaskalson. Two key figures in our lives that passed on in one week. It was too much to bear. I was heartbroken: the one person I expected to be by our side right to the end was Prof. I was also angry, in a way, that he wouldn’t be there the day we buried Madiba. But such is life. Whenever Madiba spoke about mortality or people started discussing his, I realized that any of us could go before him. And Prof. leaving us was proof of it.
* * *
A few months before, the security personnel with Madiba, Mrs Machel and some household staff noticed that two new people had joined the medical team looking after Madiba. Mum, security, some of the household staff and I wondered if they could possibly be intelligence agents. The permanent medical team looking after Madiba didn’t know them either. I sent a message to President Zuma’s office to ask whether they were aware of this arrangement. I received a response that they would look into the matter and get back to me. I heard nothing. So I sent another message, this time adding ‘this situation could potentially cause a huge embarrassment to government as this is clearly infringing on Madiba and his family’s privacy and dignity.’
I immediately received a response that the matter was reported to the Minister of Intelligence and that I could expect a response from him soon. And so I did. Minister Siyabonga Cwele called me minutes later to enquire about the situation and again about an hour later informing me that the staff did not belong to National Intelligence but that he would still discuss the matter with the Surgeon General to assess whether the military approved of such placement. I repeated to the Minister what I said in the text to the Presidency. I never heard from the Minister again, but three weeks later these two characters disappeared and then reappeared a few weeks later despite our enquiry. We could never figure out their mission. I was disgusted at how I understood state resources were being used and there is little else that angered me as much. Influences were at play that allowed people to abuse state resources for their own benefit. We had a terrible problem with corruption within government – probably the biggest threat to our democracy – and this was a clear example of a corrupt government that allows this kind of interference in their business.
Kgalema Motlanthe was our Deputy President at the time. His relationship with Madiba dated back many years in the ANC. Madiba was very fond of Kgalema and he hadn’t seen him for some time. A visit was arranged to Qunu on Friday, 7 December. On Thursday I was made aware of Kgalema’s intention to visit. I was happy to hear that but had no intention myself to get onto another plane that week. Then suddenly Kgalema’s office called to say that the visit was cancelled from our side. Meme, the housekeeper, told me that Madiba was not having a good day but in order to control wild speculation she had asked the Deputy President’s office to cancel the visit from their side. But now the Deputy President wanted to know from me what the reason was for cancelling the visit. The ANC’s national conference was planned to start in a week from that day. We all had our suspicions whether there was any political interference about the cancellation of his visit. I called back to say that it was really just that Madiba was not having a good day. It was an awkward situation. Yet, by now, we were used to Madiba just not feeling up to seeing people on some days and he would prefer to stay in bed. We really assumed it was one of those days.
On Saturday, 8 December I was in a radio studio when Achmat Dangor called. By now I had agreed to co-present a Saturday lifestyle show on a local radio station. I couldn’t take the call and called him back as soon as the show ended. He said that there was speculation about Madiba’s health and that the Sunday papers were trying to put a reason to the cancellation of Kgalema’s visit. I called Meme and she assured me again that Madiba was fine. I could actually hear him talk in the background while on the phone to her and I called Achmat back to tell him that. The phone didn’t stop ringing.
Two hours later it was on the news. Madiba had been admitted to hospital in Pretoria for a routine medical check-up. And again my response was ‘What?’ I sent Mrs Machel a text: ‘Mum are you OK? I hear Madiba is in hospital.’ She didn’t read or respond to the message at first. We suspected that our phones and conversations were being monitored. In South Africa, if you pose a threat to the stability of the country, or you plan an act of terrorism, your phone could be tapped. We did neither of these but we wondered if government officials including medics were under instructions from some of the family to report Mrs Machel’s every move to them. I later got a call from Meme explaining that they had been told by the medical team not to tell anyone what was happening, but indeed that Madiba had been taken to Pretoria to a hospital. I didn’t understand this. Why did they have to rush him so secretively to Pretoria?
