Rendezvous at Robben Island – Polished Blog Version

From the heights of Table Mountain, Robben Island looked like a lonely scrap of land floating in the vast Atlantic—one tiny dot in the constellation of Nelson Mandela’s extraordinary life. I couldn’t wait to step onto this World Heritage Site, to feel, even faintly, what it might mean for a person to endure 18 years of confinement here and still walk out as the president of a nation.

The ferry ride to Murray’s Bay was a bumpy forty-five minutes. Black African Oystercatchers with their bright red beaks chased one another along the coast, while Cape fur seals lounged lazily on the jetty, basking in the blue sky. At first glance, the island appeared barren—dry land dotted with a few structures, many of them former prison blocks.

We boarded a bus and crossed the prison gate, built from the malmesbury slate quarried on the island. Here, white warders once greeted prisoners with the chilling words: “This is the island! Here you will die!” A shiver ran down my spine. This wasn’t ancient history. This happened just decades ago—while the rest of the world lived their freedoms unquestioned.

The first sight that caught my attention was a white structure with green domes beside a watchtower. Our guide, Sipoho Msomi—a former prisoner himself—corrected us gently: it wasn’t a mosque but a Kramat, a shrine built to honor Prince Moturu of Madura, exiled and deceased on this very island.

A little farther stood the leper cemetery. Before Robben Island became infamous as a prison, it had been a dumping ground for the sick. White gravestones—some marked, many not—stood witness to silent suffering, to bodies and spirits abandoned by those who once loved them.

Nearby was a small yellow house surrounded by barbed wire. A board read: Robert Sobukwe House. Sobukwe, the political leader, was kept in absolute solitary confinement here. He had a house, a bathroom, even a private yard—but no human voice. He was forbidden from speaking, even to the guards. His only companions were the dogs. They say he never spoke again. I wondered how alive—or dead—one must feel in such isolation.

I lifted my camera to capture the starkness of the place when I suddenly sensed someone sitting beside me.

“Hi! I am Rolihlahla Mandela! I was a prisoner here. Mind if I show you around?”

Startled, I lowered my camera. A friendly face smiled back at me. My heart raced. I sat alone in the last row of the bus. I blinked, half certain I was hallucinating—perhaps the heat? But when I turned again, he was still there: the same man whose autobiography I had just been reading. He pointed out toward the limestone quarry shimmering under the African sun.

“That’s where we toiled for decades. The sun damaged our eyesight, but it could never weaken our vision.”

The quarry was dotted with tufts of green grass now. A corner dug into the rock served as a makeshift shelter and toilet.

“Warders hated going there. We used that spot for our secret meetings—our little parliament of resistance.”

Near the entrance stood a small cairn of stones—the impromptu reunion monument created by Mandela and his comrades after their release.

“I placed the first stone.” His smile was quiet, triumphant.

I felt humbled by the enormity of their struggle and grateful for the comfortable life I had been fortunate to inherit.

We passed a white Garrison Church before reaching the prison cells. I wondered—did God dwell here? Or was this suffering His way of forging something greater?

The tiny cell where Mandela lived as prisoner no. 46664 contained only three items: a thin mattress, a small wooden table, and a red metal bucket.

“That table had a photo of my wife, Winnie. I dusted it every morning. I missed her dearly. I missed watching my children grow. I wasn’t even allowed to attend my mother’s funeral.”

His voice trembled. I felt an ache for a pain I had never known.

“And beside her photo, I kept a picture of Nolitha—a Jarawa woman I saw in a magazine. Nolitha means ‘sun’s rays.’ Her joy reminded me of hope. That’s what we needed most.”

He knelt beside the mattress.

“I read Shakespeare’s complete works right here. I told myself they would not break me. These walls could either make you or destroy you. They made me.”

He pointed at the small window.

“That was the window to my soul. When I had no one to talk to, I spoke with myself. My soul became my best companion.”

The bucket in the corner wasn’t merely a sanitation object.

“This bucket helped us talk to each other when we washed them. The warders hated the smell, so they kept away. They didn’t realize they were helping us connect.”

Down the hallway was the letter-censoring room.

“Our letters came back as torn emotions. Entire paragraphs removed—our lives fragmented on paper.”

He guided me into the scorching prison yard.

“Sisulu and I hid a copy of my memoir in the wall here. They found the first one, but not the second. It was smuggled out.” His eyes danced with victory. “But for that, they took away my study privileges for four years.”

We walked together through the dormitory cells where many prisoners lived. Their absence felt heavy, as though their forfeited years still lingered in the corners.

A board displayed the prisoners’ “diet.”

“Coffee was ground maize baked until black and brewed into hot water. Phuzamandla—‘the drink of strength’—was just dust and yeast in colored water. Balanced, yes… between unpalatable and inedible.” He chuckled bitterly.

We moved toward the ocean. Waves of the deep blue Atlantic crashed angrily against the rocks.

“From here, Table Mountain was our beacon of hope. To us, it meant freedom. It meant the mainland we would one day return to.”

I stared at the mountain’s silhouette—majestic yet impossibly far. A sudden anger rose in me at the cruelty of my own species.

He turned, soft as ever.

“Don’t keep hatred in your heart. I didn’t.” And with that, he walked toward the sea… and vanished.

A cold breeze brushed my skin. African penguins waddled past me. A springbok darted into the bushes. Kelp gulls circled above. The world felt alive again.

As I walked toward the ferry, I looked back at the towering prison walls. Their barbed wires once tried to crush spirits—but failed.

Robben Island did not silence voices. It amplified them. Instead of suppressing the dream of equality, it nurtured three future presidents and gifted the world a story of perseverance, courage, and unbreakable hope.

I smiled, grateful for this unexpected rendezvous with a remarkable man—and with the resilience of the human spirit.

Nita Bajoria