Our team arrived in South Africa in two groups one week before the big fight. The manager and I arrived together and went directly to a reception held to welcome the fighters, raise funds for a local charity and as well as promote the bout between Laila Ali and Gwendolyn O’Neil. There we met the rest of the team: the fighter, Gwendolyn O’Neil, her husband and her trainer. We all held the hope of meeting Nelson Mandela since he was an ex-fighter and a big fan of the game. The fundraiser took the form of an auction. One of the auctioned items was a dress modeled by the opponent, Queen Bee Laila Ali: daughter of the Greatest, Muhammad Ali. She modeled the dress in an actual boxing ring and looked awesome. Damn, I thought, why did they not ask our girl to model an outfit?
Our girl looked a little lost in the spectacle of the new ‘mixed’ South African middle class. Maybe she had already seen the promotional poster around Emperor’s Palace with Laila shown three times as large as she. Within five minutes of our arrival, Mrs.Winnie Mandela came to our table and introduced herself. She left and returned with Laila Ali. There was no need to introduce the fighters. They had met in Atlanta in ’04: Ali by TKO in three. The fighters hugged initiated by our girl. Ali seemed reluctant and surprised by the sudden show of affection. It made the local news. Three years earlier she had knocked this woman down and out. It felt awkward. After all, we were promoting a fight not a love fest. Winnie said something about wanting the best fighter to win and not choosing sides. She seemed sincere. But it rang a little hollow, since she had been quoted in local newspapers as wanting Ali to win and she and Ali shared the same table at the fundraiser. One was the guest of the other: go figure. She too looked great. I still have a framed Newsweek Magazine photograph of Winnie’s face, from my Harlem days, on the wall in my den. Everyone remarks how pretty she looks and a some followed that with, “is that your wife”. Even a few who had met my wife have asked the question. The team left the reception for our respective rooms to contemplate the next days’ activities. Nelson Mandela did not show.
Nothing I heard or read about South Africa prepared me for the Emperor’s Palace: a very secure complex housing three hotels, a casino, banks, several restaurants and fast food chains. The complex, minus the fast food chains, was designed to mimic the old roman palaces replete with fountains, columns and murals. I had heard about Sun City, but this. Nestled in a Johannesburg suburb, one can live here without ever leaving the complex. Well, unless you suffer from my disease. I go nowhere without visiting the other side of the track. In this case, Soweto is the other side of the track and its barber shops, as in most communities, the center of news and information. I tried but could not really distinguish the Soweto barbershop from any I visited in Harlem, NY. Johannesburg, as a whole, reminded me of Atlanta. It’s just as African replete with malls. The difference is Mandela.
We got word we could visit him at his office. But there were conditions: only two persons are allowed in. The rest must wait outside and are allowed to take pictures. I felt hurt: another slight for my team. We didn't get to model an outfit and now this. To make matters worse, our driver sympathized and shared that Laila’s entire entourage, which was much larger than ours, were allowed in. My understanding was that we would only be allowed to take pictures of him and the other two members allowed in: somewhat like a safari. I called a meeting and suggested we politely refuse the invitation as a group. I explained that certainly, Mandela, of all people, upon hearing our position would understand, and admonish his assistants on their preposterous plan.
One member of the group abstained. Two voted for and two against my plan. The result was the guest of honor, the fighter, and her husband visited with Nelson ‘Madhiba’ Mandela.
The liaison, who first called me with the news of the planned visit, called from Mandela’s home and indicated that she meant that we could take pictures with Mandela in front of his home as opposed to take pictures of Mandela from outside his home. By then it was too late and we declined to join the group. How could I miss these subtle differences. Sometimes I think English is not my first language. The liaison was Afrikaner: English and Afrikaans perhaps something got lost in the translation. Instead, I focused on getting out and visiting the community. The huge nuclear power plant in Soweto came as a surprise. I visited the Sharpeville Massacre Memorial and the museum. I had read Winnie’s book years before and seen the pictures. It all came back to me; that chapter on the Soweto Uprising; Hector Pieterson.