Again we started holding our breath. This was just unbelievable. I am not superstitious at all but couldn’t help thinking that Prof. may have gone first to prepare for Madiba, and my own thoughts scared me. Soon Mrs Machel told me what was going on and I could hear that she was under tremendous pressure. She was stressed, worried and concerned. It was clear that I had to wait for the storm to pass before I could try to go and see him. Eventually Josina and I went off to see him a few days later. I was anxious and didn’t want to make the same mistake as I’d done with Prof. – by the time I managed to visit Prof. in hospital in Cape Town before he passed away he was already unconscious and I didn’t want a repeat of that. Madiba recognized me and briefly interacted with me and that calmed me down. I just needed him to say ‘Oh Zeldina’ and I would be fine. I relied, like everyone in the world, on him being well. We spent some time with Mum and then we left.
The public were anxious about events as the government failed to issue regular statements to update them on his progress. By now we had been told that the government would handle all communication around his well-being and I had no desire or wish to interfere with that task. I knew too well how difficult it was to deal with things around Madiba – something very few people wanted to ever give me credit for – and now it was their turn and I was happy about that while I dealt with my own emotions.
I was deeply troubled about Madiba’s illness and as with any ninety-four-year-old his condition changed every day. One day it was good, the next day it was not so good. I soon packed my things and left to go to my parents for the holiday. I couldn’t take it any more and I was unable to visit him.
While on holiday Mrs Machel sent me a message one day to say that Madiba was doing better and that he had started calling one of the white nurses ‘Zeldina’, and that she thought he missed me. There was nothing I could do. As much as I wanted to be there, I also had to be with my parents for Christmas. I could no longer see Madiba regularly or just pop in, and I silently hoped that he didn’t think I really neglected him. My parents were also getting old and I was starting to realize that they too were not going to be around for ever. I had neglected them for years as a result of my job, more than seven years not spending Christmas with them while I was organizing children’s Christmas parties in Qunu; it was time to correct that and spend time with them.
* * *
When I arrived back from visiting my parents at the coast over Christmas Madiba was discharged from hospital and settling in back at home. I resumed my, now limited, duties at the Foundation and tried to keep busy as much as possible. Some days I really got depressed, staying in bed the entire day. It was not healthy. As much as I wanted to see Madiba I was mindful also that certain staff members in the household texted or called Makaziwe to report to her whenever I was in the house to visit him. I was waiting for them to tell me that I wasn’t welcome.
It was time for the first screening of the documentary Miracle Rising, in London. It was a powerful story of South Africa’s transition between 1990 and 1994. Although questions were asked of the interviewees about Madiba’s role in the transitional period, the focus was very much on Cyril Ramaphosa and Roelf Meyer, who led the negotiations for a peaceful settlement between the ANC and the National Party at the Convention for a Democratic South Africa (Codesa). The production company flew me to London for the screening at end January as part of the production team. I hadn’t travelled in a while and was excited to leave the country. The screening was well received and I was proud to have been involved when I saw the final product. I enjoyed seeing people I had lost contact with or no longer regularly had dealings with since we stopped travelling. I wasn’t overly impressed with all the celebrities who were interviewed in the documentary but understood that for it to appeal to the broader public the celebs were the selling factor. I liked contributing to history in this way as I could comprehend the difficulties we faced at the time. The documentary was also aired in South Africa and was well received.
On 14 February 2013, the Paralympic athlete Oscar Pistorius shot and killed his model-girlfriend Reeva Steenkamp when he allegedly mistook her for an intruder. The country went into a complete state of shock. One of our heroes had fallen, and with him our hope, and everything the new South Africa embodied, the miracle, somehow stumbled. I don’t know why it mattered so much, but we all felt a sense of loss that Valentine’s Day. People, especially South Africans, always wanted a hero. Madiba was every man’s hero and so was Oscar for overcoming his disability and putting South Africa on the map. People idolized him. Madiba always warned against people idolizing others, including him, too much. He knew too well that one could easily fall. We’d put Oscar on a pedestal so high that the fall was greater than we could have anticipated.
In Conversations With Myself, Madiba wrote in a letter to Winnie Mandela on 9 December 1979:
We are told that a saint is a sinner who keeps on trying to be clean. One may be a villain for 3/4 of his life and be canonized because he lived a holy life for the remaining 1/4 of that life. In real life we deal, not with gods, but with ordinary humans like ourselves: men and women who are full of contradictions, who are stable and fickle, strong and weak, famous and infamous, people in whose bloodstream the muckworm battles daily with potent pesticides.
