By Rowan Philp
Reporter, Sunday Times
Johannesburg, Sough Africa

Lessons: a former Fellow told me these things happen in the strangest ways in the US—that most of the lessons you expected turn out to be nothing but tricks you already knew. But I'd at least expected the biggest lesson of all to unexpectedly happen at work. Not so. Mine happened at a social lunch a few Sundays back—a gathering of seven adults at the home of a South African ex-pat in Southeast D.C. just three swish blocks from the Capitol. "Southeast"—I casually mention the address in this essay, just as I mentioned it to others before I left for the lunch, is a little like saying you're going to a party "in Soweto," but failing to mention that it's the part where a pet grooming parlor has just opened.

In any event, the name drop proved a symptom of what I'd realize during the lunch was my fundamental problem with journalism in South Africa. One of the guests was the brother of South Africa's leading literary figure; another was Neely Tucker, Post court reporter and former Africa correspondent for Knight Ridder.

After the asparagus starter and the third glass of wine, one of the Americans present asked about Winnie (even in South Africa, it always seems to take three drinks before someone gets the gumption to toss Mandela's ex into the mix). So I gave the carefully rehearsed opinion: a true freedom fighter and populist phenomenon who sadly lost the plot somewhere along the way, probably due to a chemical imbalance, and who is now politically dead (I didn't say "Please, God".)

But Tucker—a white man with a white ponytail—and his wife Vita—an African American woman from Detroit—weren't listening; they were staring at each other and chuckling. "Ooooh-Winneh!" Vita finally shouted. "The FIRE in that woman? I was a DISCIPLE! C'mon, Neely-you do Desmond." Tucker pressed his hands together, bunched up his face and labored over these words: "Wellll, you knooow, Weeneeee, you are my niece; a daughter to me: I luuhve you. Now, I begg of you, tell us now what we already knooow, tell us what you did with those boys so that we all can luuhve you again. I beg of yoou. Weeneee." Tucker was sobbing crocodile tears, and we all realized he was playing the part of Bishop Desmond Tutu addressing Winnie at the Truth and Reconciliation Commission.

Across the table, Vita balled her hands into fists on the table and looked at "Tutu" through the sides of her eyes. "Now, Weeneee, we forgeeve you already—uuuse this chance to let us luuhve you, I cannot beg you more," a weeping Tutu entreated her. "Winnie" raised her right arm, turned it over and extended her middle finger to the ceiling. After a most's silence the house came down—everyone laid out with laughter; Vita saying through real tears of laughter, "I lost all respect for her in that one moment—she blew her chance!"

They knew the entire sequence word for word—an American couple who lived the news that came out of that Commission. I hadn't even bothered to watch that sequence on TV—just caught the bite on the news. Tears being the topic, our hostess suddenly told Tucker: "Neely, I cried—I bawled—when I read your story last week about how you adopted Chipo. It was the most moving thing I've ever read in a newspaper."

Having worked as volunteers in an orphanage in Zimbabwe, the Tuckers had spent the whole of last year battling bureaucrats and sacrificing career positions to adopt an orphaned baby they found there, Chipo—a very sick baby they assumed had HIV. (By some miracle, it turned out she didn't). Tucker had written a story on the saga and had spent the following week replying to readers' letters.

Tucker had involved himself in Africa's unique problems and joys; truly understood how things worked and didn't work as a result. The miserable thought struck me that I'd never volunteered for anything; that I'd never really tried to understand hiding instead behind the campaigning image of a news reporter.

By the time it was dark outside, the South Africans present had, as usual, drunk twice as much as anyone else—the author's brother had just fallen over the sofa for a second time—but a powerful sense of ignorance, wasted time, and disconnection from my country kept me sober. Sensing my dejection, the hostess suggested we dance "the township jive" with the Tuckers to the South African music she had cranked up. Well, it could get worse after all, it seemed. Through clenched teeth, I was forced to admit: " I don't. Know How. To do that. Okay?" But there was no shock or scorn in her eyes; she just grabbed my by the hand and said gaily, "C'mon—it's easy, I'll show you." She did. It was great; I was pretty good. I danced the township jive all night.