On the Line (26 page)

We went first to Johannesburg—or Jo-burg, as the locals call it. This time around, only Isha and my mom were able to accompany
me, along with my friend and manager, Evan Levy. (For this second trip, Isha did all the advance work for our group.) We’d
arranged through a local charity to visit with kids from an orphanage just outside the city. Only it wasn’t just any orphanage.
All the kids there had AIDS, and they lived together in this big house. There were about thirty of them—teenagers, mostly,
but some of them were so frail and tiny they looked like they were eight or nine years old. It was so incredibly sad—at least
at first. We met at a nearby country club, where they had a few tennis courts, and I started working with these kids. It wasn’t
a fancy country club, like we have here in the States, but it was a whole lot nicer than the public courts I used to play
on as a kid, and certainly nicer than any facility these kids were used to visiting.

For a moment, when we first started playing, I didn’t get why it was set up for me to do this clinic with these kids, because
a lot of them were so sick. Tennis was probably the last thing on their minds. I would have thought it’d be a better use of
our time together to just hang out. But once we stepped out onto those courts, there was an incredible transformation—in the
expressions on the faces of these kids, in their body language. They were sick, but they weren’t so sick that they couldn’t
run around and play, and once they started doing that it was night and day. I’d never been around kids who didn’t smile—and
as we got things going these kids didn’t smile. They moved about with these blank expressions. It was so upsetting to see
all that pain on their faces. And yet once they started moving around on those tennis courts, that all changed.

I got them to bounce the ball up and down on the faces of their racquets. It was basic, and they all managed just fine after
a couple tries. Then, I got them moving, walking from the net to the fence just beyond the baseline and back, bouncing the
ball the whole time. Then we tried the same thing with some pace. Eventually, we got around to hitting. And get this: a few
of them could
really
hit. There was this one young man who’d never played before, but he managed to learn and fairly master an overhead after
only a few tries.

The more we played, the more success these kids kept having, the more their demeanors changed, and I reminded myself all over
again of the restorative, healing power of self-confidence. It’s a beautiful, sustaining side effect, and it doesn’t have
to be about tennis or competitive sports. It doesn’t have to be about a physical pursuit. It can be about anything; if you
feel good about yourself and what you can do, it changes your whole outlook.

There was one girl in particular who seemed to smile ahead of the rest. Like the boy with the accomplished overhead, she had
never held a tennis racquet in her life before our visit. She didn’t even have shoes. I wasn’t sure if she knew who I was,
or what we were doing on a tennis court. But she was out there, running and working hard and trying to get it right. Soon,
her smile turned into laughter, and it became infectious. Soon, all the other kids were smiling and laughing—and so were we.
It was an astonishing thing to see, and I felt blessed to be a part of it.

I realize that our visit to this group of kids didn’t change anything in any kind of lasting way. They still had AIDS. They
were still without parents, and families. Their futures were still desperate and uncertain. But for a few hours at least,
they had a kind of hope. For a few hours, they were lifted from the sadness of their day-to-day and taken on an adventure
to this nice country club and allowed to run around like other kids and maybe set their troubles aside. They had a chance
to have fun. It was a small gift, to be sure, but I left praying it would have some real carryover benefit—because of course
they didn’t need me to take them out to a tennis court, or to take them outside their group home to experience something new.
They just needed to make the effort, or for someone to make the effort on their behalf—and I came away thinking maybe this
would happen for them going forward.

The other highlight from the South African part of our trip took our group by surprise. We were visiting a mall in Jo-burg,
for an appearance arranged by my sponsors at Hewlett-Packard. There was an HP store in this particular shopping mall, so they
set it up for me to come by and talk to everyone and sign some giveaway items. I do this kind of thing at home all the time,
and it’s always a lot of fun. It can get a little crazy, but it’s the good kind of crazy. Plus, you don’t have to ask me twice
to go out to a mall, only here there was such a mob of people out for this event I didn’t think there’d be much chance to
do any actual shopping.

