My fleeting friendship with world's most beloved manPost journalist’s personal memory of meeting with Nelson MandelaNelson Mandela was furious.文件倉 Despite his friendly welcome when I arrived for lunch, as I sat down at the table he unleashed a tirade.Ever since his release from jail, he said, he had met many journalists. On the whole we were a decent bunch. However, there were some bad ones among us.“And you”, he said, raising both his voice and index finger, “are the worst”.Scolded by the world’s most beloved man, I panicked. For decades, millions – no, billions – of people held him in reverence and awe. So did I.The world’s media had told us he was a saint who had saved his people and redeemed his nation, if not mankind itself.Now, more than 12 years after he had walked out of jail in February 1990, he was entertaining some cheeky white man who had dared to write a newspaper story that questioned his integrity.I had reported on a scam in which donations meant for his charities were winding up in his lawyer’s private bank account.On the day the report appeared, Mandela phoned me at home. “Hello,” he said. “Would you like to come and see me next week? We would like to cook you a big lunch.” Everything would be explained, he said. He sounded jovial.A few days later we were seated in the dining room of Shambala, a game lodge in northwestern South Africa owned by Douw Steyn, one of the country’s richest businessmen.Mandela was using Shambala as a retreat where he could quietly work on the sequel to Long Walk to Freedom, his autobiography. Quiet it certainly was. Too quiet. The only person keeping Mandela company was Zelda la Grange, the woman he had retained as his personal assistant after he stepped down as president three years earlier.Zelda had asked me to bring up the day’s newspapers, as these were difficult to buy in Vaalwater, the closest town.After entering Shambala’s foyer, I detected a sense of loneliness rather than solitude. Not much book-writing was taking place. Mandela was isolated, far from home, friends, family and former colleagues. As it turned out, a sequel to Long Walk was never written.The report that Mandela wanted to discuss involved an issue that had come to light in June 2000, after a strange incident at his Johannesburg home.Norman Adami, the head of South African Breweries (now known as SABMiller) was kicked off Mandela’s property in Houghton by Ismail Ayob, Mandela’s personal lawyer. Adami had a cheque in hand for 1 million rand (then HK$1.125 million) a donation to two of Mandela’s two charities, the Nelson Mandela Children’s Fund and the Nelson Mandela Foundation.Working at the Sunday Times in Johannesburg, I discovered money raised for Mandela’s charities was landing in a private trust account held by Ayob.Adami’s offence had been to offer a cheque made out to the charities and not to Ayob’s trust, or to Mandela personally.An old friend slipped me a copy of a contract showing that Ayob had signed a business deal with a Cape Town advertising company. In return for 6 million rand, Mandela was supposed to sign a series of sketches supposedly drawn by him, but that would be penned by a commercial artist.In return the print sellers would transfer sale proceeds into the Mandela trust account.After the ad company fell into bankruptcy, the two Mandela charities disclosed they never received any of the money – nor, it turns out, many of the donations intended for them.Mandela refused to speak to me directly. I could never get past Zelda, who insisted I speak to Ayob. A year later, after the creditors filed their papers, my paper published a cautious account of the dispute between Ayob and the creditors and the money that should have gone to the Mandela charities.A year later, I received a call at home. I recognised Mandela’s voice instantly. A fe存倉 days later I flew to Johannesburg and drove to Vaalwater.Mandela and Zelda met me at the entrance to Shambala. The lone policeman at the entrance was dressed in civilian clothes and had an automatic pistol sticking from his trouser belt. Mandela invited me to sign the guestbook. I noticed that the previous entry was more than a month old – newlyweds Prince Willem-Alexander and Maxima of the Netherlands.At the table Mandela had a list of follow-up questions that I had faxed to Zelda. He said he was annoyed because I had failed to give him an opportunity to respond before publication, hence his belief that I was the world’s worst journalist.I explained that I had tried to reach him, many times. He shouted me down. “Let me finish,” he boomed.I sank deeper into my chair.He said he had always tried to help those around him, that he had never done anything wrong and had lived according to his conscience.Judging her moment perfectly, Zelda interrupted after a few minutes. “Mr Mandela, he did try to get hold of you, but I always referred him to Mr Ayob,” she said.Mandela stopped mid-stride. “Oh.” Pause. “Oh I see. Oh well, okay then,” he said, looking at me as if for the first time.He raced through my questions: How much money had he raised for the charities? How much of this was retained by a trust? Was there any oversight of the charitable donations?He said he could not answer in detail. This was Ayob’s responsibility.He said he had always felt obliged to provide for his family, who he had neglected during his 26 years in jail.Ayob had dreamed up some ideas and Mandela found nothing wrong with them. Ayob checked everything. Besides his family, Mandela said he had also done favours for many others. He had solicited donations from many private companies for charitable purposes and was happy to name them.“Is that thing working?” he asked, pointing at my tape recorder. Unfortunately, I had brought along only 90 minutes of tape, enough for what was meant to be only an hour-long interview. I recorded the second 90 minutes in shorthand. Mandela enjoyed having some company. He revelled in memories of his youth, saying nothing about his struggle against apartheid and the formative years of Umkhonto weSizwe, the ANC’s armed wing he established.He recalled that in the late 1930s, while wearing a new hat at a jaunty angle, he had walked from Alexandra township to Sophiatown, a distance of 30 kilometres, to impress a young lady. She had indeed been impressed, he said, his eyes twinkling.As Mandela held forth, I was awestruck.It was not only because of the man himself, but the immense distance between his public persona and his private self, the tragedy of a man adored by billions, but let down – even betrayed – by those closest to him.It was as if I had stumbled upon a grandfather in an old age home abandoned by his family.He may have rambled, but I treasured every word so that I could remember every detail.I was also relieved. He may have started off thinking I was a bad journalist, but he urgently needed to get his affairs in order.My report was the first to alert him and his advisers to the danger he was in. Eventually, he sacked Ayob.Mandela began to tire. Zelda explained that it was time for his afternoon nap.As we rose from the table, Mandela offered to pose for a picture with me to show that there were no hard feelings.The world’s most beloved man and the world’s worst journalist, friends for a moment, however fleetingly.The lasting image from that day occurred after Mandela walked down the passageway leading to his bedroom.The late afternoon sun streamed in from the far end, reflecting off white marbled walls. It cast Mandela’s form in a silhouette as he walked towards its dazzling light.It looked exactly, I was stunned to realise, as if the old man was ascending to heaven.儲存
留言列表
