She may have been a convicted kidnapper, thief and likely murderer, but the time I spent with Winnie Mandela 31 years ago remains etched among the most memorabl...e moments of my life. I was a carefree 27 year old writer/tennis player who just weeks earlier was carousing his way across Europe playing pro tennis events. And now there I was in one of the most dangerous spots on the planet—the turbulent black township of Soweto— at the home of the Nelson Mandela family. I had journeyed to South Africa on a whim after a chance meeting in Stockholm with SA libertarian authors Leon Louw and Frances Kendall. I offered to help promote their new book if they’d let me crash on their couch. ‘South Africa: The Solution’ soon became a best-seller, and when Winnie agreed to endorse the book, it was my job to get her signature before she changed her mind. The next morning, after a tennis match at a fancy private club, I drove 30 minutes south and found myself in another world—parked in front of the world-famous Mandela home, which was guarded by militant teens who would later be convicted of murdering a 14 yr old. The only white faces in that neighborhood drove military vehicles, so you can imagine the teen’s expression when this white dude in shorts got out of his VW Rabbit and announced “I’m here to see Mamsy.’ Soon I was seated in Winnie’s living room, which was conspiculously absent of family photos (displaying her hubby’s photo had long been a crime). When Winnie walked in she politely shook my hand and wanted to know more about the young American who was in her home. She had planned to quickly sign the document and proceed with her day, but for some reason she asked if I’d like some tea. And there we sat for hours discussing SA politics, economic sanctions and the ‘liberation struggle’. Winnie considered herself a Communist, as did most South African blacks, because she’d been taught that capitalism was just another word for apartheid—thanks to the propaganda machines of the eastern Europe nations that financed her cause. I told Winnie I was a ‘libertarian’, a word which it seemed she hadn’t heard before. But she embraced the notion that all people should be free to live their life as they choose. At the end of the afternoon we hugged warmly and I sheepishly asked for a photo, which she happily agreed to. I would only see Winnie one more time a few months later. I brought our photo and asked if she could sign it. I expected a quick scribbled autograph, but she excused herself and several minutes later came back with the amazing inscription below, which to this day remains among my most prized possessions. RIP Winnie Mandela.