24. Pretoria, 10 May 1994

In which a man makes history.

The beloved country is no longer crying, but singing. 

Eleanor

I stop to take it all in. From my viewpoint in the cool shade of the now familiar colonnade, the glassed presidential podium rises in the middle of the amphitheater. The sweep of the sandstone walls around the amphitheater radiate warmth. Police are everywhere. I know snipers are up there on the roof somewhere too—but I can’t see them. The amphitheater is filled to the brim. I can breathe the excitement that fills the air. I see Archbishop Tutu. And Walter Sisulu, and Thabo Mbeki. Castro, Gore, Clinton’s wife, Prince Philip, Arafat, Weizman, Mugabe, Nyerere, Kaunda. Everywhere I look I see the dignitaries from across the continent and globe. Friends and enemies, all together in this moment. All the governments that branded Mandela a terrorist and the ANC a terrorist organization have sent their representatives. It’s the sweetest vindication to see them here, now, honoring the elevation of Mandela to his rightful place. 

Black African pride is everywhere: in the bright clothes of the women and men, in the headdresses, in the traditional costumes, in the new South African flag—it’s rainbow of colors proclaiming the vibrancy and hope of this newest of democracies, in the music swelling through the speakers. 

Beyond the amphitheater stretch the terraces and gardens, hidden from view from my angle. What I can see is the huge open stretch of lawn at the bottom. Only I can’t see it at all. Every inch of ground is covered by a sea of South Africans. Chanting, singing, waving the new flag, the magnificent voices of African singing just reaching me all the way at the back of the amphitheater. 

The Brigadier—bless his heart—had had to work hard to convince the police that no, they absolutely were not going to put razor wire everywhere to try to control the crowds. After decades of the anti-apartheid movement, where any large gathering of black South Africans was only ever a protest, potent with the potential for violence to explode, the police are having a difficult time adjusting to the new reality: that this is a mass gathering of joy, of celebration, of hope and freedom. 

I’ve been running on four hours of sleep for the last week as the preparations reached fever pitch the closer we came to this momentous day. And yet I feel like I could run a marathon on my joy and excitement. I am the envy of so many of the other cadets. How did I get to be so lucky, to be here, right in the center of the action? I have Sizwe to thank. He is the one who pulled me in. He’s running around somewhere here today too. He’s been positively effervescent since the elections. 

And there he is. Mandela. Surrounded as he is by the sea of faces, he looks so small as he walks towards the podium. And yet he is a giant. 

As the anthem swells, my heart swells. I don’t bother trying to hold back my tears. 

“Elle, come, come join us. There’s space for you on the helicopter. Come on! Come on!” Sizwe is positively bouncing he’s in such a state of high excitement. He grabs my hand, and I follow him in a daze. We run across the lawn at Libertas, now Mandela’s official residence, to the hulking helicopter. Sizwe hands me a pair of headphones as we sit down. Moments later Thabo Mbeki climbs on. I’m painfully aware that I’m the only white person on the helicopter, aside from the pilots. But Sizwe takes my hand and squeezes it, giving me a huge smile. Mahdi turns from talking to Mbeki, gives me a wink, then goes back to focusing on Mbeki. Did he put Sizwe up to this, I wonder? 

Forty minutes later, Sizwe still holding my hand, we walk into the Presidential Box at Ellis Park Stadium in Johannesburg. The stadium is absolutely packed. I’ve never been to a live football match in my life. Well, I’ve never been to a live rugby or cricket match either for that matter. The air is electric, and the African chanting and singing is unbelievable. I turn to Sizwe. He’s bouncing and dancing and chanting, his face is radiant and his joy is infectious. 

“This is amazing!” I shout at him over the din. 

“Just you watch, Bafana Bafana is going to win this time, for sure. We’re riding the wave, ‘sis. We’re unstoppable.” And he dances and grooves right there in the Presidential box, with an unerring sense of African rhythm. 

I sway and dance along with the chanting. I don't know the words, but the energy is palpable. Jubilation. Victory. Freedom. 

South Africa is free. Free at last. 

The beloved country is no longing crying, but singing.

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Bonus Material

• Yes, I really was there!