I Will Never be a Mandela

 

I always love devouring any literature on the most revered human being on earth. One, who is

 almost a living saint and who has made many Africans, black people and mankind at large stand

high and proud in their defence of humanity – Nelson Mandela. 

To many he is the world’ most loved statesman, a warm and magnanimous human being who is also willing to own up to his failings. This is the man who came out of prison after 27 years smiling and preaching reconciliation to all. To most people he is the founding father of the modern South Africa and it is the idea of Mandela that is the glue that binds that country together.  

This year Madiba, as he is fondly called, marked his 91^st birthday.  He has naturally become fragile. Many fear that inevitable moment. And many shudder at the thought of a South Africa without Mandela. 

As confessed earlier, I am a Mendalaphillist. Whatever material I get hold of on the old man is food for me. Actually whenever I read something on him I feel rejuvenated and realise how minuscule my contribution to mankind is. It surely is a humbling experience. 

The other day, though, I was more than humbled to read that actually the great African icon grew up in simple surroundings in a typical African village like any African child. Actually it read just like my childhood experiences. 

In the article, Mandela talks of his wish to have his final rest alongside his ancestors in Qunu, in Western Cape, where, he says, he spent the happiest years of his boyhood. In his autobiography, he describes it as a place of small, beehive shaped huts, with grass roofs.  

“It was in the fields,” he writes, “that I learned to knock birds out of the sky with a slingshot, to gather wild honey and fruits and edible roots, to drink warm, sweet milk from the udder of a cow, to swim in the clear, cold streams, and to catch fish with twine and sharpened bits of wire.” 

Wow! I felt like I was living in that same small village many years ago in my boyhood. For what else did I do when growing up in Chalowe village in the Bena plains of Njombe, in the Southern Highlands? Similar indulgencies!  

I learnt to knock down birds from the sky and from the many leafy trees in the villages. Though I have to admit I was very poor if not very bad in that art. I, and many other failed boys like me, had to find another means of catching birds. This involved spreading some grains on the ground where we would set up a trap involving a half suspended bamboo-woven-bowl held by a stick tied to a long rope. As soon as the birds were under this bowl we, hiding somewhere far, would suddenly pull the rope and naturally the supporting stick and the bowl would collapse on top of the birds. We would then come with a huge blanket and catch the birds. 

And like Mandela we also spent most of our time gathering wild honey and fruits and edible roots. I will never forget the ‘makusu’, ‘masada’, ‘masaula’, ‘mafwengi’ and many other famous wild fruits from the southern highlands. Actually with the advent of the Sumry bus services to Mbeya I have already begun receiving in Arusha some fresh ‘makusu’ fruits from Njombe. 

I also tried drinking warm sweet milk from a cow’s udder. In a nutshell I was a disgrace. Not only did I miserably fail to place my mouth appropriately but the cow became so enraged that I received a well aimed kick. I ended up spending a few days in bed after a thorough thrashing from my father. Naturally, I never went again near a cow. 

We, the Chalowe boys, also enjoyed bathing in the clear, cold streams in the village. Though, on one occasion some wayward youths stole our clothes while we were frolicking in the waters. You can imagine the spectacle we made as our naked, wet and small bodies toddled along the village streets to the respective homesteads.  

Fishing! I also loved fishing. But for all the years that I used my crude fishing rod whose twine rope and sharpened bit of wire was attached at one end, I caught only one fish. This was in contrast to my friends who caught basketfuls of fish all the time. For that, I plan to re-visit this hobby in my old age. 

As you can see I grew up just like the old Madiba. But all the past, present and immediate future signs show that I will never be a Mandela.