I HAVE some cherished memories of Nelson Mandela. I was fortunate, for example, to be on the Grand Parade when he made his first address as a free man, and I was on the lawns of the Union Buildings in Pretoria for his inauguration.
The time I'd like to forget, though, was in Mthatha in February 2000 when he opened the Nelson Mandela Museum.
It was a miserable business. The day was a shambles. Massive delays led to cancellations and events being shuffled willy-nilly up and down a schedule that grew more ad hoc with each passing hour. Frustration grew as it became increasingly clear that, on this occasion, Mandela would not be speaking to the press.
Finally, after a fruitless afternoon in Qunu, where we were shown what I now can no longer recall, I tried to buttonhole Mandela as he was being shown around the displays in the museum's Bhunga Building in downtown Mthatha.
Given that proceedings were way behind the schedule, Mandela's official tour of his own museum was done at a breakneck pace. I had no idea that an octogenarian could move so fast; several priceless cultural and historical artifacts of some importance to the Thembu royal family came close to being destroyed as I barged my way to the front of the Mandela party.
All in vain, though. Mandela was in a foul mood. I'd barely opened my mouth to fire off a question, when he barked at me in rage - "No!" - as his guards elbowed me out of the way. So much for the twinkly-eyed and avuncular old guy we'd come to love.