Tom Bromley

Mandala Day

VERSION ONE: FIRST DRAFT

It was barely two months since Mandela had been released after 27 years in captivity.
I’d watched his release one Sunday lunchtime on a friend’s tiny black and white
television: the long walk with Winnie Mandela to cheers from the waiting crowds.
When I heard a concert was being organised in London, and that Mandela would be
there, I was desperate to go. The 72,000 tickets sold out in less than two days:
somehow, I got lucky. Early that Monday morning, I took a coach from my home
town of York down to London, and the familiar sight of Wembley’s iconic twin towers.
The concert promised big headliners – Simple Minds and Peter Gabriel were to
follow, but they were dwarfed by who everyone was really there to see.
The noise was deafening. All around Wembley Stadium, the applause rippled
with the sort of wave surfers dream about. The wash of sound went through the
stands, an aural Mexican Wave that went round and round, down among those
standing on the pitch, then up and out into the black of the London night sky.
Stood up in the stands, in front of me I watched the sea of people. Ten of
thousands that in the darkness were reduced to pinpricks of heads, strips lit up from
the spotlights on stage turning from silhouettes to colour and back to silhouettes
again. A few were sat on the shoulders of others, others waved flags or held up
banners. And the cheers rolled on.
In the stadium, the ovation continued. The minutes were starting to tick by
and no-one was doing anything to try and stop it. The concert was being broadcast
live around the world, but the applause must have just sounded like a noise. TV
cameras couldn’t capture the spine-tingling, hair on the back of the neck feel of
being there. Around me, it continued to echo on in surround sound stereo. Someone
started up a chant: Nelson! Nelson! And soon everyone was joining in.
Up until that moment, the evening had felt like any other large rock concert of
the time. The air was full with that familiar smell of fried onions and lukewarm lager,
stale sweat and sun cream. But as the warmth of the April afternoon had turned to
the cool of the evening, so the music gave way to speeches.
Nelson Mandela might have been tiny from my seat high up in the stands, but
seeing him there in the flesh felt deeply, profoundly moving. One of my most
treasured possessions was a record given to me by my grandmother – ‘Why I Am
Ready to Die’, a recording of the speech Mandela gave at his trial in 1962, narrated by
the actor Peter Finch. I’d listened to that record countless times. And now, after five
full minutes of ovation, I was going to hear him speak.
Later, after the speech had finished to another round of rapturous applause, it
was singer-songwriter Tracy Chapman who was given the daunting task of following
Mandela. She walked onto the stage alone, just her and an acoustic guitar. While
Mandela’s presence seemed to shrink the stage, suddenly, it threatened to
overwhelm. But when Chapman started strumming the opening chords to her song
Talkin’ Bout a Revolution, it suddenly made sense. And although Chapman was
alone on stage, she had seventy thousand people in front of her who all seemed to
know the words. The stadium sang, heartily, happily, defiantly and I could feel the
tears pinprick my eyes as I joined in.
Tom Bromley
Mandala Day

