Nelson Mandela has had many names: Born as Rolihlahla ("troublemaker" in colloquial Xhosa), and then on his first day of school, his teacher named him Nelson. When he was convicted of high treason in 1962, he became a terrorist — but now the world calls him a statesman and world leader. To those who know him, he is affectionately called Tata ("father"); Khulu ("Great One"); Dalibhunga ("creator or founder of the council"), the name given him at age 16 upon the traditional Xhosa rite of passage into manhood. Most enduringly, he is addressed by those who love and respect him with his clan name, "Madiba."

Little did I know when I first heard the name Nelson Mandela during South Africa’s famous Rivonia Treason Trial that one day I would become part of an elite and privileged circle to engage this great man in different countries, countless location and various occasions. With a strong sense of justice that has driven my life, I shuttled for many years between Africa, mainland America and Hawaii. I became a cultural chameleon, a world citizen comfortably shifting between the intellectual, spiritual and geographic realities of my African-American, Hawaiian, Apache and African lifestyles. In doing so, I recognized points of unity that existed between the varied cultures and their collective histories of colonialism. The result was an appreciative politicized headset that inextricably linked one to another, but the lynchpin always remained Madiba.

Living in Kailua, almost the polar opposite of my former home in Johannesburg, I often reflect on those precious moments spent with this living legend whose voice will soon be silenced. The first was in March 1990 in Namibia, only one month after he was released from "ten thousand days" in South Africa’s worst prison. It was his first trip after 27 years of incarceration. There he was, standing tall, regal, strong, and as proud as those of us there to celebrate Namibia’s independence from decades of illegal occupation by apartheid South Africa. With an audience of international dignitaries and the UN secretary-general, we witnessed the old flag of Southwest Africa justifiably lowered, in silence. Then the new red, white, green, and blue Namibian flag ascended the night sky to cheers and applause. That flag represented Namibia’s most important resource — its people, heroism and determination toward a future of equal opportunity for all.

I stood listening to the first president of Namibia accept his sacred responsibility, all the while watching Madiba, thinking that in all the years of my anti-apartheid corporate warrior activism in the United States I never thought I would see him a free man, nor a new free nation yet to be named Namibia. I was bursting with pride and vindication for the righteousness of justice: the long-awaited and hard-fought emancipation of not only bodies, but of souls. And I cried.

I’m an island girl by nature, born of the Tohono O’odham desert, but drawn early in life to a lush and verdant mystical island called Hawaii. Robben Island is another mystical location, but it is perilously dangerous, barren, cold and wet, with billion-year-old black rocks that are as hard as the Earth is old. Robben Island is unworthy of human habitation, yet Madiba spent most of his 27 years incarcerated in a damp concrete cell measuring 8′ x 7′ with a straw mat on which to sleep, often locked in solitary confinement.

The first time I visited that island was Dec. 31, 1999. With Madiba, then 81 years old, and most of the former prisoners still alive, we welcomed the new millennium. As usual, I was the only American, and one of the few foreigners present. In the jail cell where he spent 18 years we fixed our eyes as Madiba lit a symbolic millennium candle, a "flame of freedom." It was a wish for world peace, equality, unity, an end to war. I still have mine, and will light it when those wishes become reality.

Nine years after Namibia, it would be at this candle lighting that I would first meet Madiba — up front and personal. He gently embraced me with the solid arms of the boxer he once was, and holding my hands he graciously thanked me for all I had done to help end apartheid. I was astounded, overwhelmed and could barely speak. Madiba was sharing with me his "Ubuntu" — the essence of being human, the grace of humanity. This African tradition is a way of life that underpins the concept of an open society. It is a word that means much: respect, helpfulness, sharing, community, caring, trust and unselfishness. The spirit of Ubuntu has been called an African ethic or humanist philosophy because it focuses on people’s relations with each other. Ubuntu has five characteristics: extroverted communities, socialization of prosperity, redemption, deference to hierarchy and humanism.

Archbishop Emeritus of Cape Town Desmond Tutu says, "A person with Ubuntu is open and available to others, affirming of others, does not feel threatened that others are able and good, based from a proper self-assurance that comes from knowing that he or she belongs in a greater whole and is diminished when others are humiliated or diminished, when others are tortured or oppressed. When you do well, it spreads out; it is for the whole of humanity."

Madiba was sharing Ubuntu, and more. I realize now that African Ubuntu and Hawaiian "Aloha" merged in the person named Nelson Mandela. Whether by providence, destiny or divine intervention, he epitomized both belief traditions. Half-way around the world and separated by nearly 12,000 miles, the most profound of African and Hawaiian values combined to authenticate one human whose impact on the modern world cannot be underestimated. In him coalesced the best of human capability.

Aunty Pilahi Paki publicly shared her Pacific Prayer in 1970, around the same time South Africa’s conscience began shifting, and Madiba was becoming a global icon. What Aunty Pilahi so beautifully articulated then was, "Aloha is not something that you do, it’s not even the way you do something. It is being in touch with yourself, and when you are in that state, whatever you do expresses Aloha. Aloha is a way of being, a way of life. It is an action, not a reaction. Aloha is an open, honest and humble respect, love and reciprocity with dignity for all. It is a commitment to accept of others, to be real and giving."

Aunty Pilahi further explained, "One must recognize the great qualities in another before even saying Aloha. It means mutual regard and affection, and extends warmth and caring – with no obligation in return. It’s the essence of relationships in which each person is important to every other person for collective existence. It is to hear what is not said; to see what cannot be seen; and to know the unknowable."

In 1986 the Pacific Prayer was adopted by the Hawaii Legislature who renamed it "The Aloha Spirit," and recognized Aunty Pilahi’s five-letter acronym of A-L-O-H-A, in Hawaiian, as the working philosophy of Native Hawaiians — a way of life that elevates, empowers and ennobles its people, "…a model law for the world that could serve the greatest number for its greatest good."

That year Madiba had already spent 7,000 days in prison, yet he continued to demonstrate every aspect of Aunty Pilahi’s Aloha:

» Akahai with his unswerving kindness;

» Lokahi with a life lived for unity and equality of all the people;

» ‘Olu‘olu for his amenable and pleasant personality;

» Ha‘aha‘a, his humility that was awe-inspiring; and

» Ahonui with unrelenting patience while imprisoned for decades as he persevered for freedom and "one man-one vote."

Both Aloha and Ubuntu encompass ways of life and being that, when amalgamated, can indeed change not only South Africa and Hawaii, but also the world. In Madiba, who reflects both, we can see our own greatness.

Madiba continues his long walk to freedom. Soon it will be finished, a well-deserved reward and true freedom from a life hard lived in the name of justice and liberty.

When he goes, I will, in African tradition ululate and shout in Madiba’s native language of Xhosa, "Hamba kahle. Qhawe la ma Qhawe!" (Go well, rest in peace, Hero among heroes!) And then, in Hawaiian, I will whisper, "Ano’ai kou alahele" (May your way be blessed).

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Hawaii resident Tadia Rice is an author, performer and principal of Rice Consulting. This is a longer version of a piece that appears in Wednesday’s print edition.