The horizontal rain that has soaked Nelson Mandela's birthplace since his death had turned the road to a rockslide of mud and stones. Just behind the old grass-roof hut where he was born, the car slid, crunched on the ground, and one of its wheels started making a hit-pitched screech. There were two modest mud-walled huts, painted pink with tin roofs and a few pickups sitting on bricks outside. I pulled up, hurried over in the rain, stepped through an open door and found myself in Mvezo's small village shop. A large woman in a headscarf stood behind the counter in front of shelves stacked with soap, candles, paraffin and beer. She greeted me in Xhosa: "Molo!" Three other women were sitting on a bench sipping beer. A fourth, her face a picture of a hard and very long life, sat on the floor, her legs splayed, a large bottle of Black Label lager in her hands. "Is anyone a mechanic?" I said, immediately regretting it. A man popped his head into the store. "Mechanic?" he asked. "Stay here." He returned with a young man in a blue T-shirt, and we introduced ourselves. Mvuyisi Mdudo, 25, was studying tourism management in Cape Town, but had learned about cars from his father. "People call me Nbu," he said. "I think it's the wheels, Nbu," I said, "one of the front ones is making this squeak." "Disc brakes," said Nbu. "I can fix it." I fetched the car, driving it onto the sodden grass in front of the huts, and an umbrella appeared, which I held for Nbu as he got to work on the wheel. It was going to be a long job, cold and very wet. "Tell me, Nbu," I said. "Is it true what they say about the rain and Madiba?" "In our tradition, when someone is dead and the rain falls, the people think that person is a good person," replied Nbu. "People are struggling here because of a shortage of rain. So the rain is a blessing.
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