On 25th anniversary of anti-apartheid leader’s release, former Guardian correspondent recalls how the biggest story of his career turned into the worst day of his life

David Beresford

Nelson and Winnie Mandela, moments after he was freed from Victor Verster prison on 11 February 1990. Photograph: Ulli Michel/Reuters/Corbis

The day Nelson Mandela walked out of the grounds of Victor Verster prison after 27 years in jail, 25 years ago today, was presumably one of the great days of his life. It was one of the worst of mine.

I was in Cape Town for the Guardian to cover history in the making – the biggest stories of my career. And not just mine. It was going to be the biggest story journalism had ever known, the biggest human interest story the world had ever seen – and I was going to report it.

I was prepared, of course. I knew Cape Town like the back of my hand. He was going to speak from the City Hall to the crowd on the Grand Parade — the old military parade ground built by the Dutch, back in the 18th century. I had booked a room, on the fifth floor of a hotel tucked discreetly around the corner.

My computer was open on the table, switched on, all systems go for the writing and transmission of my doubtlessly golden prose.

Now here I was, Zeiss binoculars in hand, a discrete micro-cassette recorder in my pocket (in case he offered me any whispered confidences), slap bang opposite the gates of Victor Verster prison, waiting for the Old Man, as he was known.

Well, everyone knows what happened next. Everyone saw what happened. Nearly everyone, that is. I hardly saw a thing. All that I know for certain is that a voice cried out, “there he is”. There was something like a collective sigh, a woman’s voice let out a piercing scream behind me and pandemonium broke out as the camera people stampeded.

By the time I got to the spot where I’d thought I’d get a glimpse of him, all that was left was the receding roar of his motor escort and a cloud of dust. The rest of the world had it all, through the lenses on board the helicopters clattering overhead and the cherry-picker mobile hydraulic lift behind me. But on the ground ? Forget it.

“The speech,” I thought to myself, as I headed for my car. The photographers could have the first appearance – I was a wordsmith, after all. The speech would save me. This was the man who had made the statement from the dock at in the Rivonia trial, one of the great speeches of our, or anybody else’s, era. (Listen to it here)

Crowds celebrate in Cape Town following the release of Nelson Mandela from prison on 11 February 1990. Facebook Twitter Pinterest
Crowds celebrate in Cape Town following the release of Nelson Mandela from prison on 11 February 1990. Photograph: Georges DeKeerle
He’d had more than quarter of a century to prepare a few more words. The Gettysburg Address? Forget it.

By the time I had made it through the traffic jams back into the city, it was about heart-attack time. I hardly glanced at the crowd in front of City Hall, sprinting instead up to my hotel room for a hurried check-in call to London.

“How much time?” I asked.

“Oh, you’ve got plenty of time – 20 minutes ?” said a voice reassuringly.

Down I sprinted, around the corner and burrowed into the heaving crowd. It was so tight I had to struggle to get my wrist up to read my watch.

Fifteen minutes to deadline. The sound system seemed to have packed up. No, he was still inside, nobody had seen him. What was I going to write?

Colour? I needed colour.

Squirming my way free of the crowd I rushed around the side of it.

Paramedics working on bodies. I looked around in bewilderment. The boom of police shotguns as they opened fire on criminals taking advantage of the frenzy to loot the city and its inhabitants. Instinctively I reached for my wallet and my ID. Nothing there. I’d been pick-pocketed.

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Source: The guardian