VERSION TWO: SECOND DRAFT WITH RESEARCH

It was Easter Monday, 1990, barely two months since Mandela had been released
after 27 years in captivity. I’d watched his release one Sunday lunchtime on a friend’s
tiny black and white television: the long walk with Winnie Mandela to cheers from
the waiting crowds. When I heard a concert was being organised in London, and that
Mandela would be there, it was an offer I couldn’t refuse. The 72,000 tickets sold out
in less than two days: somehow, I got lucky. Early that Monday morning, I took a
coach from my home town of York down to London, and the familiar sight of
Wembley’s iconic twin towers. The concert promised big headliners – Simple Minds
and Peter Gabriel were to follow, but they were dwarfed by who everyone was really
there to see.
At the far end of the stadium was the stage. Earlier, it had played host to a
who’s who of music stars: Neil Young, Lou Reed, Anita Baker, Patti Labelle, Little
Steven. The huge stage had been decorated with strip banners of African designs:
zig-zag patterns descending down towards the stage. But now the backdrop was
simpler: the darkness punctuated by three central strips of black, green and gold,
and in front of them, three people and a podium.
To the right of the podium, dressed in a black green and gold headscarf and
matching robes, activist Adelaide Tambo was applauding the crowd. To the left, in a
leather coat, white shirt and black, green and gold bow tie, Winnie Mandela was
doing the same. And in between, at the podium, wearing a navy suit and black green
and gold tie, right arm aloft, eyes crinkled shut and smiling broadly, stood Nelson
Mandela.
The noise was deafening. All around Wembley Stadium, the applause rippled
with the sort of wave surfers dream about. The wash of sound went through the
stands, an aural Mexican Wave that went round and round, down among those
standing on the pitch, then up and out into the black of the London night sky.
Stood up in the stands, in front of me I watched the sea of people. Ten of
thousands that in the darkness were reduced to pinpricks of heads, strips lit up from
the spotlights on stage turning from silhouettes to colour and back to silhouettes
again. A few were sat on the shoulders of others, others waved flags or held up
banners. And the cheers rolled on.
In the stadium, the ovation continued. The minutes were starting to tick by
and no-one was doing anything to try and stop it. The concert was being broadcast
live around the world, but the applause must have just sounded like a noise. TV
cameras couldn’t capture the spine-tingling, hair on the back of the neck feel of
being there. Around me, it continued to echo on in surround sound stereo. Someone
started up a chant: Nelson! Nelson! And soon everyone was joining in.
Up until that moment, the evening had felt like any other large rock concert of
the time. The air was full with that familiar smell of fried onions and lukewarm lager,
stale sweat and sun cream. But as the warmth of the April afternoon had turned to
the cool of the evening, so the music gave way to speeches. Before Mandela had
taken to the stage, he had been preceded by Archbishop Trevor Huddlestone, head
to foot in purple robes.
Tom Bromley
Mandala Day

Nelson Mandela might have been tiny from my seat high up in the stands, but
seeing him there in the flesh felt deeply, profoundly moving. One of my most
treasured possessions was a record given to me by my grandmother – ‘Why I Am
Ready to Die’, a recording of the speech Mandela gave at his trial, narrated by the
actor Peter Finch. I’d listened to that record countless times. And now, after five full
minutes of ovation, I was going to hear him speak.
‘Master of ceremonies!’ Mandela began, to another round of cheers.
‘Distinguished artists. Members of the International Reception Committee. Dear
Friends here and elsewhere in the world… thank you! Thank you that you chose to
care…’
Later, after the speech had finished to another round of rapturous applause,
the atmosphere was electric. If Mandela had ordered us to march to Downing Street
we would have done so. Instead it was singer-songwriter Tracy Chapman who was
given the daunting task of following Mandela. She walked onto the stage alone, just
her and an acoustic guitar. While Mandela’s presence seemed to shrink the stage,
suddenly, it threatened to overwhelm. But when Chapman started strumming the
opening chords to her song Talkin’ Bout a Revolution, it suddenly made sense. And
although Chapman was alone on stage, she had seventy thousand people in front of
her who all seemed to know the words. The stadium sang, heartily, happily, defiantly
and I could feel the tears pinprick my eyes as I joined in.
Tom Bromley
Mandala Day

