Mandela’s Way

What does it mean to live a life of true courage, integrity, and compassion—and could any of us begin to live by example as Nelson Mandela did? In Mandela’s Way: Fifteen Lessons on Life, Love, and Courage, author Richard Stengel reflects on his years working alongside Nelson Mandela to craft his autobiography, Long Walk to Freedom. What began as a professional collaboration evolved into a deep friendship that gave Stengel a unique, intimate perspective on the man behind the myth. Out of their conversations and experiences, Stengel distilled fifteen timeless lessons that capture Mandela’s approach to leadership, forgiveness, resilience, and humanity.

Mandela’s greatness wasn’t divine or mysterious, Stengel emphasizes—it was human, developed through conscious discipline, introspection, and trial. This book argues that Mandela’s moral authority came not from extraordinary gifts, but from extraordinary choices: his ability to cultivate patience, optimism, and calm in the face of injustice and turmoil. Stengel encourages readers to view Mandela not as a remote saint but as a model of attainable wisdom, a reminder that anyone can forge character through perseverance and empathy. Mandela’s life was not free from contradiction—he was proud yet humble, a warrior of peace, a man who loved fame but valued principle above all. Yet those contradictions made him deeply real.

The Art of Becoming Human

At the heart of Stengel’s portrait is Mandela’s belief in ubuntu, an African philosophy that embodies the idea that we are human through our connection with others. It’s a reminder that achievement and moral growth are collective, not individual. Mandela repeated often that “a leader is only a leader through his people.” His humility stemmed from this worldview: he saw himself as part of a broader human story, not its center. And for readers today, this lesson serves as an antidote to the hyper-individualism of modern life. As Stengel writes, Mandela “never felt diminished by lifting others.”

From Fear to Courage

Mandela’s courage, the first of his major lessons, wasn’t about fearlessness—it was about mastery over fear. On a flight in 1994, an engine failed, yet Mandela sat calmly reading his newspaper, later admitting, “Man, I was terrified up there.” This reveals his core approach: courage, he said, is not the absence of fear but the triumph over it. The ability to “put up a front” of calm allowed him to inspire steadiness in others. Stengel draws the reader into these moments, showing that bravery isn’t innate—it’s practiced, often through pretending to be brave until the act becomes real. Mandela believed courage could be cultivated by anyone willing to act with composure despite adversity.

Measured, Calm, and Balanced

Impatience and anger once marked the young Mandela, but prison forged patience, order, and internal equilibrium. His maxim became “Be measured.” Stengel’s vivid accounts—such as Mandela’s ice-cold composure after the assassination of his colleague Chris Hani—illustrate how this quality allowed him to prevent civil war. His calm wasn’t synonymous with detachment; it was an active discipline that allowed him to keep clarity amid chaos. Mandela knew that people crave steady hands when the world feels unsteady. This measured temperament was essential to his power to lead and to heal his nation.

Leadership as Service

Mandela redefined leadership not as domination but as stewardship. Stengel explains Mandela’s dual philosophy of leadership: “lead from the front” by taking responsibility for difficult decisions, but “lead from the back” by listening and empowering others to step forward. This paradox echoes lessons we find in Lao Tzu’s Tao Te Ching or Robert Greenleaf’s concept of “servant leadership”: the strongest leaders make others feel responsible for collective success. Mandela learned this model of leadership observing Chief Jongintaba, who listened to his village before speaking. In boardrooms, families, or communities, Mandela’s principle applies: to lead well, you must first cultivate others’ confidence to lead themselves.

Seeing Good and Playing the Long Game

Another cornerstone of Mandela’s character was his refusal to demonize others. He believed that seeing the good in people—not as naivete but as persuasion strategy—brought out their better selves. His inclination to trust even his oppressors, like the harsh Colonel Badenhorst who later showed him courtesy, reflects this mindset. Prison, Mandela said, “taught me to see men as they might be.” Similarly, his long view of time—formed through twenty-seven years of imprisonment—taught him patience in pursuit of justice. He knew revolutions demand endurance, not immediacy. Playing the “long game” was not complacency but moral diligence.

