I couldn’t believe I was standing in the same hospital hallway, absorbing the same throat punch I’d gotten from my mother’s doctor two years earlier. I was no more prepared for it in this moment than I was back then. I was gutted. Again. I was angry with the people who didn’t trust me with the truth and angry with myself for failing to figure it out on my own. I was smart enough to make the connection; I just didn’t want to believe it. I chose to be blind to what was happening, because I didn’t want him to die. I wasn’t ready to be cast adrift again.
But beyond all that, I wasn’t ready or willing to live with another lie, and I knew that the public relations people would be all over us, providing us with carefully chosen words to say, asking for privacy in our time of grief, brushing aside ugly rumors. To hell with all of them. It was Mbuso and Andile I cared about. They were twelve and nine at the time. As my father lay dying, I made the heartbreaking discovery that Auntie Maki had known for quite some time about my dad’s HIV status and chose not to tell the rest of the family. I felt the same surge of anger I felt when I found out my mother had kept the truth from me.
I kept insisting, “We have to tell Mbuso and Andile. This isn’t right.”
“No,” she said. “They don’t have to know.”
“Auntie, it’s going to be on international television. Even if you could somehow keep them from seeing it, the other kids at school—kids are animals. It’s not their fault. They’re just naturally going to repeat what they hear at home.”
“They’re children. They can’t understand.”
“Which is exactly why someone who cares about them should sit them down and explain it! You can say it was pneumonia—make up whatever story and justify it—but people are speculating. They’re not stupid. And if you keep on denying it, you’re complicit in the stigma that’s killing him.”
“Oh, don’t put that on me! I do what’s right for my family. You don’t think this family has given enough? Suffered enough? Now we’re responsible for the world?”
We went back and forth, exhausted by sadness, arguing in circles. It was a horrible time for everyone. A hopeless situation. I was losing my father. Madiba was losing his son. Auntie Maki was losing her brother. Each of us was going through such turmoil in our own heart, it was hard to reach out to each other. Any discussion of what anyone was going to say or not say—this was all moot. We are a patriarchal people. My grandfather would tell us what we were or were not going to say, and although he was an outspoken advocate for HIV/AIDS funding and awareness, it seemed to me that this openness about AIDS applied only to other families, not the Mandelas. I’d gotten that message when my mother died. I didn’t expect anything different now, and although I didn’t always agree with the Old Man, I trusted him to decide what was best for the family. He was going through the hell of losing a son for the second time, and I was prepared to support him.
At the end of December, I spent my twenty-second birthday sitting with my dad, trying to smile and converse with him as he hacked and rasped. He fought the need to doze. I fought to keep down the memories of going through this same situation with my mom.
The traditional Xhosa belief is that, when a person dies, their spirit lingers in the room for a time. There were times that he laid so still, and his breath was so shallow, I couldn’t tell if his spirit was just inside or just beyond his fragile skin. During that last month, the Old Man spent many days at the hospital. Sometimes I could hear them talking quietly, even laughing, but most of the time, it seemed to me that they were just sitting there together.
My father, Makgatho Lewanika Mandela, died January 6, 2005. He was one of over five million South Africans who were infected with HIV at the time. 1.6 million South Africans had already died.
We left the hospital, and it seemed like my granddad had aged forty years on the way to the car. He leaned heavily on his walking stick, his shoulders sagging, his gait unsteady. Reporters and paparazzi swarmed forward, shouting questions at Madiba as we tried to help him into the car. The Old Man turned to them for a moment. He had tears in his eyes. His voice was shaky. He said, “My son was an attorney by profession, and he was actually admitted as an attorney by the Judge President of this province, which was a great honor. Beyond that, I’ve nothing to say.”
That afternoon, the family gathered at our house in Houghton. Madiba had called a press conference for later that day, and he wanted us all to be there. Everyone was very emotional. Everyone had a different opinion about what should be said. I didn’t even look up to see who was talking. I’d heard it all before.
“It’s no one’s business—our private family matters.”
I was familiar with the mental gymnastics people practiced in order to avoid the truth.
“People don’t die of HIV. It weakens them. AIDS kills your immune system.”
“That’s true. It’s pneumonia that kills you. Or TB. We can actually say TB.”
“No!” the Old Man barked, and the room fell silent. “We will not say that. We will say that HIV/AIDS killed him. Let’s stop beating around the bush. We need to fight the stigma, not facilitate it. We should give publicity to HIV/AIDS and not hide it. Because the only way of making it appear to be a normal illness—like TB, like cancer—is to come out and say it. Somebody has died because of HIV. If we refuse to say it, people will never stop regarding it as something extraordinary.”
The reporters had already gathered in the garden behind the house, maneuvering for camera angles and piling microphones on a coffee table that had been set in front of two side chairs near the flowering hedges. Bees buzzed in and out of the pale pink blossoms, and Madiba impatiently waved one away from his face as Graça helped him to his chair and sat next to him. My brothers and I stood behind Madiba, and the rest of the family gathered around us, unified, dignified, eyes forward, jaws set hard. The clicking of the cameras and the buzzing of the bees vibrated inside my head. This was the last place in the world I wanted to be at that moment. I was nervous. Glad to have my family around me. Grateful to know that we were doing the right thing. I would be able to talk about my father and not feel like a coward.