Just as I started waving hello to everyone and posing for pictures, we got an unexpected phone call. It was a representative
from Nelson Mandela’s office. We had been trying to arrange a meeting with President Mandela for weeks leading up to our trip,
but there were so many demands on his time that it didn’t look like it was going to happen. This was disappointing, of course,
but I understood. He’s a busy man. There’s a lot on his calendar. He was on my MySpace page—the only person I listed under
“People I Want to Meet”—and now we were being told there was a sudden opening in his schedule and he could meet with us immediately.
It was such a welcome surprise, but the timing wasn’t so hot. I mean, we were right in the middle of this mall appearance.
All these people had come out for it. Still, we figured that since President Mandela’s office was only a few minutes away
from the shopping mall, and since we would only have a few minutes of his time, we could be there and back in about forty-five
minutes. The HP folks in charge encouraged us to go, and the people who had gathered for the event didn’t seem to mind, so
we made our apologies and made a quick exit, promising to return as quickly as possible.

On the way, I tried to put myself in the right frame of mind to meet one of the great icons of our time. Keep in mind, I had
just pulled an emotional all-nighter the week before, staying up in my hotel in Doha to watch the election returns from the
United States and celebrating Barack Obama’s historic victory. It wasn’t the smartest move on my part; I was in the middle
of an important tournament, and I certainly needed a good night’s sleep before my match the next morning, but I couldn’t help
myself. I was swept up by the moment. As Jehovah’s Witnesses, we don’t vote in political elections, but that doesn’t mean
we can’t take a rooting interest—and there I was, nine hours ahead, in the Persian Gulf, waiting for the polls to close back
home and rooting, rooting, rooting.

It was such an exciting, momentous election I wanted to be a part of it, even though I was half a world away. (I actually
cried when CNN declared Senator Obama the winner!) For African-Americans in particular, it was certainly a powerful, consequential
symbol, to see a black man elected president of the United States, so all these thoughts of history and moment were very much
on my mind. Now I found myself racing through the streets of Jo-burg to meet another powerful, consequential symbol—someone
Barack Obama himself was said to admire. It was a little too much for me to take in at just that moment.

Why? Well, Nelson Mandela was a giant in the black community. His name was spoken with such reverence, such gratitude. For
years and years, I’d looked up to him for the great and important stand he took in the struggle for apartheid, and for the
steep price he paid for his convictions. From the moment I learned about him in school, he became a true hero to me—and it’s
not often you get to meet one of your true heroes. I caught myself wishing I’d had time to choose a more appropriate outfit,
or to think of something appropriate to say, but there was nothing to do but move forward.

We arrived at President Mandela’s office and were led inside. He was dressed casually in one of his trademark loose shirts,
with the distinctive African prints and tribal colors. He looked distinguished and gentle. That was the first word that came
to mind.
Gentle
. For someone with such a fighting spirit, I was impressed by his gentle soul. Everyone around him called him “Mandiba,” but
that seemed a little too familiar for our group so we just called him Mr. Mandela. He stood to greet us from behind his desk,
although we encouraged him to remain seated. After all, the man had just turned ninety years old, and he actually looked about
twenty years younger, but we didn’t want him to overexert himself on our account. He insisted on standing. He said, “When
you meet with such beautiful and talented women, you must stand.”

How could we argue with
that
?

He couldn’t have been more gracious, more welcoming. Personally, I was thrilled that he even knew who I was, but he said he
had followed my career, and Venus’s, and that he had wanted to meet us for some time. Then he said that we were important
role models for so many young women. And finally he said he was so enormously proud of us and what we had accomplished.

I must confess, I’m usually terrible when I meet someone famous. (Ask my sisters, and they’ll say that’s the understatement
of the century!) I get tongue-tied and awestruck and self-conscious; somehow, the thoughtful, witty, insightful comments I
plan on making never quite manage to leave my lips. I panic every time, and I’m afraid that’s what happened here. I had meant
to tell Mr. Mandela what an honor it was to meet him, how much I admired him, how pleased we were to be in his country and
in his company. But nothing came out. Luckily, my mother and sister are never at a loss for words, so they covered for me.
I’m sure I said
something
, but for the life of me I can’t remember what it was—and I’m almost certain it had nothing to do with what I’d wanted to
say.

