No one in Hollywood could have scripted this day better.
At dawn, I was awoken in a tiny house in Soweto by the cries of Abigail Nyamende, 25. She was in labor.
It was April 27, 1994, and Soweto was the sprawling black township in the South African city of Johannesburg, crammed with everything from brick split-level houses to horrific tin-roof shacks that lacked electricity or running water.
Rushing to drive Abigail five blocks to the local maternity clinic, my photographer and I hit a roadblock. We had to persuade Abigail’s cousin, Lawrence, to stop washing our rental car with a garden hose.
“Five more minutes!” Lawrence said.
The enormity of the day weighed heavily on us.
This was the day for which South Africans born with black skin had struggled, gone to prison and died. Starting at 4 a.m., proud citizens lined up in the sun to commit an act we as Americans take for granted, if we do it at all.
For the first time in their lives, they were going to vote.
Decked out in her best floral dress and matching head scarf, Abigail’s mother, Agnes, danced beneath a black umbrella down an unpaved road to her polling place.
“Today, I become a grandmother for the first time,” Agnes, a customer-service rep for a supermarket chain, cried.
“And today, I will vote!”
Our journey was nearly complete.
The long, emotionally arduous trip to Africa led me to Soweto — short for “South Western Townships.” It was the epicenter of the fight against the dastardly apartheid system of racial segregation. Written into law in 1948, apartheid was not repealed until 1991.
This trip brought me close to Nelson Mandela (with the author, above), the freedom fighter convicted of conspiracy to overthrow the state, and imprisoned for 27 years. A man who improbably rose to become South Africa’s first black president.
He died last week at age 95. On Sunday, the man considered the father of his country will be laid to rest.
I followed Mandela to a tense township outside the port city of Durban, where the jobless and destitute vibrated with rage. To a soccer stadium in Johnannesburg. To whitewashed buildings of the once all-white seat of government in Pretoria.
I bumped into him in a lobby of a Durban hotel, amazed he traveled with just an aide. He took my hand, and apologized for the bump, which was probably my fault.
I was speechless.
He was tireless. Fearless. But “Madiba,” as he was affectionately known, held no bitterness against the white man. Quite the contrary.
He knew that only if whites and blacks worked together would South Africa have a chance to thrive. And by his example, people of a country long at war with itself put their differences aside.
The night before the election, Agnes confided in two strangers about her personal battles. She had endured segregated bathrooms and checkout lines that reminded me of the segregated South.
In the 1970s, Agnes, a widow, worked as hospital clerical worker, and often ran late when buses did not operate.
“The boss had security guards who used to hit people with this whip,” she said. “It was made of rubber. They hit you on the head, or the back. If you did not run away fast enough, they would just keep hitting you.
“I was 32. I already had two kids. And they were going to hit me? I didn’t feel as a person that I deserved it. Being a woman hit by a man!”
Agnes quit her job. At the time, there were no others.
The voting went on for three days. But by evening, Agnes got to the front of the line, and marked an “X” on the ballot next to the name Mandela and his African National Congress party.
Abigail gave birth to a son.
The child was named Sizwe. In the Zulu language, the name means “nation.”
Nineteen years have passed, and life in Soweto has improved. But unemployment rates remain high in South Africa, along with crime.
But that night, with a new baby, a new nation, and enough happiness to blot out the past, we ate and drank and sang as one.
Columbia X-posed
Columbia University has a sex problem.
A college jock accused of raping two co-eds and groping a third still roams the campus after the Ivy League university failed to take prompt action, The Post’s Tara Palmeri reported. The accusers complained that university brass never encouraged them to call police, and Columbia was not required by law to report the claims to authorities.
Meanwhile, internal investigations into rape claims dragged on for months before being dropped due to “insufficient evidence.’’
In the groping case, Columbia found that the alleged assailant violated the school’s gender-misconduct code. But by the time the ruling came down, the victim had graduated and the perv could no longer be ordered to stay away from her. It was over.
Why in the world should parents pay tuition?
In foodie fight, dog has its day
Wiener lovers rejoice!
The Washington Square Park Conservancy, headed by actor John Leguizamo’s wife, Justine, pressured the city Parks Department to get rid of “unsightly’’ hot-dog stands, The Post reported. But after informing little-guy vendor Moon Mohammed that his contract to sell tube steaks would not be renewed, Parks relented.
A spokesman vowed to determine what kinds of foods — “including hot dogs’’ — may be offered in the urban oasis.
If rich, entitled foodies don’t like it, let them move.
Populist new mayor is Mr. Fancy-Manse
No more cooking and cleaning. The de Blasios of Brooklyn have fallen in love with the idea of living large.
Citing “logistical and security concerns,’’ Mayor-elect Bill de Blasio announced that he’s moving with his family from their Park Slope row house into a home in a far snootier ZIP code on Manhattan’s elite Upper East Side: Gracie Mansion.
I guess the “Tale of Two Cities,’’ as de Blasio called New York during his mayoral campaign, can handle a few more people in the 1 percent column. It helps when you have a city-paid crew of 12 to do the chores.
Gay rights ill-served by hoax
New Jersey’s lesbian server Dayna Morales collected thousands in donations from strangers appalled by a message scrawled on a restaurant check she posted on Facebook: “I’m sorry but I cannot tip because I do not agree with your lifestyle.’’
But Morales’ claim of intolerance has been revealed as a likely hoax, and she’s out of a job at Bridgewater’s Gallop Asian Bistro. The ex-waitress is starting to return donations, but the damage is done to her sisters and brothers in the gay community.
Good-hearted people will think twice before believing a tale of gay-bashing.