Love in the time of treason
WORCESTER, 1997
In the distance, the Blue Train glides into view—a mere speck on the horizon. The gathered crowd cheers in anticipation. They are hedged in behind security gates that block their entry to the station platform, where a few guests and journalists await its arrival. Beautifully refurbished, the Blue Train is making its first trip from Pretoria to Cape Town in a newly democratic South Africa, and as it rolls slowly into Worcester station, the crowd strains against the gates, hoping to catch a glimpse of Nelson Mandela and the other dignitaries on board.
The train doors open, and after a few minutes, he appears and steps onto the platform with his companion, Graça Machel, and is guided to the small group of children gathered to welcome him. Stooping down, he greets a young boy, who raises his hands, placing them on Mandela’s cheeks. The child’s soft, white fingers feel their way down the sides of the wrinkled brown face, down to his chin and then up to his hair. Stillness descends upon the scene as the child’s fingers trace the old man’s face. Then the blind eightyearold smiles, turning his head slightly to the side, where the other children are standing. “He has a beard and curly hair,” he says softly in Afrikaans.
Mandela chuckles as smiles widen all around. His eyes then move to the guests gathered to welcome him, but his hand reaches for his companion, Graça, like that of a love smitten teenager.
“Enjoy your honeymoon,” shouts one of the press photographers.
“I leave everything to your imagination,” he quips, evoking delighted giggles that ripple around him as he heads towards the local townsfolk. They wave their welcoming placards, pushing and shoving to get the best view. Some parents hoist their children onto their shoulders.
Squashed up against the ironrunged gating is an elderly woman in a yellow sari. Ayesha Dawood is short, stocky, and seventy years of age. She hooks her fingers into the gating to steady herself as the crowd surges forward. For more than forty years, she has waited for this moment to once again set eyes on the man whose fortunes have been so tightly interwoven with her own. They had last been face-to-face in the Drill Hall in Johannesburg in 1956, both facing charges of high treason. Beside her, with his arm protectively around her shoulders, stands her husband, Yusuf. He is a tall, thin man, and her head barely reaches his shoulder.
She looks up at him and feels a rush of gratitude filling her heart.
FORTY-FOUR YEARS EARLIER, 1953
Yusuf Mukadam woke to the sound of a cock crowing outside his home. His mother was always the first to rise, and as he lay in bed, he heard the swish of her sari as she passed his bedroom. The soft tread