My grandfather’s face was etched with sorrow, but he showed very little emotion. He spoke in the firm, measured way he always spoke. He began with a few words about “46664” and the work of the Nelson Mandela Foundation. Then he said, “I had no idea when I started this campaign three years ago that it would also affect a member of my family. I was stating a general principal that we must not hide the cause of death of our respective family. Because that is the only way in which we can make people understand that HIV is an ordinary illness. And that’s why we’ve called you today. To announce that my son has died of AIDS. It is a very bad reflection indeed on the members of a family that they themselves should not come out and say bravely, ‘A member of my family has died of AIDS.’ That is why we took the initiative to say that a member of our family has died. In this particular case, my son.”
Moments later, the firestorm response hit the Internet and television news. Nelson Mandela’s son had died of HIV/AIDS. There was no way to open a newspaper or turn on a TV without being confronted by the fact that our nation and the world was being ravaged by this disease. Madiba was proud of his son, the attorney, Makgatho Lewanika Mandela. He was not ashamed, and he was no longer willing to be complicit in the shame of others. And this changed things. As you read this, the world has changed—maybe not enough, certainly not fast enough—but something did shift that day. It was a groundbreaking moment. This was the first time a prominent South African family had openly acknowledged that a family member had died of HIV/AIDS. It’s impossible to overstate what this meant to the millions of people who lived in fear of seeking help or disclosing their HIV status and to the millions more people who loved them.
We took my father to Qunu and buried him with all the rites and traditions of his people. During the funeral, I sat stoically between Graça and Auntie Maki, aching with loss, reminding myself, I endure,
I endure. A man endures.
In 1974 Robben Island inmate #46664 wrote to his son: “It’s not easy to write to a person who hardly ever replies.” It pains me to say that, throughout much of my life, I knew exactly how the prisoner felt. Disconnected. Out of the loop. I loved my father, and I know he loved me, and oddly enough, I actually feel closer to him now than I did when I was a kid. I suppose that’s because I am now the age that he was when my first memories of him were formed. We were a relatively happy little family in Cofimvaba, and he managed my grandmother’s grocery store. He was a good man. He worked his ass off. He was humble. He wasn’t always present in my life—not the way I wanted him to be—but he opened the door for other father figures who shaped my life and ideals. My grandfather, first and foremost, Kweku’s father, my uncle Kwame, Walter Sisulu, and many others. My dad was proud of me. Even though I hadn’t quite found my best self yet, I was on the right track. I think he passed away knowing I’d be all right, and I hope that eased the way for his lingering spirit.
His death lit a fire under my grandfather’s desire to make HIV/AIDS the last great fight of his life, so I’d like to think that whatever lives have been saved or suffering eased since that time and in the future—that this, in a way, is my father’s gift. Throughout his presidency, the cause of HIV/AIDS was close to Madiba’s heart, because he couldn’t bear to see his people suffering—especially the little children—but the challenges and affairs of state during those years were overwhelmingly directed toward transforming the colonial government into a democracy and the divided people into one nation. Now he had the freedom to choose how he spent his time and the last of his energy.
The week after the funeral in Qunu, the Old Man called another press conference. That deep sorrow was still etched in the lines around his eyes, but he made an attempt to joke with the assembled press.
“What I have come to do here this morning is to make an appeal, more than an announcement. I’m turning eighty-six in a few weeks’ time, and that is a longer life than most people are granted…. I am confident that nobody present here today will accuse me of selfishness if I asked to spend time while I’m still in good health with my family, my friends, and also with myself.”
The journalists laughed a little uncertainly, as if they didn’t quite know where he was going with this train of thought.
“When I told one of my advisors a few months ago that I wanted to retire, he growled at me, ‘Goat! You are retired!’ If that really is the case, then I should say I now announce that I am retiring from retirement.”
11
Akukho rhamncwa elingagqumiyo emngxumeni walo.
“There is no beast that does not roar in its own den.”
Not long after Madiba left office, Richard Branson and Peter Gabriel came to him and Graça with the idea of forming a small group of people who might direct the wisdom of their years and benefit of their experience to resolving conflicts and solving problems such as climate change and the global AIDS pandemic. It took them a few years to convince the Old Man. His initial response was, “I don’t know if the rest of the world wants a lot of old-timers involved.” They made the compelling argument that, while trust in institutions and governments was failing, certain people maintained a level of moral authority. When these people spoke, people believed them. When they acted, people trusted that it was free of agenda, for the good of all.
At the official launch of The Elders in Johannesburg on July 18, 2007, my granddad’s eighty-ninth birthday, he said: “Let us call them Global Elders, not because of their age, but because of their individual and collective wisdom. This group derives its strength not from political, economic, or military power, but from the independence and integrity of those who are here. They do not have careers to build, elections to win, constituencies to please. They can talk to anyone they please, and are free to follow paths they deem right, even if hugely unpopular.”
The original Elders were men and women of varied race and creed, including Archbishop Desmond Tutu, former US president Jimmy Carter, former Irish president Mary Robinson, and Kofi Annan.