Principles, Not Perfection

Mandela anchored his life around one core ideal: equality. Everything else—whether political tactics, economic policies, or personal alliances—was negotiable. Stengel reveals him as a “pragmatic idealist”: ethical about ends, flexible about means. That balance of principle and pragmatism gave him unmatched moral gravity and agility. His life argues that moral conviction need not mean rigidity—what matters is discernment about when to bend and when to stand firm. “Quitting,” Stengel notes in one of Mandela’s paradoxical lessons, “is leading too” when it serves a higher purpose.

Why Mandela’s Lessons Matter Now

What makes Mandela’s Way more than a biography is its call for a personal transformation. It reminds you that character isn’t born from comfort—it’s forged in friction. Mandela’s life, far from superhuman, models the habits of humanity: discipline, empathy, dignity, humor, and humility. In an age of ego-driven leadership and instant gratification, Stengel’s lessons invite you to lead through patience, to respond calmly to chaos, and to believe in connection over isolation. As Mandela said, “After climbing a great hill, one finds that there are many more hills to climb.” Stengel’s book helps us learn how to keep climbing—with grace, courage, and hope.

One of Mandela’s most powerful lessons, explored in the opening chapter, is his view of courage as a deliberate act rather than an innate quality. Despite public perception, Mandela insisted that he was often afraid. His difference lay in what he chose to do with that fear.

Facing Fear Head-On

Mandela’s early initiation ritual among the Xhosa, where boys were circumcised without anesthesia, haunted him because he believed he had faltered. That formative moment drove his lifelong commitment to showing courage—even when terrified. In a 1994 story Stengel recounts, a plane engine failed while Mandela remained calm and composed, quietly reading his newspaper while passengers panicked. Moments later, once safe, he admitted, “I was terrified up there!” The act of appearing calm—“putting up a front,” in his words—became his strategy for mastering fear rather than denying it.

Pretending Your Way into Bravery

Mandela viewed courage as performative—a skill you strengthen by acting it out. He often told Stengel, “Pretend to be brave and you are brave.” When confronting racist policemen, like the sergeant who screamed racial slurs after a minor traffic incident, Mandela replied, “I don’t need a policeman to tell me where to go.” He was trembling inside, he later confessed, but his bold words shifted the balance of power. Through countless such moments—whether defying prison guards or negotiating with hostile presidents—he learned that courage was “nothing more than self-mastery under pressure.”

Everyday Courage

For Mandela, bravery wasn’t about grand gestures but daily endurance. He found heroism in simple composure—in walking tall each morning on Robben Island, in continuing physical labor hours after learning that his son Thembi had died. Courage, he taught, lies in consistency: “The valiant never taste of death but once,” he underlined in Julius Caesar. While the world celebrates spectacular boldness, Mandela’s life shows that true courage often means staying steady when despair feels easier. That’s a lesson for anyone confronting hardship—bravery emerges not from indifference to fear but from dignity in motion despite it.

Mandela believed that calmness is not passive—it’s power under control. His composure, even in chaos, became the foundation of his leadership. As Stengel shows, Mandela radiated steadiness because “lose control and you lose the situation.”

Composure Amid Crisis

The assassination of Chris Hani in 1993 threatened to plunge South Africa into civil war. Stengel describes how Mandela, upon hearing the news, first finished his conversation with a visiting rugby team before addressing the crisis. Later he gave a televised speech appealing for discipline, urging South Africans to turn grief into unity. His calm literally prevented national collapse. Mandela understood that restraint inspires trust; it tells people they can rely on you when they most want to panic.

Measured Thinking and Patience

In prison, self-control was survival. Mandela had to measure every gesture before harsh wardens, every negotiation, every emotion. He called this discipline “the highest form of maturity.” As Stengel notes, the man who entered prison was fiery and impulsive; the one who emerged was deliberate, patient, and analytical. In Mandela’s words, “I came out mature.” This measured temperament shaped his presidency—he’d rather be boring than volatile. He believed solid reasoning outlives excitement.