VERSION THREE: THIRD DRAFT RESTRUCTURED

The noise was deafening. All around Wembley Stadium, the applause rippled with
the sort of wave surfers dream about. The wash of sound went through the stands,
an aural Mexican Wave that went round and round, down among those standing on
the pitch, then up and out into the black of the London night sky.
Stood up in the stands, in front of me I watched the sea of people. Ten of
thousands that in the darkness were reduced to pinpricks of heads, strips lit up from
the spotlights on stage turning from silhouettes to colour and back to silhouettes
again. A few were sat on the shoulders of others, others waved flags or held up
banners. And the cheers rolled on.
At the far end of the stadium was the stage. Earlier, it had played host to a
who’s who of music stars: Neil Young, Lou Reed, Anita Baker, Patti Labelle, Little
Steven. The huge stage had been decorated with strip banners of African designs:
zig-zag patterns descending down towards the stage. But now the backdrop was
simpler: the darkness punctuated by three central strips of black, green and gold,
and in front of them, three people and a podium.
To the right of the podium, dressed in a black green and gold headscarf and
matching robes, activist Adelaide Tambo was applauding the crowd. To the left, in a
leather coat, white shirt and black, green and gold bow tie, Winnie Mandela was
doing the same. And in between, at the podium, wearing a navy suit and black green
and gold tie, right arm aloft, eyes shut and smile wide, stood Nelson Mandela.
It was Easter Monday, 1990, barely two months since Mandela had been
released after 27 years in captivity. I’d watched his release one Sunday lunchtime on
a friend’s tiny black and white television: the long walk with Winnie Mandela to
cheers from the waiting crowds. When I heard a concert was being organised in
London, and that Mandela would be there, it was an offer I couldn’t refuse. The
72,000 tickets sold out in less than two days: somehow, I got lucky. Early that Monday
morning, I took a coach from my home town of York down to London, and the
familiar sight of Wembley’s iconic twin towers. The concert promised big headliners –
Simple Minds and Peter Gabriel were to follow, but they were dwarfed by who
everyone was really there to see.
In the stadium, the ovation continued. The minutes were starting to tick by
and no-one was doing anything to try and stop it. The concert was being broadcast
live around the world, but the applause must have just sounded like a noise. TV
cameras couldn’t capture the spine-tingling, hair on the back of the neck feel of
being there. Around me, it continued to echo on in surround sound stereo. Someone
started up a chant: Nelson! Nelson! And soon everyone was joining in.
Up until that moment, the evening had felt like any other large rock concert of
the time. The air was full with that familiar smell of fried onions and lukewarm lager,
stale sweat and sun cream. But as the warmth of the April afternoon had turned to
the cool of the evening, so the music gave way to speeches. Before Mandela had
taken to the stage, he had been preceded by Archbishop Trevor Huddlestone, head
to foot in purple robes.
Tom Bromley
Mandala Day

Mandela might have been tiny from my seat high up in the stands, but seeing him
there in the flesh felt deeply, profoundly moving. One of my most treasured
possessions was a record given to me by my grandmother – ‘Why I Am Ready to Die’,
a recording of the speech Mandela gave at his trial in 1962, narrated by the actor
Peter Finch. I’d listened to that record countless times. And now, after five full
minutes of ovation, I was going to hear him speak.
‘Master of ceremonies!’ Mandela began, to another round of cheers.
‘Distinguished artists. Members of the International Reception Committee. Dear
Friends here and elsewhere in the world… thank you! Thank you that you chose to
care…’
Later, after the speech had finished to another round of rapturous applause,
the atmosphere was electric. If Mandela had ordered us to march to Downing Street
we would have done so. Instead it was singer-songwriter Tracy Chapman who was
given the daunting task of following Mandela. She walked onto the stage alone, just
her and an acoustic guitar. While Mandela’s presence seemed to shrink the stage,
suddenly, it threated to overwhelm. But when Chapman started strumming the
opening chords to her song Talkin’ Bout a Revolution, it suddenly made sense. And
although Chapman was alone on stage, she had seventy thousand people in front of
her who all seemed to know the words. The stadium sang, heartily, happily, defiantly
and I could feel the tears pinprick my eyes as I joined in.
Tom Bromley
Mandala Day

VERSION FOUR: FOURTH DRAFT EDITED (CLEAN VERSION)

