Early today Mtuseni and I had another heated exchange via text. We’re in the midst of an epic standoff as I try to get him to begin practicing self-reliance and initiative. It’s hard for me, this tough-love approach — and I don’t think I’ve ever heard him so upset at me, his mom, and life in general. But I have to start weaning him. As much as I want him to be my little boy forever, he’s 21 years old and finished with college. But my efforts are being met with resentment and rage and threats and tears. I’m not abandoning him — never will. But I can’t carry him on my shoulders forever.
We’re in rough waters. He signed off WhatsApp and went to sleep, still politely saying goodnight but awash in dark emotions. I went to the gym and could barely focus on my workout, struggling with feelings of stress and frustration and anxiety. “I need a drink tonight,” I thought, and planned to pick up some wine on the way home. As I walked out, I looked up at the bank of TVs and saw the breaking news reports that Nelson Mandela had died. I was overcome with sadness, and took back roads to the liquor store, driving in silence and only half-registering the houses decked in Christmas lights.
What an impressive figure, someone who transformed his nation and inspired the world. A man of such courage. Wisdom. Humanity. Humility. Grace. You would not find such qualities in Congress these days. Mandela always seemed a tower of strength and light; even at his advanced age it somehow felt reassuring that he was still here among us.
So the wine I had expected to ease my stress took on a different role. Sipping my favorite South African pinotage, I watched the TV retrospectives, nodding in familiarity at old news footage and recognizing places from my recent travels there.
I can clearly picture the “Stop Apartheid Now” button that was on my backpack in college. I can remember that sense of hopeful anticipation as the global tide began to turn against that horrible system of oppression — and the feeling of awe and relief when Mandela was finally released.
Fast-forward twenty years and I got my first glimpse of Mtuseni in the flesh, walking toward me past a larger-than-life bronze statue of Mandela in Johannesburg. Atop a tour bus in Cape Town, we looked from the seaside cliffs to the small spot of Robben Island where Mandela was imprisoned — and I lamented our short schedule not allowing time to visit the facility. Later, the bus stopped by an elegant yellow stucco building. The tour guide pointed out the balcony where Mandela gave his first public speech after getting out of prison, and I felt chills. Mtuseni listened intently and took photos with his phone. What thoughts were going through his head? What was he feeling? I didn’t intrude on the moment, and just felt grateful for the opportunity to bring him to this spot.
If there is one lesson I can take from Mandela, at this moment in particular, it is patience. Mtuseni and I will survive this latest challenge, and there will be more to come I’m sure. It’s my profound honor and privilege to help this young man, born in the last vestiges of apartheid, to reach goals not dreamed by his parents.
Nelson Mandela’s focus, effort and determination helped to save a country and a people. And in some small way led to Mtuseni being in my life today. Little did I know how wearing that simple button thirty years ago would play out in my own life.
Thinking about Mandela’s twinkling eyes, lilting voice and gently powerful philosophy, a line from a movie that I can’t recall popped into my head:
Ah, how you will delight the angels.
Thank you, Madiba. And godspeed.
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