He believed that there was good and bad in every human being and made me change my thinking about people whenever something like this happened. I realized again how much Madiba had changed my thinking and perceptions about things we consider straightforward.
* * *
On 9 March 2013 Madiba was back in hospital. I was told by Mrs Machel that it wasn’t serious but for a simple medical procedure. Again it was a reminder of just how vulnerable he was. Every time he got admitted to hospital, I was reminded that my time with him was becoming limited.
On 22 March after his discharge I tried to visit Madiba three times. The first time I arrived at his house, Makaziwe was there. She had made it clear in a previous discussion about me that I was not welcome to see her father. I no longer had work to do there. I was adamant that she was not to determine that and decided that I would try and avoid her but that I would not stay away just because it pleased her. Mum had to defend me once again, arguing that she was willing to defend Madiba’s decisions whether they liked it or not, and that she was going to see that his wishes were fulfilled until the day he passed on. She told them that my presence from time to time provided him with emotional stability and when I heard that she said that I quietly thought: Yes, my emotional stability too, selfish as it may seem. I couldn’t help but feel that one gets chewed and then spat out when people no longer see a use for you. I know too well how Madiba would feel about that, but it is not my place to try and judge how or what he may have felt at this stage. I was torn between fighting and leaving things to play out, and the latter seems to be the lesson I’ll take with me.
The second time, at around 3 p.m., when I wanted to visit again, Makaziwe was still there. By now Mrs Machel had left for her office. I decided to return home and agreed with Mrs Machel to return at 6 p.m. I hadn’t seen Madiba in two weeks and planned to spend time with my family for the days to follow and was therefore eager to see Madiba before I left. At 6 p.m. when I went back to the house Makaziwe had gone. Mrs Machel was seeing someone when I arrived and because I also had business to discuss with her, I agreed to wait until she had finished.
It seemed to me that, as usual, the household staff that sided with Makaziwe texted or called her to tell her that I was there. Soon she arrived again. Mysteriously the staff disappeared as I was waiting in the kitchen. Makaziwe entered and closed the door behind her. She said: ‘Oh I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something for some time. There are rumours going around that you are working on a documentary film with the History Channel entitled “Mandela: The Last Years”. I wanted to say to you that since you are one of the people Tata trusted most, it would be highly unethical of you to do something like that.’
What surprised me was that she admitted for the first time in her life that I had any role to play in her father’s life. She had probably heard about the Miracle Rising documentary, which did not focus on Madiba at all, and confused the two issues but I was not bothered to correct her. My commitment was to her father and my trust relationship is with him. I am committed to protecting his dignity and integrity and that of his wife but my commitment does not go beyond that. People may then argue, why am I talking about it now? But I feel this is different. I am not infringing his dignity. This is not an account of his medical state or how illness and suffering affected him. There are many things that I will never talk or write about. My relationship was with Madiba. Not with the family or anyone else.
As the conversation was heating up Mrs Machel called for me. Saved by the bell, I thought, or I may have said things I would later regret. I briefly saw her and left without seeing Madiba as Makaziwe had gone upstairs to be with her father and I knew she would chase me out. I was deeply disappointed about not seeing him but angry enough to realize that it would not be the best time for me to persist trying to do so. The next week I returned and managed to see him. His face lit up when he saw me and he exclaimed: ‘Oh Zeldina, you are here.’ ‘Yes Khulu I am, how are you?’ He just gave me a thumbs-up and then said: ‘How are your parents?’ I was so incredibly touched. He no longer spoke much and this was again the extent of our entire conversation that day, but he had it in him to ask about my parents. How inexplicably had this man changed my life, my thinking and, most importantly, my heart! I sat with him for a while holding his hand and when he dozed off I left.