In a world obsessed with speed, Mandela’s lesson is revolutionary: think, then act. As he once said, “Don’t hurry; think, analyze, then act.” The steadier you are, the further you can lead.

Mandela’s leadership model blends bravery with humility. He believed you must both step forward to face danger and step back to let others shine. Using stories from prison cells and presidential offices, Stengel shows this delicate leadership dance.

Leading from the Front

On Robben Island, Mandela always put himself in front—literally. When other prisoners hesitated under guards’ abuse, he set the tone by rising first, facing threats without flinching. In 1985, he began secret talks with the apartheid regime—a risky move that could have branded him a traitor. He took that initiative alone, embodying the leader who acts before consensus forms. As he told Stengel, sometimes “you must take independent action without consulting anybody.” Leadership sometimes means moving first so others can follow safely behind you.

Leading from the Back

But Mandela also learned from his childhood herding cattle in the hills of the Transkei that “you can lead from behind.” A herder stands at the back with a stick, nudging the herd while letting the cleverest animals lead the way. The same applied to politics—he built consensus by allowing others to think ideas were their own. During cabinet meetings, he spoke last, listening first. This “leadership through inclusion” reflects the African concept of ubuntu: the leader serves his people, not himself. When you empower others, you multiply your influence.

Mandela’s duality—courageous but humble, directive yet deferential—made him uniquely effective. Great leaders, he believed, know when to stand tall and when to stand back.

Mandela knew that how you carry yourself can inspire others before you even speak. Throughout his life—from prison corridors to presidential stages—he understood that appearance is power.

Looking the Part

He meticulously pressed his suits as a young lawyer because he wanted judges and clients to see him as professional, not merely black. In prison, he fought to wear long trousers rather than shorts that reduced Africans to “boys.” And when his first meeting with President P.W. Botha approached, he requested a three-piece suit—his armor of equality. Mandela understood that self-presentation signals dignity; how you show up shapes how others treat you.

The Smile as a Symbol

More than any policy or speech, Mandela’s radiant smile became his political tool. The same expression that charmed world leaders also soothed enemies. Stengel calls his smile “political Prozac for a nervous electorate.” To the public, it represented forgiveness; privately, it was a mask that concealed pain. Yet even that mask had purpose—it conveyed optimism without denial. Mandela’s public composure reassured a frightened nation that reconciliation was not only possible but real.

Few modern leaders understand symbolism like Mandela did. He waved flags for unity, wore indigenous shirts to express African pride, and stood tall to denote moral strength. His message: appearances can advance justice when aligned with integrity.

Mandela anchored his life in one fixed principle—justice and equality for all—but he adapted every tactic to suit his moment. Stengel calls him a “principled pragmatist,” someone who knew when to bend without breaking.

Unbending Principle

Since youth, Mandela’s central belief was that all people deserve equal rights regardless of race or gender. This conviction guided him through every compromise and every negotiation. He risked death during the Rivonia Trial because he would not renounce that ideal. Even when he later forgave his oppressors, his forgiveness was tactical, not blind—it helped secure that same principle of equality. Mandela’s moral compass never wavered on the direction of justice.

Flexible Strategy

Yet Mandela could pivot swiftly. Early in his career, he shifted from nonviolence to armed struggle when peaceful protest no longer worked. Later, he embraced negotiation when confrontation failed. He summed up his approach simply: “Almost any means justified that one noble end.” As conditions changed, he adjusted tactics while holding the vision steady. This balance of head and heart made him both revolutionary and statesman.

For modern readers, Mandela’s example highlights a universal truth: being principled doesn’t mean being rigid. Real integrity lies in knowing what’s negotiable and what’s not.

Mandela’s capacity to see the good in others—especially his adversaries—was both his strength and his strategy. Stengel recounts how Mandela approached even the cruelest prison guards with courtesy, believing that dignified behavior could awaken decency.

