A visit to the Nelson Mandela Archive
Recently, I had the immense privilege of attending a private tour of the Nelson Mandela archives at the Nelson Mandela Foundation with a few of my colleagues. What I expected to be a historical experience quickly became something far more personal—an encounter that left me deeply moved, humbled, and with a renewed sense of appreciation for the history of the place I call home.
From the moment my colleagues and I stepped into the archive, time seemed to pause. Guided by the deeply knowledgeable Verne Harris, we were taken on an intimate journey through the life and legacy of a man whose story we think we know. The opportunity to read handwritten letters, preserved through decades of time, provided rare insight into his deeper thoughts—moments of longing to be with his loved ones, and glimpses of quiet resilience. Some letters overflowed with love and unwavering hope, while others carried the weight of the sacrifice he endured. I stood before letters he wrote from prison to his loved ones—beautiful, scripted writing with the gentle scratch of his pen. The words of a man whose spirit refused to break, even in the harshest of conditions.
A particularly moving moment was seeing the coffee can used by one of his wardens to bake bread for him while he was imprisoned. A humble object, yet it carried the weight of quiet acts of kindness and unexpected humanity in an otherwise inhumane setting. Alongside it sat his Nobel Peace Prize, beautifully preserved in a royal blue folder and box. To stand before this remarkable piece of history—awarded to him and the late former President FW de Klerk in Norway in 1993—was profoundly humbling. The significance of those items, seemingly ordinary yet bearing immense emotional weight, was not lost on me. They spoke of a life lived with resilience and compassion, of sacrifices made, and of victories that transcended the battlefield. Each item in the archive was a thread in the tapestry of a man who was not only a leader but a symbol of a nation’s enduring spirit.
Among the many symbolic artefacts in the space, two pieces made me smile: a Springbok jersey bearing Francois Pienaar’s number, signed by Mandela after the historic 1995 Rugby World Cup. I wasn’t at Ellis Park that day, but I remember exactly where I was—nearby, with family, the television on, and with what felt like the whole nation holding its breath. Just before the match began, South African Airways planes thundered overhead, flying low in formation and trailing smoke in the colours of our flag. Even from where I stood, kilometres from the stadium, the sound shook the air—and I remember how proud I felt to bear witness to it, even at a very young age. Beside it, another jersey—signed by Siya Kolisi, South Africa’s first Black captain to lift the World Cup in 2019—carried a message of thanks to Madiba. Together, these two jerseys told a quiet, powerful story of progress, of sport as a unifier, and of legacies passed from one generation to the next.
Just outside his former office—preserved exactly as he left it—an art installation of metal poles points skyward, quietly mirroring the bars of a prison cell. It’s haunting and beautiful all at once—a sobering reminder of the years he gave up for the freedom of others. Inside the office, time truly stands still. Books line the walls. Framed photos of family, friends, and comrades sit on side tables. In one corner, a small private seating area remains, where Mandela would gather his team annually to thank them for their dedication. It felt sacred. Unpretentious, deeply human, and profoundly powerful. Knowing that many meetings, important decisions, and private moments took place within those modest four walls added an almost reverent weight to the experience. It wasn’t grand or imposing—yet it held the gravity of history. You could feel the presence of a man who led with integrity, humility, and heart. And in that quiet space, I found myself reflecting not just on what he endured, but on how he chose to lead—with dignity, with purpose, and always with others in mind.
Upstairs, in the main museum, I was particularly struck by a glass installation mirroring the exact dimensions of the cell Mandela was held in for 27 years. To stand beside it was to feel the suffocating narrowness of that space, yet also to understand the boundlessness of his vision. It was a striking reminder that while his physical confinement was vast, his ideas and hope for a free South Africa stretched far beyond those walls. What moved me most, though, was how ordinary so much of it seemed. Not in a forgettable way, but in the way that reminds you that greatness doesn’t always shout. Sometimes, it’s quiet, deliberate, and thoughtful. Sometimes, it looks like a well-read book, a coffee can used to bake bread, or a jersey passed between leaders in a moment of mutual respect. Sometimes, it looks like love—small, intimate, and yet capable of changing the world.
I walked away not only with knowledge, but with a deep and quiet awe—for Madiba’s humility, courage, and the enduring grace with which he changed the world.
Saxon Hotel, Villas and Spa is proud to offer these insightful tours with Verne on an exclusive basis, each experience can be booked with our concierge, and can be tailored to focus on any part of South Africa’s history that you would like to discover more. Please contact concierge@saxon.co.za for more information, and to make a booking.