A few days later news broke of Zenani and Makaziwe challenging the appointment of Madiba’s long-time friend George Bizos, his lawyer Bally Chuene and Comrade Minister Tokyo Sexwale to a trust that managed the sale of artworks from the ‘hands and art’ project. Madiba appointed these trustees to oversee matters on his behalf. This was going to be an ugly fight. I was deeply disturbed by the news and thought (or was under the impression) that the matter had been resolved a few months before. As these private matters never concerned me I didn’t bother enquiring about them often. Insults and counter-allegations followed in the media, each party feeding information to their own sources and lashing out in the most disrespectful way towards one of Madiba’s oldest friends, Advocate Bizos. What effectively happened was that Zenani and Makaziwe were challenging their father’s decisions. They knew very well that he was no longer able to defend himself or his decisions and it was the time for them to challenge these as they knew no one could rely on Madiba’s evidence any longer.
I was not going to enter into their private business now but agreed with the trustees’ lawyer that if and when called upon I would support their defence. My resolution was easy. If Madiba wanted to appoint any of his children in charge of his affairs, he would have done so when he was able to. And I was willing to defend his decisions with the facts at hand. The same applied to appointing staff and people in charge of his charities, and his lawyers could vouch for that.
Later it emerged in the lawyer’s defending affidavit that indeed Zenani Dlamini and Makaziwe Mandela were acting against their father’s wishes. The lawyer produced proof of minutes from meetings that we all remembered too well when Madiba made his wishes very clear. The case was then withdrawn.
I had to remind myself that this was not my battle to fight. I had to focus on ensuring that Mrs Machel had the support she needed and that I gave Madiba the occasional hug and smile and held his hand. I often found Zoleka, one of Madiba’s grandchildren, with him whenever I visited during this time. She was the mother of Zenani Jnr, who was killed in the car accident in 2010 just prior to the FIFA World Cup opening. Zoleka wasn’t threatened by my presence and was comfortable with me sitting with her grandfather. She had really made an effort to spend time with him almost every day and I could see that he enjoyed it.
* * *
On 27 March 2013 Madiba was admitted to hospital again. He had pneumonia again. A few days before I had visited him in the house and recall one of the housekeepers having a terrible flu while I was there. As I left I shook my head in disbelief. And here he was back in hospital with pneumonia. At that age he was much more susceptible to germs. Yet in his own household people were working even though they were sick. If they were sick, why where they still there? One just has to know when to give up. Not because you want to, but because you have to.
And once again the world held its breath. These were the most difficult times I had ever experienced. I’ve grown to realize that it is good that one never knows what lies ahead because you would easily give up at an early stage. Whatever I had thought were the worst experiences, these were, by far, the most stressful times of anxiety and uncertainty. I was desperate to go to the hospital but realized that I had to stay away as long as Makaziwe was there. I wanted to spare Madiba an altercation and I was simply willing to take the lead from Mrs Machel and Josina as to when I could visit. On the day that they agreed, Josina drove me in. We noticed the media camping outside the hospital and were fearful that they caught us both on camera. Like in 2011, if we were to appear in the media together I was afraid that I would experience what I felt to be outrage from some of the family. When we left, we agreed that I would hide on the back seat to avoid anyone seeing me. As much as we were tense and stressed about Madiba, we had some relief laughing about my lying down on the seat. I felt like I was a Cold War spy being driven from East Berlin to West Berlin. Madiba stayed in hospital for eleven nights and was then moved back to Johannesburg.
Once he recovered satisfactorily, Mrs Machel and I planned to have some of his old colleagues and friends visit occasionally. Weeks before, the ANC executive asked to pay a visit to Madiba. On the day I contacted them to come for the visit, they had some crisis to attend to and asked to postpone. I responded telling them to please tell us when they were ready as we would encourage them to visit. But then Madiba fell ill again and some weeks passed without either party following up on the matter.
By early 2013 Dr Mamphela Ramphele announced that she was establishing a new political party with the aim of contesting the general elections to be held in 2014. The only sizeable opposition to the ruling ANC party is the Democratic Alliance, a party largely still seen as dominated by white people even though they are much more liberal than the old Nationalist Party. Dr Ramphele is a well-respected academic in South Africa, a former activist against apartheid and a leading businesswoman. She is also a trustee of the Nelson Mandela Foundation since its inception. Her announcement was welcomed by a lot of people, but the party, Agang, seemed to lose momentum fast. Dr Ramphele was the first person to advise Madiba on health matters after his release in 1990. She introduced him to the cardiologist who treated him for many years until the Defence Force medical team took over his care from private specialists. Dr Ramphele was therefore an old friend to Madiba and a good friend to Mrs Machel. She paid a visit to Mrs Machel on a particular day when Madiba was well enough to sit downstairs in his lounge. She saw him and was disturbed about his deterioration as she hadn’t seen him in a very long time. Her visit was brief but she then mistakenly announced in a radio interview that she had seen him.
