“Amandla!” called Nelson as he appeared at the top of the stairwell in the courtroom. “Ngawethu!” roared his supporters in response. They were on their feet, their fists held high. The chant rolled back and forth, sweeping across the packed galleries like a wild fire fanned by the winds of change. 

He thrilled at the cherished call and response—“Power! It shall be ours!” It seemed to invoke the soul of a people determined to shake off the shackles of bondage. He waved at the crowd and sat down.

The magistrate was speechless. The chanting was one thing, but nobody had expected him to appear in full Xhosa tribal dress, including a leopard-skin cloak thrown over his bare shoulders, chosen to confront the white man's system of justice with the history and heritage of his own people, with the culture of Africa. 

Even though he was representing himself, Nelson was surprised the magistrate had agreed to allow him to address the court before entering a plea. He stood, adjusted the leopard-skin cloak, rolled his shoulders and head as though preparing for the opening bell in his township boxing ring, and began to speak. 

“First, as a preliminary matter, I must insist that Your Worship recuse himself from this trial,” he said in a strong voice to make sure everyone in the gallery could hear his words.

The magistrate looked at him in disbelief. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Mandela. What did you say?”

“That you must recuse yourself, Your Worship. How can I get a fair trial in this court?” he demanded. “My case involves a clash between the aspirations of the black people and those of the white people. Yet the whites pass all the laws, appoint all the judges and make all the decisions.” He glared at the magistrate. “How can anyone think the scales of justice are evenly balanced? I feel oppressed by the atmosphere of white domination that lurks all around in this courtroom—”

 “Mr. Mandela,” interrupted the magistrate, “I gave you permission as a courtesy to address the court before entering a plea. I do not expect you to take advantage of the courtesy and use the court as a political platform. You are charged with straightforward criminal acts that apply equally to blacks as well as to whites. You are an officer of the court. You and I know each other. You have always shown respect for the legal system and I expect you to do so now.” The magistrate paused, stone-faced. “I will not recuse myself, Mr. Mandela. How do you plead?”

Momentarily stung by the reprimand, Nelson fingered his leopard-skin cloak as he gathered his thoughts. The magistrate was right and he felt a twinge of shame for taking advantage of a man he respected. But respect had run its course. Old norms no longer applied. This was a new chapter in the struggle, and he was writing the script on his feet. 

“Your Worship, no matter how strong your own sense of fairness and justice might be, a system that makes a white judge sit in judgment over a case in which whites are an interested party cannot be impartial and fair. It is improper and against the elementary principles of justice to entrust whites with cases involving their denial of basic human rights to the black people of this country. The atmosphere inside the courtroom calls to mind the inhuman injustices inflicted on my people outside this courtroom by this same white domination.”

The magistrate stared hard, tight-lipped, his jawbones flexing. There was not a sound in the courtroom—such a public exchange had never been heard before. 

“Have you finished your statement, Mr. Mandela?” asked the magistrate, his expression dark, his tone terse. 

“One more thing, Your Worship,” he said. “This courtroom reminds me that I am voteless because there is a parliament in this country that is white controlled. I am without land because the white minority has taken a lion’s share of my country and forced me to occupy poverty-stricken reserves, overpopulated and overstocked. And we are ravaged by starvation and disease.” 

The magistrate held up his hand as though demanding silence. 

“Your Worship,” he continued, ignoring the implied command, “I hate discrimination most intensely and in all its manifestations. I have fought it during my life, I fight it now and I will fight it until the end of my days. Even though I happen to be tried by one whose opinion I hold in high esteem, I detest most violently the system that makes me feel that I am a black man in a white man’s court. This should not be.” 

“Mr. Mandela! That is quite enough.”

“No, Your Worship. With respect, it is not nearly enough.” The two men glared at each other like gladiators, oblivious to their surroundings, intent only on the immediate existential confrontation. “The injustice in this court simply reflects the injustice in our society, Your Worship. The whites suppress our aspirations, bar our way to freedom and deny us opportunities to promote our moral and material progress, to secure ourselves from fear and want. All the good things of life are reserved for whites, and we blacks are expected to be content to nourish our bodies with such scraps as drop from the tables of men with white skins.”

The magistrate was ashen, his eyes wide. 

