My Mandela Memory | Witnessing Madiba's 90th birthday in Qunu and finding the soul of a nation

Seventeen years ago, I was a young reporter at The Star when I was assigned one of the most memorable stories of my career: covering Nelson Mandela’s 90th birthday in his home village of Qunu.

Photographer Shayne Robinson and I made the trip from Joburg in a hired camper van.

It wasn’t just because we wanted a cool road trip. The idea was practical, the camper van doubled as a mobile newsroom – a space where we could write, file, edit photos and work long hours comfortably.

It also allowed us to be close to the action in a remote area without worrying about accommodation.

Quietly, we were also testing the idea to see if it would work when the inevitable day came that we’d have to return to Qunu to cover Madiba’s funeral.

What I remember most from that assignment wasn’t the formal programme or the celebrities and dignitaries expected to show up. It was the people of Qunu.

There was a kind of easy hospitality in the way they welcomed us.

There were no fences to keep us out, no suspicion, no “who are you with?” kind of questions.

We were reporters, yes, but we were also just people – and they treated us like neighbours.

The villagers taught me something simple but deeply moving. If you wanted to know whether Mandela was home, you just had to look to see if the South African flag was flying outside his house. If it was raised, he was there. No blue-light motorcade, no announcement. Just the quiet signal of a flag flapping in the wind.

On the day of his birthday, I followed his grandson, Inkosi Mandla Mandela, who walked for hours from Mvezo to Qunu, herding cattle as a traditional gift for his grandfather.

It was a symbolic walk along the same footpath their ancestors had used for generations, through rocky hills and snaking dirt roads. It began just after sunrise and took hours. Along the way, Mandla’s councilmen herded the cattle while villagers greeted them with ululations and cheers.

We watched as Mandla, draped in a royal Xhosa blanket and holding his knobkerrie, roared in celebration when his grandfather’s home came into view.

It felt like witnessing a piece of living history.

We never made it past the gates of Mandela’s home that day – the official guest list was tight – but being outside, among the people who knew him as “Tata,” was more than enough.

I remember the way the villagers dressed in their best. I remember the joy in the air. I remember how they spoke of him – not as a distant global icon, but as a neighbour, a grandfather, a man whose life was still part of theirs.

Being in Qunu that week gave me a front-row seat to how deeply Mandela was loved by the people who knew him first and best. And it’s a memory I carry with me – not just of a great leader, but of a warm village that opened its arms to two journalists in a camper van.

Lee Rondganger is the Deputy Editor of IOL

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