A week before, the Democratic Alliance had launched its election campaign entitled ‘Know your DA’. Part of the campaign was to inform the public of the DA’s policy and in doing so they used a picture of their founder, the late Mrs Helen Suzman, where she walked with Madiba, him embracing her. This made the ANC nervous and they lashed out at the DA for using an image of Madiba in their election campaign. The DA’s campaign as well as Dr Ramphele’s visit made the ANC unnecessarily nervous. No one had ever contested the fact that Madiba was part and parcel of the ANC and that it was a lifelong commitment, yet these interactions made the ANC somehow feel challenged over their ‘ownership’ of Madiba.
The Reverend Jesse Jackson was in South Africa to receive a national award from President Zuma for his contribution to the liberation struggle of South Africa. Rev. Jackson wanted to see Madiba and someone from the Presidency contacted me, telling me that the President wanted him to ask me about a possible visit to Madiba. Madiba was really not well enough to receive visitors and especially not people he was not very familiar with. I explained to the gentleman from the Presidency that a visit was not possible and he responded that he understood and would convey the sentiments to the President and Rev. Jackson.
One of the people who was on our list to visit Madiba as soon as he was well enough was Deputy President Kgalema Motlanthe, who had been trying and asking to see Madiba for months. He had contested the Presidency of the ANC at their national conference in December 2012 and had lost. He was sidelined by the party and it was clear that his challenge to President Zuma was not well received by all. Madiba was very fond of Kgalema and Mrs Machel and I discussed a possible visit. On the Friday night I contacted Kgalema’s assistant to say that we would try something the following week, providing that Madiba was well enough. I told him not to repeat our conversation to anyone.
Since my contract had been changed by the Foundation and I only worked part time for them, there were certain days I didn’t go to Johannesburg, when I didn’t have work to do on that particular day or when I decided to work from home. On that Monday I was busy with something else and on my motorbike for most of the day. I didn’t follow what was happening on Twitter and was pretty much off line most of the day.
While I was away, the ANC had come calling. What was strange was that they had insisted the visit be filmed – as a sort of ‘proof of life’ that Madiba was ‘well’. The ploy backfired – Madiba did not look well or happy with the visit.
Upon returning to Johannesburg in the evening I checked Twitter and noticed total outrage from the public over video material about Madiba that appeared on the news that night. I didn’t know anything. I found it on YouTube and was disgusted by what I saw. Madiba was clearly not happy. There was total chaos in his lounge and because it was a visit by the President and senior members of the ANC, flash photography was allowed – something that every South African knew was prohibited because of the sensitivity of Madiba’s eyes. In the footage Madiba appeared withdrawn because he was overwhelmed. It was clear to me from what I witnessed that there was no control. Even the medical staff responsible for his health, General Dabula and Surgeon General Ramlakan, were themselves taking photos rather than protecting Madiba’s eyes and looking out for his well-being. I was disturbed. Was this what it all had come to? It was like a zoo and Madiba was the caged animal that the tourists all fawned over. He looked helpless. Mrs Machel was attending meetings at the Foundation, literally two minutes from the house, and she was not even informed of the visit.
They didn’t tell me about the visit at the house, probably because they knew that I would not tolerate such drama. People detested me for keeping order and telling them what to do around Madiba and it was clear why. If I wasn’t there, this is what they did. A war broke out on Twitter and journalists asked where I was. I had to literally sit on my hands to stop myself from replying. The next day when I arrived at the Foundation the then CEO, Achmat Dangor, commented with disgust over the footage, and I said: ‘Well this is what they all wanted, isn’t it?’ Isn’t this why people argued so fiercely that Madiba no longer needed a secretary? If I had still been there, I wouldn’t have allowed him to go in front of the media looking so weak and vulnerable. I wasn’t the only one who was upset. The public and family were outraged with the ANC.
