Zelda La Grange was Nelson Mandela’s factotum and confidante for almost 20 years during and after his presidency, and recalls their unlikely friendship in this affectionate memoir.
An ‘uninquisitive’ Afrikaner, from a Calvinist conservative background, she had grown up to distrust black people, and had learned not to touch them. She regarded black political leaders as communists and atheists; she feared for her father’s life with the news of bomb blasts; and yet the happiest times of her childhood were the hours she spent with her black nurse.
As the prisons emptied and democratic elections neared she and millions of other white South Africans feared for their future, and rightly so.
As she makes clear, had South Africa fallen into the hands of a lesser man than Mandela, a full-scale racial conflict could have broken out. But he went out of his way to reassure Afrikaners – and whites generally – that they and their property were safe under the new dispensation.
The portraits of Afrikaner presidents continued to hang in the president’s office in Cape Town; Mandela liked to converse in Afrikaans; he famously donned a Springbok rugby jersey; and he brought Afrikaners like La Grange into his inner circle.
As he established himself in office she felt her fear fade away.
The pages dealing with Mandela’s presidency of democratic South Africa are an exhilarating read. Determined to make up for the lost years he travelled incessantly, worked around the clock, and demanded the same level of commitment from his staff.
La Grange recalls a kindly, reserved man who spoke fondly of the dances he used to go to before his imprisonment. Mandela had no understanding of modern banking or popular culture – and at events often had only the slightest idea who he was shaking hands with.
As the years go on the book grows darker in tone, as disillusionment spreads in South Africa. As Mandela becomes increasing infirm and dependent, others begin taking decisions for him and squabbling over access to him.
His political successors are epigones, who allow corruption to flourish, and fail to significantly improve the lives of the black underclass. La Grange experiences black resentment at first hand.
Some of Mandela’s relatives, unhappy that a white woman enjoyed such easy access to him, had long been conspiring to marginalise her. They finally had their day, banning her from attending his burial in Qunu, his ancestral home.
That a racially-motivated and public snub should end this account of a long, deep friendship is proof that South Africa has still not left the past behind.