I often felt Nelson would be just another freedom fighter without Winnie. They were many others jailed for as long like Walter Sisulu and even longer like Jafta Masemola. Many like Steven Biko died. But none had Winnie on the outside. She kept that name in the news even if not always in a positive light. So much so, that you could not forget that this man was being held illegally and the non-reasons for it.
Nelson Mandela came to Emperor’s Palace for the fight. He really should have been in bed at his age and given the time of the fight: midnight. This was the biggest fight in South African boxing history: bigger than Hasim Rahman over Lennox Lewis in ‘04. Rahman ko’ed Lewis in Five. Luckily, this fight lasted no time. Laila by TKO in the first round. I was busy then and had no time to meet Mandela. He looked emperor-like in his gold, figured-up, Armani-like shirt. Hopefully, he went directly to bed.
I saw him being seated earlier on closed-circuit television piped into every room in the complex. The fight was televised throughout South Africa. I glanced in his direction as our team was announced into the emporium. He sat on what appeared to be a throne.
Winnie Mandela, a real champion, came by the room after the fight and expressed her sympathies before leaving with the Ali entourage for perhaps another party. Yeh she still hangs in my den with that impish smile, like she my wife.
Our girl looked a little lost in the spectacle of the new ‘mixed’ South African middle class. Maybe she had already seen the promotional poster around Emperor’s Palace with Laila shown three times as large as she. Within five minutes of our arrival, Mrs.Winnie Mandela came to our table and introduced herself. She left and returned with Laila Ali. There was no need to introduce the fighters. They had met in Atlanta in ’04: Ali by TKO in three. The fighters hugged initiated by our girl. Ali seemed reluctant and surprised by the sudden show of affection. It made the local news. Three years earlier she had knocked this woman down and out. It felt awkward. After all, we were promoting a fight not a love fest. Winnie said something about wanting the best fighter to win and not choosing sides. She seemed sincere. But it rang a little hollow, since she had been quoted in local newspapers as wanting Ali to win and she and Ali shared the same table at the fundraiser. One was the guest of the other: go figure. She too looked great. I still have a framed Newsweek Magazine photograph of Winnie’s face, from my Harlem days, on the wall in my den. Everyone remarks how pretty she looks and a some followed that with, “is that your wife”. Even a few who had met my wife have asked the question. The team left the reception for our respective rooms to contemplate the next days’ activities. Nelson Mandela did not show.
 |
| Oliver Tambo International Airport, Johannesburg (c) roootsandculture |
One member of the group abstained. Two voted for and two against my plan. The result was the guest of honor, the fighter, and her husband visited with Nelson ‘Madhiba’ Mandela.
The liaison, who first called me with the news of the planned visit, called from Mandela’s home and indicated that she meant that we could take pictures with Mandela in front of his home as opposed to take pictures of Mandela from outside his home. By then it was too late and we declined to join the group. How could I miss these subtle differences. Sometimes I think English is not my first language. The liaison was Afrikaner: English and Afrikaans perhaps something got lost in the translation. Instead, I focused on getting out and visiting the community. The huge nuclear power plant in Soweto came as a surprise. I visited the Sharpeville Massacre Memorial and the museum. I had read Winnie’s book years before and seen the pictures. It all came back to me; that chapter on the Soweto Uprising; Hector Pieterson.
I often felt Nelson would be just another freedom fighter without Winnie. They were many others jailed for as long like Walter Sisulu and even longer like Jafta Masemola. Many like Steven Biko died. But none had Winnie on the outside. She kept that name in the news even if not always in a positive light. So much so, that you could not forget that this man was being held illegally and the non-reasons for it.
 |
| Winnie Mandela (c) Re-taken from Newsweek, Jan. 1986 |
I saw him being seated earlier on closed-circuit television piped into every room in the complex. The fight was televised throughout South Africa. I glanced in his direction as our team was announced into the emporium. He sat on what appeared to be a throne.
Winnie Mandela, a real champion, came by the room after the fight and expressed her sympathies before leaving with the Ali entourage for perhaps another party. Yeh she still hangs in my den with that impish smile, like she my wife.
Comments