In the weeks to follow it got easier for me to see Madiba. The family eased their ‘watch’ over him and I could visit him more freely. I never knew on any day if that was going to be the last time I ever saw him.
On 8 June 2013 he was back in hospital and the Presidency announced that his condition was serious but stable. It was a recurring lung infection. We were filled with anxiety. We realized that it was on a knife’s edge this time. Two days after his admittance I sneaked back into the hospital early one morning on the back seat of Josina’s car. He was clearly very sick and weak but opened his eyes and managed a smile.
It was only then that I was told about events of the night of his admission. Someone, either medical or security personnel, decided to take him to hospital in an unmarked military medical vehicle to avoid suspicion from the public. My first question: ‘Who in the public is watching him at 3 a.m. in the morning?’ Halfway to the hospital in Pretoria the unmarked vehicle broke down. Forty minutes later help arrived. At first I thought this was a joke. How can Nelson Mandela, gravely sick, be stuck along a highway in the middle of winter for forty minutes at three in the morning? How is this possible? It was good that I had not been told earlier. I think it would have pushed me over the edge. I had been disabled in every possible way. Disarmed. I had no influence or power to question these matters any longer. And I felt I had neglected Madiba and Mrs Machel. My heart bled for them. How scared Madiba must have been! How scared Mrs Machel must have been, helpless, stressed! When I saw her she was clearly traumatized. How do things come to this? How does this happen to Nelson Mandela, the world’s most revered person alive? And the fact that he was still alive was clearly only a miracle.
Soon the media set up camp outside the hospital. Journalists were flying in from all over the world. Millions of dollars were spent on outside broadcast vans as people around the world watched with bated breath. However, inside, the fighter was slowly making his way back. Some people in public argued that it was time for us to ‘let him go’. ‘Stop praying for his recovery,’ some said. What they had missed was that the hard-headed freedom fighter was going to decide for himself when enough was eventually enough. I worked twelve-plus hours per day responding to people from across the world and at home who wanted answers and confirmation of what the President had said – he was critical but stable. I simply confirmed exactly what the President had said and was vague in my responses but people were anxious. Josina and I had long conversations and we anchored one another. I was mindful that, if one didn’t help to ease the anxiety, the anxiety would soon rub off on the family and eventually Madiba would feel it too.
During one of her visits to the hospital, Madiba’s daughter Zindzi asked Josina whether I had been there. Zindzi explained by saying that she thought I should be given the opportunity to visit her father, upon which Josina said I had been there a few days before. Zindzi replied: ‘Then I can rest.’ I was very touched when I heard that. Someone other than the Machels was looking out for me and I was grateful. The day after my visit security at the hospital had been tightened. Josina and I laughed when I told her I had thought that the extra security was probably because I’d sneaked in on the back seat of her car. I then told her I had convinced myself that not everything was about me. Amid the anxiety these unbelievable things at least made us laugh. It was later reported in the news that the tightened security was to keep journalists out. I was happy it wasn’t about me.
The last time I saw Madiba alive was on 11 July 2013, the night before I departed on my annual Bikers for Mandela Day ride across the country, doing my bit for Mandela Day. I entered the hospital with Malenga Machel, Mrs Machel’s son. We used a back entrance so we would not be spotted by the media. Madiba was still very sick. I gave Malenga a chance to spend some time with Madiba and his mother alone, and they then called me in. Madiba could still open his eyes and show emotion but then drifted off quickly. I was shivering standing next to his bed, shocked to see him in the state that he was in. I couldn’t see his hands. I wanted to touch his hand but I couldn’t find it. I was helpless, numb. Mrs Machel told him I was there but his eyes remained closed. She then nodded at me that it was OK to start speaking to him.
I knew I had to sound cheerful and not sad and said, ‘Hello, Khulu. It’s Zeldina. I am here to see you . . .’ and there it was. He opened his eyes, followed by the biggest brightest smile and he looked at me and fixed his eyes upon me. ‘How are you Khulu? You look well,’ although he didn’t. ‘I miss you, Khulu,’ I said and he kept on smiling. Mum and Malenga were making fun of me, joking that Madiba had not afforded others that smile but to me he did. Then he drifted off again and closed his eyes. I stood there for a few minutes and Mum and Malenga went to the side of the room and Mum said I could talk to him if I wanted to. I said what needed to be said, again. I composed myself and told him that I was leaving on my bike trip the following day, reminded him about his comment about my bike trip the first year back in 2010, when he’d said: ‘Why did you do that?’ and I responded: ‘For you, Khulu.’ I was on my way for him again. I was very sad that night to leave but the smile was all I needed to keep me going. I didn’t expect that to be the last time I saw him.