The noise was deafening. All around Wembley Stadium, the applause rippled with
the sort of wave surfers dream about. The wash of sound rolled through the stands,
an aural Mexican Wave that went round and round, down among those standing on
the pitch, then up and out into the black of the London night sky.
Stood up in the stands, in front of me I watched the sea of people. Ten of
thousands that in the darkness were reduced to pinpricks of heads, strips lit up from
the spotlights on stage turning from silhouettes to colour and back to silhouettes
again. A few were sat on the shoulders of others, others waved flags or held up
banners. And the cheers rolled on.
At the far end of the stadium was the stage. Earlier, it had played host to a
who’s who of music stars: Neil Young, Lou Reed, Anita Baker, Patti Labelle, Little
Steven. The huge stage had been decorated with strip banners of African designs:
zig-zag patterns descending down towards the stage. But now the backdrop was
simpler: the darkness punctuated by three central strips of black, green and gold,
and in front of them, three people and a podium.
To the right of the podium, dressed in a black green and gold headscarf and
matching robes, activist Adelaide Tambo was applauding the crowd. To the left, in a
leather coat, white shirt and black, green and gold bow tie, Winnie Mandela was
doing the same. And in between, at the podium, wearing a navy suit and black green
and gold tie, right arm aloft, eyes crinkled shut and smile wide, stood Nelson
Mandela.
It was Easter Monday, 1990, barely two months since Mandela had been
released after 27 years in captivity. I’d followed his release one Sunday lunchtime on a
friend’s tiny black and white television: the long walk with Winnie Mandela to cheers
from the waiting crowds. When I heard a concert was being organised in London,
and that Mandela would be there, I was desperate to go. The 72,000 tickets sold out
in less than two days: somehow, I got lucky. Early that Monday morning, I caught a
coach from my home town of York down to London, and the familiar sight of
Wembley’s iconic twin towers. The concert promised eye-catching headliners –
Simple Minds and Peter Gabriel were to follow, but they were dwarfed by who
everyone was really there to see.
In the stadium, the ovation continued. The minutes were starting to tick by
and no-one was doing anything to try and stop it. The concert was being broadcast
live around the world, but the applause must have just sounded like a noise. TV
cameras couldn’t capture the spine-tingling, hair on the back of the neck feel of
being there. Around me, it continued to echo on in surround sound stereo. Someone
started up a chant: Nelson! Nelson! And soon everyone was joining in.
Up until that moment, the evening had felt like any other large rock concert of
the time. The air was full with that familiar smell of fried onions and lukewarm lager,
stale sweat and sun cream. But as the warmth of the April afternoon had turned to
the cool of the evening, so the music gave way to speeches. Before Mandela had
taken to the stage, he had been preceded by Archbishop Trevor Huddlestone, head
to foot in purple robes.

D
Tom Bromley
Mandala Day

Mandela might have been tiny from my seat high up in the stands, but seeing him
there in the flesh my throat felt dry. One of my most treasured possessions was a
record given to me by my grandmother – ‘Why I Am Ready to Die’, a recording of the
speech Mandela gave at his trial in 1962, narrated by the actor Peter Finch. I’d
listened to that record countless times. And now, after five full minutes of ovation, I
was going to hear him speak.
‘Master of ceremonies!’ Mandela began, to another round of cheers.
‘Distinguished artists. Members of the International Reception Committee. Dear
Friends here and elsewhere in the world… thank you! Thank you that you chose to
care…’
Later, after the speech had finished to another round of rapturous applause,
the atmosphere crackled with emotion. If Mandela had ordered us to march to
Downing Street we would have done so. Instead it was singer-songwriter Tracy
Chapman who was given the daunting task of following Mandela. She walked onto
the stage alone, just her and an acoustic guitar. While Mandela’s presence seemed
to shrink the stage, suddenly, it threated to overwhelm. But when Chapman started
strumming the opening chords to her song Talkin’ Bout a Revolution, it suddenly
made sense. And although Chapman was alone on stage, she had seventy thousand
people in front of her who all seemed to know the words. The stadium sang with
heart, defiance and celebration and I could feel the tears pinprick my eyes as I joined
in.