“This is the white man’s standard of justice and fairness,” continued Nelson. “Through bitter experience, we have learned to regard the white man as a harsh and merciless human being whose contempt for our rights—and whose utter indifference to the promotion of our welfare—makes his assertions to us absolutely meaningless and hypocritical.” He paused, gathering himself. “This is an extremely dangerous situation for our country and for our people. If these wrongs are not remedied without delay, we might well find that even plain talk such as this is too timid, too little and too late.” He paused again, meeting the exasperated magistrate’s hard glare. “I make no threat, Your Worship, but it is almost past noon. If there is to be a peaceful transformation of our country, it must happen now.”

The magistrate removed his glasses and pressed a thumb and forefinger into his eye sockets, as though massaging visions of violent revolution and horror from his mind’s eye.

“How do you plead, Mr. Mandela?” he asked in a tired voice.

“With respect, Your Worship, I do not consider myself legally or morally bound to obey laws made by a parliament in which I have no representation. I am not guilty of any crimes.” 

* * *

Nelson lost count of the number of witnesses the state called—sixty or seventy. All sorts of people from across the country gave testimony about his role inciting the strike. And the evidence about him being out of the country was indisputable, as was the fact he did not have a valid travel permit. 

At the close of the prosecution case, the magistrate looked at him and, in a tired voice, said, “Mr. Mandela, you may call your first witness.” 

A hushed silence fell upon the courtroom, the stillness broken only by his chair scraping on the wooden floor as he pushed it back and stood to address the court. 

“The defense will not call any witnesses, Your Worship,” he stated in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. “The defense rests.”

Sounds of consternation erupted from supporters as heads jerked in surprise at the announcement. 

The magistrate looked down at him with an expression of disbelief. “Is that all, Mr. Mandela? You say you are not guilty of the crimes charged yet you offer no evidence to support your defense. Have you nothing more to say?” 

“Your Worship, with respect it is the government that is guilty, not me. The white government is guilty of the crime of discrimination and of enforcing policies through the courts that are in conflict with norms of justice accepted throughout the civilized world. I therefore submit that I am guilty of no crime.”

The magistrate sighed audibly. “Court is adjourned until November 7, when I will hear argument on sentencing.” 

It was October 19, 1962. The trial had taken just four days but coincided with the first days of the Cuban Missile Crisis, fraught with potential nuclear catastrophe that reached a tipping point when the Soviets shot down an American reconnaissance plane, and Castro offered to sacrifice Cuba for the glory of socialism. The world seemed to hold its collective breath. Then Kennedy conjured a miracle, the Soviets withdrew and the crisis was over. 

On the morning of sentencing, an orderly escorted Nelson in from a side door to the dock. When he reached the dock, he turned to the black section of the gallery and raised his arm in a clenched-fist salute. 

“Amandla!” he called out to his supporters. 

“Ngawethu!” bellowed the crowd in response, rising to its feet like a multilegged, multicolored creature, angered to see its champion cornered and isolated. 

 The magistrate shuffled papers and appeared to ignore the commotion until the crowd was seated again and quiet. Then he cleared his throat to signal he was ready to deliver the judgment of the court. 

“The defendant has been found guilty on both counts before this court. The court sentences the defendant, Nelson Mandela, to three years’ imprisonment for inciting people to strike. The court also sentences Nelson Mandela to two years’ imprisonment for leaving the country without a passport. The sentences are to run consecutively. There shall be no possibility of parole.” 

Nelson felt as if he had been punched in the solar plexus. As far as he knew, it was the longest sentence ever imposed for such offences in South Africa, a distinction that gave him cold comfort.

The magistrate banged his gavel. “Court is adjourned.”

As the court rose, he stood and turned to the black gallery, determined to show he was not cowed by the outcome of the trial. Standing tall, he raised his clenched fist and yelled, “Amandla!” 

“Ngawethu!” howled the crowd in response. 

Women wailed as he was led from the dock. But then, as if on cue, the crowd began to sing: 

Nkosi, sikelel’ iAfrika; (Lord, bless Africa;)
Malupakam’upondo lwayo; (May her horn rise high up;) 
Yiva imitandazo yetu (Hear Thou our prayers)
Usisikelele. (And bless us.)

Yihla Moya, Yihla Moya, (Descend, O Spirit,) 
Yihla Moya Oyingcwele. (Descend, O Holy Spirit.)

It was the last thing he heard as he was led downstairs. The Lord may yet bless them but apparently was temporarily deaf to their prayers.

He had lost his liberty and his opportunity to lead the armed struggle, both unceremoniously stripped from him along with his leopard-skin cloak.