“Using their collective experience,” said Madiba, “their moral courage and their ability to rise above the parochial concerns of nation, race, and creed, they can help make our planet a more peaceful, healthy, and equitable place to live.” He called on The Elders and all those gathered in the auditorium to “support courage where there is fear, foster agreement where there is conflict, and inspire hope where there is despair.”
I thought this was an amazing idea. I was hip-deep in my studies, working toward my degree in international relations and political science, developing my own ideas about human rights and history, and coming to the conclusion that the problems of the next generation were going to be very different from the challenges faced by our parents and grandparents.
I asked my granddad, “On a practical level, what does it take to effect this grand scale of change they’re talking about? Without political power, are they limited to an advisory sort of capacity, or can they actually do something?”
“These esteemed friends of mine have a long history of doing the things they set out to do,” he said. “I’m certain that if Tutu has anything to do with it, they will insist on assuming the spirit of ubuntu.”
Ubuntu is, in the Old Man’s words, “that profound African sense that we are human only through the humanity of other beings.” One would like to think that this would be foundational to the idea of politics—a word that comes from the Greek politikos, “citizenship”—but sometimes it’s a struggle to connect the two, even for Nelson Mandela, but in the years following my father’s death, his work made a noticeable shift toward social and cultural issues. He was keenly interested in the mindset of young people and enjoyed long conversations with me and his other grandchildren, but he was not as predictable as he was when I was a kid.
He still cared about protocol, but I recall one occasion when he and Graça and I were in Europe at a dinner hosted by members of a royal family, and I was appalled to see two people at our table light up cigarettes as soon as they sat down next to my granddad. They sat there chain-smoking one cigarette after another throughout the entire evening. This was the sort of thing that would have irritated him mightily in years past, but he sat chatting happily with them as they blazed through two packs each.
I hated the conclusion that nudged at the back of my mind: He’s getting really old.
During my last year at the university, I tried to spend as much time as possible at home. I found myself worrying about the Old Man, feeling protective of him, questioning the energy he devoted to so many causes and occasions that required him to travel. I went with him when it was possible, but most of the time, I was concentrating on school—which is what he wanted me to do anyway—so it was good to know that Graça was there for him. As I came to understand more about the cattle business and the nonprofit world, I began developing my own opinions about these institutions, and though we didn’t always agree, he always wanted to hear what I had to say.
One day we were talking about someone with whom he’d done business, and I commented that this person struck me as a bit of a snake.
“A snake?” the Old Man said, surprised at my choice of words. “But you know he and I have been friends for many years, and we have never had a quarrel. Not a single quarrel!”
“Then something’s off,” I said. “No two people agree 100 percent, Granddad. Somebody in that relationship is not being real, and I know that ain’t you.”
He digested that and nodded. “That is true. A common feature shared by Sisulu and Kathrada—an essential part of our friendship—they never hesitated to tell me that I was wrong. I value that very much. The true friend is the mirror in which you accurately see yourself.”
I was grateful to have the Old Man be that mirror for me, and it meant a lot to me to see that I’d begun to repair his trust in me. That trust continued to grow over the years, and I never took it for granted. One day
during the last year of his life, Mama Xoli called me to the kitchen and said, “Ndaba, please go up to your grandfather’s room.” She told me she’d seen Graça go into Madiba’s room with his doctor and the old friend I had referred to as a snake. “I don’t have a good feeling about this,” said Mama Xoli. I didn’t either. My granddad had gotten very frail. He and Graça slept in separate rooms, but a nurse was always with him—two nurses most of the time—and when I went upstairs, the nurse was nowhere to be seen. My granddad was in bed, and the three of them stood over him. He had a pen in his hand and a paper in front of him.
“Yintoni le?” I said in isiXhosa. (“What is this?”)
Graça said, “Ndaba, your grandpa is getting very old, and the bank is starting to question his signature on the checks.” She had a long explanation about how his hands were shaky so the signature was not as crisp as it should be and it created inconvenience when they needed money to get groceries and pay bills. The punchline was that this was a power of attorney document he was signing, handing over access to his bank accounts to his loving wife and two close friends. Who would question that at the bank? She nudged the pen in his hand and said, “It’s okay, Madiba. We’ve explained it to Ndaba. You can sign now.”
The Old Man looked up at me, and I said, “Unga linge ubhale lo-phepha.” (“Do not sign that paper.”) It made me uncomfortable that no family member was included in this arrangement.
“Why are you not speaking English?” asked the old friend.
“He’s my grandfather,” I said. “Why wouldn’t I speak our language?”
“What are you saying?”
“That’s between my granddad and myself.”
There was some additional back and forth, pleading with him to sign, demanding to know what I was saying to him, but the upshot was that he refused to sign, and after a while, they got frustrated and left. I called Aunt Maki and asked her what she thought of all this. She told me to get the paper so she could see it, and I managed to do that. The next day, Graça reached out to Aunt Maki and said she was having a different version drafted to include Madiba’s daughters. “To be transparent,” she said, and Aunt Maki was satisfied with that.
Going to the Mountain Page 15