Highs and lows of working for Winnie

Mama enjoyed a bit of gossip. I’d often overhear her laughing and sharing stories about colleagues and other people. I’d laugh heartily because she had an amazing sense of humour and was an incredible storyteller.

Little did I know that one day I, too, would become a topic of discussion. I’d never imagined that the moment would come when they talked about me, but that day eventually arrived.

One afternoon I overheard Mama speaking to one of her employees, Vumile, and they were discussing me!

Years ago, Mama had helped a relative by standing surety for their university fees. That relative had stopped paying the institution, and it had reached the point where the institution’s lawyers were calling the office, demanding to be paid. I informed Mama but she ignored me.

Mama had signed surety and they wanted their money. Eventually, the lawyers sent the sheriff to Mama’s house to evaluate what they could attach. I refused to let him in because Mama was not around, but I took the documents that they had brought with them.

Then I overheard Vumile say: “That Zodwa doesn’t even understand what signing surety means. People can’t just come here whenever they please!”

He clearly believed he could have handled the situation better than me. They laughed, and then Vumile added, “I told you long ago how stupid that woman is. How can you expect someone like her to deal with lawyers and sheriffs?”

I stood frozen outside the door, listening to their careless laughter. I felt stunned and deeply hurt, not just by their words but also by the ease with which they dismissed me.

I didn’t understand their taunts and outrage. I had not allowed the sheriff to come in. I had simply taken the documents and passed on the message.

Yet I refused to let my pain show. Instead, I walked calmly into the room, placed the file I had been working on neatly on the table and said quietly, “This is what I’ve done for the day. If there’s anything else, please let me know.” Then I turned and walked out.

That night, I couldn’t sleep as their words replayed endlessly in my mind.

The next day, I overheard the same conversation again, and something inside me broke. I packed my bag, walked past the bodyguards at the gate and left without explanation or goodbyes. I was done.

I’ll never forget the shocked expressions of the bodyguards as I walked past. “We’ll not see each other again,” I told them, and I meant it.

I was still in the taxi when my phone rang. I forced myself to answer. It was Mama.

Her voice was sharp and commanding, cutting straight through the loud music playing in the background. “Zodwa, come back immediately! Don’t annoy me! Come back!” she ordered. “If you don’t, you’ll face the consequences.”

She then hung up.

As I sat at the back of the taxi, staring out the window at Soweto speeding by, I felt my sense of pride return. I was free for the first time in ages. It felt like I’d finally broken out of a space that no longer felt right for me.

But freedom always comes at a cost. I soon discovered that I wasn’t paid for the 15 days I’d worked that month, and I knew Mama wouldn’t simply let this go. Of course, there were moments when I regretted leaving, but I also knew deep down that returning wasn’t an option. My pride wouldn’t let me. Their words, especially hers, had cut me deeply.

A few days later, I heard Sis ’Zindzi had taken over my duties and was working alongside a friend of hers. My presence, it seemed, had quickly become a thing of the past. How easily replaceable I was. That cut me even more deeply.

Weeks later, a member of the Mandela family got in touch to check on me. Her voice was warm, though I sensed she was trying to understand what had finally driven me to leave. She spoke softly: “You’ve always been so good to her, but honestly, I would’ve done the same if I were you. I’m sorry, I know that Mam ’Winnie can be that way sometimes.”

Her call was kind and I appreciated the gesture, but it wasn’t enough to change my mind.

One day, I was at King Shaka International Airport in Durban when I bumped into Jackson Mthembu. He looked at me and said, “You know Mama will never survive without you.” He then said that ever since I’d started working for her, her life had gained structure. Things were organised, and it was easier for people to reach her. Even another senior ANC politician had said something similar, that the ANC could finally get hold of her properly and that I was running a tight ship at her office.

I listened to Jackson but still felt hurt by the gossip I’d overheard. He was convinced she would come and fetch me. He said, “You’ll see. She’ll come get you.”

I told him that the only way I would go back was if she came for me herself. I would not go back on my own and give her the satisfaction of reminding me later that I had come back grovelling.

Working for Mama, I had learnt something about myself. She could be like an older sister who bullied you — she loved you, yes, but she also pushed you, tested you and sometimes wounded you, and she expected you to swallow it all because that was just how she was. But I was not made of stone. I felt things deeply. Loyalty did not mean you didn’t bleed.

So, I chose to stay away from the source of my pain. I chose a life of lack over a life where I felt small. If she wanted me back, she would have to come and fetch me herself. And I meant it.

And it wasn’t easy. Oh, how I struggled. Making ends meet became an immense challenge. I couldn’t even seek help from anyone at the ANC because I had been privately hired by Mama and wasn’t part of their formal structures. Besides, I didn’t have the energy to fight or seek intervention. I was simply tired.

Those days felt endless. Money was tight and food even tighter. I would sometimes have to go back home to Zola to eat. But I refused to ask anyone for help. Pride is strange that way; it held me upright even when I felt like collapsing.

“If I go to bed hungry,” I told myself, “no-one else has to know. I won’t die.”