The meeting only lasted about fifteen minutes, and during the entire time I felt like pinching myself. To be in the presence
of such a great man, at such a profound moment in black history the world over, was such a gift, such an honor. Such a surprise!
I stepped outside myself for a moment, in a way that the visit seemed almost surreal. After all, here was this gentle, soft-spoken
man, who was so unassuming, so genuine, so kind, it was easy to forget what he’d been through. He was on the tall side, but
he wasn’t what you’d call an imposing man. He was just a man—and a gentleman, at that. It didn’t fit with this image I’d carried
in my head all these years, of a kind of warrior-statesman, someone with the strength to endure over twenty years in prison
for his beliefs. And yet there he was, in the flesh, making small talk with the three of us like we were old friends.

A part of me wanted to take a picture, but a bigger part didn’t want to cheapen the moment by taking out my camera. Plus,
I was afraid to ask if it was okay, so I started to think about sneaking one instead—but I never found the right moment!

During our brief visit, Mr. Mandela spoke admiringly and enthusiastically about Barack Obama. The election was just the week
before, so it was very much on his mind, he said. We talked about the hope President-elect Obama represented for the United
States, and where he might stand on the world stage. We talked about South Africa. He asked about the schools we were visiting,
the clinics we were giving. He took a genuine interest—which of course was nothing up against
our
genuine interest. In meeting him—Nelson Mandela! The first democratically elected president of South Africa! A man who had
come to stand for freedom and equality, all over the world!

Those fifteen minutes alone were worth the trip.

F
rom Jo-burg, we flew to Nairobi, but not before we visited a lion zoo and a game preserve. A giraffe poked his head through
our open car window. I held a white lion. Then, when we got to Kenya, we found some time to do more tourist-type things. We
had dinner at this wonderful restaurant called Carnivore, where we sampled all kinds of exotic local meats. I don’t eat red
meat, but here I was encouraged to try crocodile and ostrich and all kinds of weird, wonderful delicacies. (I couldn’t swallow,
I was so scared!)

The most compelling part of this Kenyan leg of our tour was a dedication ceremony for a new secondary school. Prior to our
trip, we had made a special point of connection with a group called Build African Schools. I had already gotten that new school
off the ground in Senegal, and here I was hoping for more of the same. Just a few weeks before we left for Africa, my friend
and business partner Satchiv Chahil, from Hewlett-Packard, had shown me pictures of these Kenyan children, bending over in
the dirt and scratching out math problems with a stick. I couldn’t believe it! They were so poor—literally, dirt-poor!—they
couldn’t afford pencils and paper.

Here again, it was sad upon sad upon sad. The people at Hewlett-Packard already had a relationship going with Build African
Schools, and it was such an exciting, meaningful partnership I asked if I could be a part of it. Build African Schools is
such an incredible foundation. They do some amazing work—and without a whole lot of money. For about $60,000 they can build
and outfit an entire schoolhouse, solar-powered and good to go. It’s nothing fancy, but it gets the job done. I thought, What
better investment can I make with my money than in the shared futures of these desperately poor Kenyan children?

The generous executives at HP were all too eager to help. They’d kicked in a computer lab and other technology ahead of our
trip, so by the time we arrived at the school site the facility was ready to be dedicated. The dedication itself was like
the local equivalent of the Super Bowl. Our group took a forty-minute helicopter ride to the remote village of Matooni, and
when we touched down there were thousands and thousands of villagers waiting to greet us. It’s not every day a helicopter
lands in the middle of nowhere, I guess, and so we were greeted accordingly. Most of the people had no idea who I was. Electricity
wasn’t widely available in the area. Computers were scarce. Nobody followed the comings and goings and strange doings of the
professional tennis circuit. And yet here was this sea of people, out to greet us. It was the most astonishing thing. I’d
never been at the center of so much attention. I felt like the fifth Beatle!