Zelda’s unusual way of looking at life always produces stories that are out of the
ordinary, and this one is no exception.
MY NAME IS . . .
ZELDA MARGO
“Your name is Mandela. Are you related to Nelson Mandela?
“No, I’m not.”
Their eyes reflected her diminished worth and their interest descended like a lift on
speed.
Her name was not Mandela. It was Mendela. Wanda Mendela, the daughter of mixed-
race parents. A mother of colour and a Jewish Russian father. The name on his
passport, Meyer Mendelowitz. In South Africa, he became Meyer Mendela.
For Wanda being of mixed colour was crushing enough, but going down in esteem for
not being related to the world-renowned Nelson Mandela was absurd. She always
pointed out the different spelling and was tempted to add, “I’m half-Jewish, he is not.”
However, it was not generally known that her father was white.
Wanda looked like a scoop of chocolate ice-cream. A complex person of charm and
quirky humour; though the misprouncing of her name and reactions to it, made her
bristle like a cactus.
Always keen to inject herself with culture, she attended a lecture given by Dumani
Mandela, on African rituals and practices.
“Thank you Mr Mandela, for your so interesting lecture. And please, would you say ‘I
LOVE YOU?”
The man looked startled, searched for an escape, but his hand was held in a firm grip.
“I assure you I’m not insane, but please, please ....”
Anything to get rid of her, he obliged.
“I’m Wanda Mendela with an ‘E’. Always misprounced and down I go in esteem for not
being able to claim relationship to your family.”
“But, now Mr Mandela,” I’m able to say, “No, not related, but his son loves me!”
He stood frozen for a few seconds, then saw the humour and with a roar of laughter and
a squeeze of her hand, departed.
§