No one under international copyright law has the right to depict

Host: The afternoon light hung low and gold through the lace curtains of a small Johannesburg café — a space where time itself seemed to breathe softly between the clink of cups and the distant hum of traffic. The walls were old, the paint cracked, the air filled with roasted coffee and the faint scent of dust and rain.

Jack sat at a corner table with a stack of papers, half-sipped espresso by his hand, and that tired sharpness in his eyes that comes from spending too long arguing with ghosts. Across from him sat Jeeny, calm, composed, her hands folded neatly, her hair falling like ink across the collar of her linen shirt.

Jeeny: “Winnie Madikizela-Mandela once said — ‘No one under international copyright law has the right to depict me or my husband without our consent. I have been surprised by the many people, particularly Americans, who are either writing books or going to produce films about the Mandela family without even bothering to consult us.’”

Jack: looking up slowly “That sounds less like a legal argument and more like a cry for dignity.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. She wasn’t talking about ownership. She was talking about erasure.”

Host: A pause, heavy, human, filled with the faint murmur of distant conversation. Outside, a car passed slowly through the narrow street, the sound echoing off walls the way memory echoes off history.

Jack: “You think people can really own their story once it becomes public?”

Jeeny: “Own it? Maybe not. But they deserve the right to protect it. Especially when it’s been taken from them for decades — rewritten, sanitized, or sold.”

Jack: “You mean like what they did to Mandela’s story — turned it into a movie tagline instead of a lifetime of sacrifice.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Or like what they did to hers. Turned her into a symbol, not a person. Symbols are easier to market.”

Host: Jack leaned back, sighing, his hands rubbing his face, leaving a faint smudge of ink across his cheek. The sunlight flickered against the table, trembling like a question no one could quite answer.

Jack: “It’s ironic, isn’t it? The people who fought for their lives to be heard are now fought over like property.”

Jeeny: “History is always theft disguised as tribute.”

Jack: “That’s bleak.”

Jeeny: “It’s true.” She took a slow sip of coffee. “People don’t just retell history — they reshape it to fit their comfort. And the uncomfortable parts? They edit those out.”

Host: Her eyes lifted, catching the light just so — brown, luminous, alive.

Jack: “You think Winnie was angry?”

Jeeny: “Angry? She was exhausted. Imagine spending your whole life surviving — apartheid, exile, loss — only to watch strangers narrate your pain as entertainment. Without your voice. Without your consent.”

Jack: “But isn’t that the price of being public? The moment you matter to the world, you stop belonging to yourself.”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy of fame — especially the righteous kind. The world doesn’t want your truth. It wants your image.”

Host: A waitress passed, refilling cups. The smell of coffee deepened — bitter, honest.

Jack: “It’s the same in every field. Writers, activists, artists. People devour their lives, then pretend it’s homage.”

Jeeny: “Except homage doesn’t pay for the theft. It just pretties it up.”

Jack: “But can we ever separate art from appropriation? Isn’t storytelling, by nature, a form of taking?”

Jeeny: “It’s not the taking that matters — it’s the asking. Consent is what turns theft into collaboration.”

Host: The words hit quietly, like a soft hammer of truth. Jack nodded slowly, tracing a line on the edge of his notebook.

Jack: “You know, when Americans make films about Mandela, they focus on forgiveness. The triumph. The neat ending. But no one wants to talk about the mess. The rage. The fact that reconciliation didn’t pay anyone’s bills.”

Jeeny: “Because we only like heroes who don’t remind us of ourselves. Perfect, patient, polished. But real liberation — that’s raw. It’s violent. It’s imperfect. And Winnie was all of that.”

Jack: “She wasn’t gentle enough for history books.”

Jeeny: “No. She was human enough to be hated for it.”

Host: Outside, the sky shifted, clouds gathering as if the weather itself was listening. The light through the window softened, diffused, almost reverent.

Jack: “Do you think she was right — about copyright? About owning her image?”

Jeeny: “Completely. People think copyright is about money. It’s not. It’s about identity. About saying, ‘This is me. Don’t take it without asking who I am.’”

Jack: “So control isn’t about vanity.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s about survival. Especially for women like her — Black, political, powerful, and demonized. When you lose control of your story, you lose control of how the world sees you. And that can be deadlier than any bullet.”

Host: A soft silence fell again, broken only by the sound of the rain beginning against the glass.

Jack: “You know, I once tried to write a piece about her. But I couldn’t finish it. Everything I wrote felt wrong — too clean, too foreign. Like I was trespassing.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you were. Some stories aren’t ours to tell. They’re ours to listen to.”

Jack: quietly “But then who tells them?”

Jeeny: “The ones who lived them. The ones who still carry their echoes. The role of the rest of us isn’t to speak — it’s to amplify.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, blurring the world outside into watercolor gray. Jack watched it, his reflection merging with Jeeny’s in the glass — two silhouettes, two witnesses.

Jack: “You ever think we confuse storytelling with entitlement?”

Jeeny: “All the time. We think because we care, we’re allowed to consume. But caring without humility is just another form of control.”

Jack: after a long silence “You know what I think now?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “Maybe the real revolution isn’t in telling new stories. It’s in learning how to stop stealing old ones.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Now that’s a line Winnie would’ve approved of.”

Host: The rain eased, leaving the air thick and shining. Jeeny reached across the table, touching the edge of his notebook — a small, quiet gesture of grounding.

Jeeny: “Every life deserves the right to its own author. The rest of us — we’re just readers passing through.”

Jack: softly “And the good readers don’t rewrite.”

Jeeny: “They remember.”

Host: The camera pulled back, the café glowing in muted warmth — two figures framed by rain and reflection, the city beyond humming with untold stories.

Because Winnie Madikizela-Mandela was right —
no one has the right to depict a life without its consent.

Every story, especially the hard ones, belongs first to the soul that lived it —
to the hands that bore its scars,
to the voice that carried its truth.

And in a world eager to narrate others,
Jack and Jeeny sat in silence —
not as creators,
but as witnesses,
learning that sometimes the greatest act of storytelling
is knowing when to stay quiet
and let someone else’s truth speak.