Farewell to Nelson Mandela
Nelson Mandela, the African Superman
© Imago / UPI PhotoThe phone rang at 5:30 this morning. Our black housekeeper Blossom, with funeral music from the television in the background: "Have you heard? Madiba is dead. I can not believe it." Yes, I had already heard that. Just before nine on the radio last night: Nelson Mandela died at the age of 95 after a long, serious illness. Clearly, it was to be expected in his age, after his long stay in the clinic in June, after all the rumors that he would be kept only artificially alive ... But I did not believe it either.
The whole country spent the last night watching TV. On all channels the same stock images, the same quotes, the same comments: The father of the nation, the tall, old man, the last of the statue of a Ghandi is no longer there. Hardly anyone has made it to bed. You always have to hear and see that to understand it.
In a sea of flowers and candles, black omis and white teenagers hold their hands crying.
In the buses that come in the morning from the townships in the city, no loud music today boasted. It was quiet on the streets and bus stations. The black hairdresser around the corner is wearing black shirts. Blossom stands in our kitchen with red eyes, doing the dishes with headphones in his ears and radio in his pocket. She must always remember how Madiba shook hands with his prison guards on release after 27 years in prison. We both have to howl. Such a man will not come again.
Even his departure was Madiba-style: Not a few months ago, when the world press stood in front of his hospital and held his breath, but quietly, as no one looked. At that time, in front of the clinic in Pretoria, there was an old T-shirt from one who has no money for poster and placard colors. Scribbled on: Lord, take years of my life and give it to his. Last night, in Company Gardens in Cape Town, black omis and white teens were holding hands in a sea of flowers and candles. This is also Madiba style. No riots, no chaos, but singing the rainbow nation in front of his framed portraits: A friendly smile with a wrinkled face, a waving hand, a colorful batik shirt - that was the South African superman.
When Nelson Mandela became the first black president of South Africa in 1994, the white people fled in droves. For fear of violence and economic ruin. Today I do not know anybody who thinks about packing. This is the true legacy of Madiba the Great Reconciler, the thought of "Let's get it together!"
So does Blossom, whose husband was shot dead by gangsters whose sister has Aids, whose extended family in the Eastern Cape depends solely on their salary. "I have to fight through it, but my daughter will have a better life than me," she says. "The big old man made sure of that". She will miss the big old man.