Empathy as Strategy

Colonel Piet Badenhorst, infamous for brutality toward prisoners, once left Robben Island and wished Mandela “good luck.” Mandela was struck: the man he had seen as a beast showed unexpected humanity. It confirmed his belief that people act cruelly because systems teach them to. “They behaved like beasts because they were rewarded for such behavior,” he reflected. This empathy taught him to fight injustice without hating the unjust.

Trusting at a Cost

Mandela’s willingness to trust, however, sometimes hurt him—most notably in his relationship with F.W. de Klerk. Initially calling him “a man of integrity,” Mandela later realized de Klerk used charm to manipulate him. Yet even after betrayal, Mandela refused bitterness; he framed it as misunderstanding rather than malice. He believed trust invites trust back. His lesson for readers: seeing goodness isn’t naivete—it’s leadership through empathy.

Ultimately, Mandela’s emotional risk-taking—his readiness to extend trust—transformed politics into an act of faith in humanity itself.

Few leaders exemplify patience like Mandela. His twenty-seven years in prison became a masterclass in playing the long game. He learned that change worth having unfolds slowly—and that endurance can be a radical form of strength.

Thinking Beyond the Moment

Mandela’s perspective stretched over decades, not days. In prison, he told younger activists urging confrontation, “You might be right for a few days or months, but in the long run, we must build something sustainable.” This mindset guided his presidency too. He focused less on short-term popularity and more on long-term reconciliation, realizing that time can heal wounds politics cannot. His patience wasn’t passivity—it was strategy rooted in confidence that justice, like crops, matures by season, not by schedule.

Counting No Man Happy Until His End

Stengel recalls asking Mandela if he was happy. Mandela quoted a Greek story: “Count no man happy until you know his end.” His reflective humility underscores his realism—victory at one moment can sour if pride corrupts it. He taught that our lives must be judged in total, not by temporary triumphs. Leadership and personal growth are marathons, not sprints.

In an era addicted to instant results, Mandela’s patience is a radical reminder: history rewards those who outlast haste.

Love—romantic, familial, and universal—was both Mandela’s burden and his salvation. For much of his life, duty eclipsed intimacy. Yet he never stopped believing in love’s redemptive power.

Love in Separation

During his twenty-seven years in prison, Mandela’s only form of affection came through letters to his wife, Winnie. Writing to her, he described dusting her photo each morning, “as if caressing you as in the old days.” That tenderness endured humiliation and isolation. But after his release, the idealized love he’d held onto unraveled. Publicly devoted but privately estranged, Mandela ultimately chose peace over pain, divorcing Winnie when her political scandals threatened the cause they’d built.

Love Renewed

In his later years, Mandela found late-blooming happiness with Graça Machel, widow of Mozambique’s president. “I am blooming like a flower,” he said at eighty. Through Machel, he rediscovered balance—the union of affection and tranquility. His story reminds us that love may come late but never too late. In every loss, he held room for renewed humanity.

For Mandela, love wasn’t weakness—it was the ultimate act of courage: to keep your heart open after years of suffering.

The final lesson of Mandela’s Way is beautifully symbolic: even in prison, Mandela planted gardens. He turned barren ground into green life—a living metaphor for patience, discipline, and renewal.

A Garden’s Quiet Power

Denied freedom, Mandela found it in tending spinach, onions, and tomatoes. Each morning he cultivated his tiny plot as if caring for his own soul. The garden’s cycles taught him faith in unseen progress: growth happens slowly, but it happens. It was his sanctuary, his evidence that beauty could bloom even in captivity. When Stengel later visited Robben Island, Mandela’s first question was, “Did they show you my garden?” It mattered more to him than his cell.

Finding Your Own Garden

Mandela’s garden wasn’t a retreat from the world—it was renewal for returning to it. He believed every person needs a “place apart,” somewhere to restore peace and purpose. For him it was gardening; for you, it might be writing, hiking, or meditation. The task doesn’t matter—the cultivation does. As he told Stengel, “You must find your own garden.”

The lesson is universal: between oppression and liberation lies cultivation. Tend your inner soil, and life, despite all odds, will find a way to grow.