Remembering Madiba: The day SA mourned

Dianne Broodryk shares her story:

It was expected … until it happened.

After many months of national concern - reporting on Madiba's deteriorating health, long hospital stays, the trips between Qunu and Houghton - it happened on a Thursday evening. 

I was having drinks with my husband and two journalist friends at home.

Another long year was ending. We were so ready for it. 

Grave concern for the health of our beloved Madiba was ever present. 

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That night too, the media contingent grew outside his Houghton home. Again the rumour mill, for the umpteenth time that year started - Madiba has died. 

But there'd been so many Madiba scares that year, so many people making him rest in peace on social media, this time, surely it was the same kind of thing. So I thought. 

It was getting late and our friends decided to stay over, but none of us were ready for bed.

Without saying it, tonight we were waiting ... our phones on the counter, each constantly checking our chat groups and social media.

Madiba was 95, we knew it could happen at any moment. What we didn't know at the time, was that it already happened.

An advisory from the presidency came through after 11pm that President Jacob Zuma would address the nation.

There was no time to drive to the office.

My husband rigged some recording equipment. 

The president broke the news to the nation and the world at 11:45 pm.

The streets were dead quiet as I raced to the office with the Zuma recording.  

In my car, Johnny Clegg was singing:

Asimbonanga (We have not seen him)

Asimbonang' umandela thina (We have not seen Mandela)

Laph'ekhona (… in the place where he is)

Laph'ehleli khona (… in the place where he is kept)

I arrived at the Jacaranda FM building, the boom gate opened.

I grabbed the stunned security guard's hand with both my hands and held it tightly.

Tears were streaming down my face.

I said it for the first time: "Madiba is dead"

Moments later, I was in the studio, with the story I never wanted to tell.

Gerda de Sousa shares her story:

The story that you have to tell, but you don't want to. You have to read as a professional, but you can't. 

Uttering the words seemed impossible.

There was no sleep once the announcement was made.

Like many other journalists, I was in the office early that day. 

By the time I had to read my first bulletin, I already listened to - and edited - hours of sound.

Tributes poured in from across the world - from leaders sending their eloquent condolences to the South African child placing two flowers in front of Madiba's Houghton home.

I went on air courageous - I can do this. 

But my brain collapsed in an emotional mess halfway through the first sentence. To listen to Desmond Tutu remembering Nelson Mandela….

But I kept reading. It was only 10 am and I had 5 more hours left. 

Somewhere during the lunch shift my brain took charge. It's all a started being easier. Compiling, reading, listening. 

I read through the tears, spent more and more time in the bathroom composing myself after each read. And started again. That was the day's cycle. 

That shift would end the next day - five minutes to three. 

I remember that because I was about to finish up, when a story appeared on my Twitter feed. 

A NASA picture taken from South Africa from outer space, accompanied by a message to honour Madiba.

It took my breath away. Silent tears for the past, the present and the future of our beautiful country fell.

It would never be the same again.

I added the story to the bulletin. My last story of my last bulletin on the day after Nelson Mandela died. And I cried on air. 

I drove home and told my 10-year old son that it's okay to cry . 

It's ok to cry for as long and hard as you want to. For that South Africa on that photo.