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Bloomberg Businessweek August 3, 2020n May2003,NelsonMandela—former
SouthAfricanpresident,winnerofthe
NobelPeacePrize,andherotomillions—satdown
atthedinnertableofhishouseinJohannesburg
andlaidhisrighthand,palmsidedown,intoa
lumpofcolddentalputty.A teamoftechniciansfrom
theprecision-castingdivisionofHarmonyGoldMiningCo.
waspresenttosupervise,andMandelachattedamiablywith
themastheyworked,pausingtosipcoffeewithhisfreehand.
Thesilicon-basedputtyhadbeenchilledtomakeit harden
moreslowly,butthemenhadonlysixminutesofmalleability
toworkwith—timetheyusedtogetthematerialintoevery
wrinkleandcrease,almostperfectlycapturingMandela’s
fingerprintsaswellasthescarsfromhishardlaboron
RobbenIsland.Thentheypouredmoreontoptoencasehis
knucklesandfingernails.
Harmonywouldusethemoldsfromthatdaytocreateresin
replicas,thena castingofMandela’shandin99.999%puregold.
Thisprototypewastobethefirstina series:atleast 27 gold
hands,weighing5.7poundsto8.8poundseach,tomarkthe
yearsofhisimprisonment,followedbysilverversionsforeach
month,andfinallythousandsofbronzecopiestomarkeach
day.TheywouldbesoldtoraisemoneyfortheNelsonMandela
Children’sFund,thecharity
towhichhedevotedmuchof
histimeinretirement—and
serveasadvertisementsfor
Harmony’scastingexpertise
intheprocess. Throughout
the making of the moldings,
Mandela was “amazingly help-
ful, patient, and funny, and
he kept everyone entertained
with stories,” according to an
account in the company news-
paper, Harmonise.
That may well have been
the happiest that Mandela ever
felt about the project. Not long
after the castings were made,
he became concerned that too
many people were profiting
from “Mandela art,” a cottage
industry that included selling
sketches he’d purportedly
drawn and putting his face
on dishes, teapots, and com-
memorative tchotchkes. After
Mandela dispatched a team
of lawyers to shut down the
trade, Harmony stopped pro-
ducing hands, leaving only a
tiny initial batch. The project
was largely forgotten.
Except, that is, by MalcolmDuncan. Then a 47-year-old auto parts entrepreneur, Duncan
had met Mandela a few years before, during an event at a can-
cer clinic in the township of Soweto. Like many who came face
to face with the legend, Duncan was overcome. “I couldn’t talk,
because he was so humble,” he recalls. “I had such a lump in
my throat.” When Duncan learned about the hands, he had
to have them. Not long after the castings, he managed to buy
fourgoldexamples;he’dwantedtwomorebutcouldn’tget
thembeforetheprojectwasshutdown.
Duncansaysheintendedtomakethehandsthecenterpiece
ofa collectionofMandelamemorabilia,bothforpersonal
inspirationandtoshowtofriendsandfamily.Hedescribes
themasobjectsofreverence,near-supernatural totems of
Mandela’s legacy. Like secular versions of the supposed saintly
relicsthatinspiredpilgrimagesinmedievalEurope,thecast-
ingsweretheclosestthingtoa literalpieceofSouthAfrica’s
post-apartheid hero. Not unrelatedly, Duncan also figured
they’d make a good investment.
None of that came to be. Instead, the castings became
Duncan’s proudest possessions but also a source of enduring
distress, an almost too-neat illustration of the perils of getting
what you wish for—and of the uncomfortable questions that
arise when veneration meets commercial gain.
“I’ve been to hell and back with these hands,” he says.
“To hell and back.”uncan, who has silver hair, thick black eyebrows, and
a face that frequently breaks into an animated, puppy-
ishgrin,spentmostofhischildhoodinPenge,a remotevil-
lagewherehisfatherwasanelectricalengineeratanasbestos
mine.Hecompletedhismilitaryservice—mandatory in those
days for White South Africans—in 1977, entering the workforce
as the apartheid system was beginning to buckle under the
weight of internal protest and economic isolation.
It was also a time of rising international interest in African
culture, a trend whose commercial potential wasn’t lost on
Duncan. In 1986, the same year Paul Simon released Graceland,
Duncan flew to Miami with a suitcase full of masks, soap-
stone carvings, and wooden jewelry sourced from roadside
vendors. Finding buyers was initially slow going; after weeks
driving from state to state, he pulled into Los Angeles with
only $43 to his name.
But Angelenos proved receptive to what he was selling,
and within a week Duncan had unloaded all his items. He
returned to South Africa with $4,000 in profit—hardly a for-
tune, but enough to help get him started. He ended up sell-
ing running boards for cars, importing them from a company
in Indiana before setting up his own factory.
Duncan’s admiration for Mandela was late blooming. Like
many Whites of his generation, he’d been raised to view the
AfricanNationalCongress,theresistancemovementandpolit-
icalpartyinwhichMandelawasa seniorleader,assomething
likea terroristorganization—theopinionoftheapartheid govern-
ment, which convicted Mandela of “sabotage” in the infamous
Rivonia Trial in 1964. But his grace when he was released fromMandela sitting for the casting;
Harmony employees making the
hands; a prototype beside its mold;
Mandela’s fingerprint