WHAT HAPPENED TO HELEN SUZMAN'S INSIGNIA FROM MANDELA

The Late, Great Lady's Gong from Mandela is in a Harare Township
I have admired Helen Suzman for as long as I can remember. I never dreamed that I would meet her - this long-serving champion of justice and freedom for fellow South Africans who expressed herself so calmly and brilliantly in her career in Parliament. But not only did I meet her, but I shared with her an adventure in Harare's Mbare which I am sure she would have been anxious to forget.

The story goes like this: Wilf Mbanga a journalist who had (still has) a talent for persuading the great and famous - Desmond Tutu, Alister Sparks, Wole Soyinka were among his scoops - to agree to address large audiences of their admirers. Helen Suzman flew in to Harare about fifteen years ago, to address Zimbabweans attending a Willie Musarurwa Memorial banquet in Harare on the subject of Freedom of Expression. I served with Wilf on the committee of the Trust and had been involved in the usual planning and organization of this annual event.

I was more than pleased when Wilf called me the morning after Helen had delivered her speech and asked me to join him and a British journalist, taking Helen in his Mercedes on a tour of Harare's places of interest on her way to Harare's airport. We picked her up, together with her light, overnight luggage from her hotel. She was immaculate in a navy blue suit with matching handbag; her silver hair, groomed to perfection did not conceal the expensive gold stud ear rings. I wore my favourite grey tracksuit and carried a large matching, sack-like bag. It was a hot day and Helen removed her jacket as she entered the car and sat beside Wilf on the front seatwhile I (for reasons I cannot explain) sat on my bag beside the Brit on the back seat.

The tour included a visit to the Borrowdale Shopping Centre (Sam Levy's Village) and an uphill walk from the parking lot to the top of Harare's `Kopje' to see the 180 degree view of the City of Harare and the sourrounding countryside. We made small talk as we passed the Law Courts in Rotten Row, when Helen remarked "What I really want to see is a Zimbabwean African township" Okay, Wilf turned off after we crossed the flyover into the crowded lane behind the Rufaro football stadium. The pavements were filled with street vendors and Wilf had to slow down to make his way along the narrow road. Helen had just remarked "Is this your Zimbabwe's Soweto" when Wilf gave an alarmed shout as a strong black arm came through his window. At the same time a young vendor opened the front passenger door, grabbed Helen's handbag and her jacket from her lap and made off with them. It all happened with lightening speed. Wilf leaped out of the car, picked up a large stone and with the Brit gave chase, disappearing among the buildings on the roadside.

Helen was livid. "My insignia! It was on my jacket lapel - its my insignia from Nelson Mandela!" she wailed and she too leaped out of her seat, and stood beside the car calling down some amazing curses on the thief. Rich language, I thought, and perfectly justified. Meanwhile, what was I doing? I was sure she was going to be mugged on her feet. I leaned over and slammed Wilf's door shut, jumped out and hustled Helen back into the car. My own almost invisible handbag was untouched. Wilf and the Brit returned empty handed, matching Helen's language. A a quick u-turn and we were out of there, shouting at a passing police vehicle that we had been robbed.

Helen's stolen handbag had contained her plane ticket, her cash, her glasses, her keys to her house in Johannesburg's Houghton suburb - everything a woman keeps on her person when travelling.

"I have to get that plane, we've only got two hours before it flies" pleaded Helen. The next couple of hours were astonishing to say the least.

First stop after the robbery is the South African High Commission whose official town offices at the time were in the Sanlam Building in the city centre. But it is a Saturday morning and the offices are closed. We dash into a clothing shop on the ground floor, below the offices. In desperate haste we approach a young woman who is holding a telephone to her ear. She does not recognise Helen and, looking annoyed, says we must wait for attention.. "Where is the manager?" I demand. "I am the manager," she says archly. No progress here and we dash off like a bunch of rabbits to a shop beside the Treasure Trove in second street where we know that there is a Chinese who runs an efficient photograpy business. He recognises the urgency in our wild eyes and allows us to jump the waiting queue. Minutes later we have passport photographs of Helen. No mobile phones on us, we decide to split our forces. Wilf and Helen go in one direction to get a new ticket, using his credit card after I am dropped at the gate of the South African Ambassador's suburban home in Kew Drive, just half a block from my own home in Highlands. The iron barred gate is firmly locked and behind them a startled security guard, sees a middle-aged matron in a track suit dancing about like a monkey, clutching the bars, demanding to see the boss and claiming to be a friend of Nelson Mandela. (I knew the young man would not recognise the name of the famous lady we were trying to rescue). Nervously, the guard picks up his intercom phone and calls the Ambassador the estimable Mamabulo. By great good luck he is in the house. Miraculously, I am allowed inside. The ambassador comes running down the stairs, recognises me as I pace anxiously in his reception area. Getting the message pretty damn quick, he moves into action. We roar off in his official car to the SA passport offices in Princess Drive, the High Commissioner instructing some officer to meet us there, open the gates and the doors and get Helen Suzman a temporary passport.

The great lady, her photos, her passport and her ticket home are united. She catches the plane. Well done Ambassador, well done Wilf.

Helen wrote to thank us after she had replaced her lost possessions - but not the the treasured insignia.

With every one of the multitude of her admirers, I mourn her passing.


Copyright © 2004 Diana Mitchell