Madiba
Dec 29 2013


When Nelson Mandela died
there was nothing I could write
that hadn't been said, already.
The obituaries, long since written
that were rushed into print.
The oratorical tributes,
and the whirlwind
of official events.

Along with heads of state
shuffling past
an open coffin,
the multitudes
who thronged to see him off.
And all the beautiful children,
voices raised
in gorgeous African song.

But I wondered
if I, too, were to write something down
not that it might drown
in an ocean of praise,
but if I needed to explain
just who he was.
To the future generations,
who will forget great men
as we have forgotten ours,
fascinated
by the bad, and the mad

the shills, and the braggarts
so unself-aware.

And who simplify the past
to suit the present,

history rendered

as myth, and pageantry.

That he was a man of action
who doggedly persisted,
a victim
whose dignity
shamed his captors.
That this reluctant warrior
chose peace, and forgiveness,
with the grace to resist

the eye-for-an-eye
that leaves everyone blind.
That he was wise,

understanding

that freeing his people

would free their masters as well.

This humble man,
with the gentle smile, and twinkling eyes
who laughed long, and well
and most easily at himself,

almost led me to believe
there can be justice in this world,

the wages of heaven, and hell

felt

right here on earth.

Who found true love

much later in life,

giving all of us hope.

Who would have willingly fought to the death,

but lived

to an old and graceful end.

He was born a chief
with the heart of a lion.
And when he died
the entire world looked on,
this worthy man
among all the false, and fallen, idols.

I think this is my first elegiac poem. But if anyone is deserving of praise, Mandela is. Although as the opening suggests, I didn't rush into it.

In the original version, it was "godly" in the final stanza, not "worthy". I was reluctant to let that word go, not only because it gave more coherence to the smattering of religious allusions (the eye-for-an-eye, the heaven and hell, the false idols), but because there was so much hagiography around Mandela's funeral. He was made into a secular saint; so instead of being a flawed and complicated human being, whom we might try to emulate, he was rendered unattainable. Something similar happens when we demonize evil. For example, when we relegate Hitler to some sub-human category of being, it's too easy to exempt ourselves of any moral complicity, to avoid acknowledging our shared humanity: that if exposed to the conforming social pressure and propaganda of Nazi Germany, we might have behaved as badly. In both cases, it's important to acknowledge our common -- and flawed -- humanity.

Anyway, Mandela's remarkable capacity for forgiveness is almost superhuman, and it's this generosity and self-restraint that for me stands out above all the other fine attributes of this singular man.

I'm a little concerned that I've veered perilously close to cliché several times in this poem. There's "drown/ in an ocean of praise" and "eye-for-an-eye" and "heart of a lion", not to mention "man of action" and "(fight) to the death". On the other hand, there is something to be said for plain speaking as opposed to language that gets in the way; that tries too hard just for the sake of originality.

"Madiba" is Mandela's familiar name, the traditional African pseudonym by which his friends and followers fondly know him. I took the liberty of using it; not to presume any personal familiarity, but rather to show how loved he was by average people, and how accessible he felt to them.