Nicole Itano - Correspondent

For any reporter based in South Africa, meeting Nelson Mandela is an increasingly rare treat, and one I’ve had only a handful of times in more than four years here. The legendary anti-apartheid leader doesn’t give many one-on-one interviews these days, although he does hold the occasional press conference or appear at the rare public event. 

In the most recent controversy over his art (see story), Mr. Mandela has spoken only through close associates, like his lawyer, George Bizos. That has led to some speculation, mostly discounted, that they have acted alone and that the fight is actually part of a larger battle for control over his legacy.

The image of the feeble king, surrounded by scheming courtiers, hardly seems to fit Mandela. There is no doubt he is growing old, but there is steel beneath his grandfatherly exterior and his disapproval could still silence most people with a glance.

At his most recent public appearance, late last year in the garden of his house in a suburb of Johannesburg, he looked frail and had to be helped to his chair. Surrounded by his family, he calmly announced that his son had died of AIDS.

His voice slow and measured, he said that there was nothing to be ashamed of. He said he had chosen to tell the world his son had AIDS in hopes that it would help break down the stigma.
Yet even then, in the midst of a personal tragedy, he bantered with reporters and asked after the families of those he knew. A few local journalists who had known him for years called him tata, or grandfather.

When someone adjusted a large, fuzzy television microphone that looked like a dead animal, Mandela laughingly recalled how, as he emerged from prison, someone stuck a similar piece of equipment in front of his face. After almost three-decades of being cut off from the world, he had absolutely no idea what it was. For all he knew it was some space-aged security device. But with the eyes of the world on his every move, he had no time for shock or wonderment. And, he laughed, he soon got used to the cameras.

Now that Mandela is in official retirement, such face time is rare and hard fought over. A colleague from a major European news organization once described to me how, when Mandela agreed to record some AIDS-prevention statements for a radio campaign, experienced correspondents – some famous in their own right – argued over who would hold the microphone. Half the office trouped to Mandela’s house for the recording session, although one person could have done the job.

I’ve seen even the most cynical of foreign correspondents go soft in his presence. Perhaps our admiration is unprofessional, but I like to think that even journalists are allowed to have heroes.
Mandela has never asked for special treatment from journalists, never attacked them for disagreeing with him. I’ve never had more than a handshake, the pleasure of being part of a small crowd privileged to hear a few private exchanges. But it’s true, Mandela in person doesn’t disappoint. He is refreshingly human, full of warmth and a little bit of boyish naughtiness.

He flirts with pretty women and, even now, takes time to meet the local beauty queens. He tells stories, cracks self-deprecating jokes. Sometimes he says things that are slightly sexist, but he’s Mandela and he’s 86, so no one minds.

We’re all far too aware that he won't be around forever.