Ag, it’s been a horrible week, you know.
I started mourning Madiba months ago: reading (trying often before and finally achieving) A Long Walk
to Freedom; singing “Asimbonanga” a million times--but that song was already
a part of my life a thousand years ago--and practicing my miserable mourning face—turns
out, the turned down mouth is my natural wrinkle.
Then came the relief, he’s
free at last, at last. And then came the whole circus, and my mouth contorted
with relief and joy and bemusement.
Relief that my precious hero, the man I wanted to meet more
than Jesus but never did, is now resting in peace.
Joyful about cheers for FW. I admit to loving him almost as
much as Madiba. Big courage there after the finger man.
Joyful about the international attention. Concerned about
the, well, modern dance interpretative signer and the flirty unseemly selfies.
And the boos for the present South Africa, the future? What does
that mean?
Are we back to wondering about that whole Rubicon finger thing?
What now, hey?
I suppose I expected Madiba, blessed hero, to put the fun in
funeral. He came close and he didn’t fail, but, as usual, I'm afraid, we all failed him.