Upon my return to Johannesburg after the bike trip I tried to go on a few occasions. But every time I asked Mum there was something that prevented me from going. I went back twice, seeing Mum on other business, but I couldn’t see him.
* * *
On 15 June an article had appeared on the front page of the Saturday Star, repeated in the Afrikaans Sunday paper Rapport the following day. Shaun van Heerden, a trusted bodyguard and friend for more than ten years, had snapped. He had been suspended for a second time following allegations from the Surgeon General that he had leaked information to the media about Madiba’s whereabouts when he was hospitalized. In the article he referred to the incident at the Soccer World Cup in 2010 and the Defence Force medical staff ruling our world with an iron fist. I felt very sorry for Shaun. He was the one that helped me to see Madiba whenever I was at the house and Mrs Machel wasn’t there to get me through the red tape being placed by the family to keep me out. I didn’t know how I would cope without Shaun.
A few days later the story about the ambulance that broke down as Madiba was transported to hospital made world headlines after it leaked to the media. Newspapers described Mrs Machel as being ‘frantic’ during these events. The next day Makaziwe entered the hospital calling Mrs Machel ‘Ms Frantic’. Mum was hurt and emotionally brutalized and Josina and I constantly tried to keep her strong by supporting her. Josina often went to support her mother whenever I couldn’t. I missed Prof. He would have been there for us, he would have guided us, and his death left a void that is so difficult to explain.
In the week prior to Madiba’s hospitalization I’d received word from a good friend who worked at the South African Breweries that they’d managed to track down our old family housekeeper, Jogabeth. She had been on my mind for years and on occasion I’d tried to find her but then abandoned the search when I hit a brick wall. But her husband was on a pension from the SAB and, just by my providing his name and a bit about his location back in the 1980s, they’d managed to find them for me. I immediately texted my mother and brother and we all called Jogabeth and Esau one night. We were overwhelmed with happiness to be reconnected. We planned to have a get-together but then Madiba fell ill and we had to postpone. My heart was filled with joy and my eyes filled with tears when Jogabeth said: ‘All these years I have seen you on TV and thought “my Zellie has grown up” but how was I going to contact her again?’ I was touched by her feeling of belonging. I hope to meet her soon, to reconnect and to see if there is anything I can do for them to help them in their old age. There was a time she gave up her life for me. It is time to return the favour.
And Madiba never ceased to amaze us. Even through the extended period of his illness he gave us and the world the time to prepare for a life without him. It took its toll on everyone. People were emotionally depleted. I would often dream about him at night. Sometimes good dreams and sometimes nightmares. I woke up every morning and realized with a shock that he was still ill. I would nervously reach for my cellphone to check if there had been any news or messages about him during the night. I was constantly worrying about him. During brief moments one continued with life as normal but then reality jerked me back to this state of limbo we were all in. I started feeling useless and worthless. My job was no longer a full-time occupation and time was treating me like a ship in the perfect storm at sea. Emotional ups and downs every day, frustrated and hurt by my inability to see him or to reach out to him. My dreams became vivid and in the morning I had to convince myself that it was only a dream. They occurred more frequently as I prepared myself to take the final step away from him.
What worried me most and kept me awake was whether during this prolonged illness there was ever a moment when he was conscious enough to think: Why hasn’t Zeldina been here? I cringe when I think about the fact that it may have crossed his mind that in the end I had perhaps left him as I promised I would never do. Did he think that I had neglected or abandoned him? And now, nineteen years later, I was longing to put my white hand on his dark skin; to touch the skin I was brought up to believe was not as good as mine. Yet it was that dark skin that gave my life significance. My entire being at the age of forty-three yearned to touch that hand once more, to feel the ripples around his knuckles, to see his smile lighting up the room when I say: ‘Don’t worry Khulu, I did not desert you.’