SA Rocks

This is a contribution by Jennifer Reynard.

This morning I overslept, and got into work 1:45 minutes late. I opened my Gmail in time to see a friend’s status saying ‘Happy Birthday Madiba’. Since then I have done little work, instead watching footage of the 46664 concert, birthday wishes for Madiba, the Asimbonanga video in Frankfurt, and trying not to cry at my desk (and failing).

Today, I want to be at home, with other people for whom today has the same meaning that it has for me. For all that I am happy, I wish I was driving along the N1 with the dusty South African winter passing my window.

Instead, as a form of catharsis, I will write about my memories of Mandela- few and small as they are compared to the memories and knowledge of some.

I was 7 when Mandela was freed from jail. I remember sitting on the floor, watching TV with my mom and my sister. Do I remember him thrusting his hand skywards, or do I just think I do because of the images of the day that abound? I remember the texture of the carpet, and the anticipation.

I had been watching a video at school, and I rushed out to the car to greet my mom, that day in 1992. She was a bit late, because she had been voting in the referendum. I remember her using that word. My mom was in educational book publishing and didn’t believe in talking down to children. “What is a referendum mom?” “It’s a yes/ no vote.” ” What about?” “To ask white people if they want the changes in South Africa to keep happening.”

We stayed up late to watch the Olympic opening ceremony. The parade of nations got pretty boring after a while- I think countries beginning with a ‘A’ get the best deal. Grandad was selected for the Olympics, for weight lifting. That was the year we got banned, so Grandad always tells us. Suddenly it gets to the ‘S’s…I am so excited. “South Africa.” The crowd roars…the tempo lifts palpably, noticeable even to a little girl thousands of kilometres away. The world applauds us and welcomes us back.

We went to the voting station with my mom, because she wanted us with her, and because she didn’t want us to stay at home. The line went for about 5 blocks. Two enterprising teenage boys from one of the houses that the queue was slowly snaking past had bought take away pizza and were selling it off at the ridiculous price of R5 per slice to a captive audience. Everyone was in a really good mood, in spite of the heat, in spite of the hours on our feet. Black and white people lined up next to each other to vote. Is it possible to convey how significant that was? Better people than I have tried. Angie and I ran down to the corner shop to buy Coke and chips. We shared them with mom and the lady standing behind us in the line.

We watched the inauguration on tv. The union buildings, where we often went when we went to visit Granny and Grandpa (and would sometimes get bought a quick-melting ice cream!) was packed with people, rows upon rows of people, all cheering, all in the sun, and the heat, waiting to see the new nation begin.

I love our new flag- it is so cool.

I had watched a few rugby games as World Cup Fever gripped SA. Claire-Marie and I watched the final in her lounge. I ate naartjies, convinced they were helping us to win. Claire’s family were sad- her sister was supposed to be one of the dancers in the opening, but she had been too ill. Claire and I were un-affected, with the unselfconsciousness of our 12 year old’s grasp of propriety. Our eyes were glued on Joost, not wanting him to get hurt. Willing James to tackle Jomo and keep him down. Nail biting. Naartjie after naartjie- what if I stopped eating them and we lost? We won! Mandela presented Francois with the trophy. Claire and I went out into her front garden to do cartwheels. The streets were at a standstill with hooting cars- later the same would happen with the African Cup of Nations, but this time vuvuzelas would mingle to create the music of an elated people.

Natasha, Tanja and I are at Natasha’s aunt and uncle’s house. “Did you send an sms for Mandela’s birthday?” Tush asks me. “Yes- but I kept it very simple. Just ‘Happy Birthday Madiba. God bless and have many more. Love Jenny”.
” Not me,” Natasha says “I got quite emotional, saying ‘Thank you for sending our country on its way to democracy…”

Today- grey skies. I slept past my alarm clock. I got to work late. My eyes are teary. I wish I had baked a cake. I wish I could share with someone how much today means. I listen to Asimbonanga, Impi, Scatterlings of Africa and others on Youtube. I watch the video of Madiba on stage in Frankfurt. I want to cry for our country, and our people, for being so far away but for always having Africa in my heart.

Mandela is an icon, but the key thing about him is it feels like each one of us carries a piece of him- a quote, a special memory, the image of Madiba shirts hanging in OR Thambo- in our hearts. Not only does he remind the world that we count, that we mean something, but in some small way, his birthday has the power to bring me home.

Happy birthday Madiba. God bless you.

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