Mandela (July 18, 1918-November 6, 2013)

What man or woman, friend or foe,

Could deny to you, even in the worst

Of pique, your colossal due as a man

Above the customary frailty of man?

That you could shake the hand that locked

In the best of your youth behind a dungeon,

And share the glory of your second coming

With the beast that wished you dead,

And open your heart, and a million hearts

Of diverse hue, to those that deserved

Not reconciliation but comeuppance—

This was staggering-human beyond

Belief or apprehension. In doing so, you

Blocked the rivers of blood that were set to flow.

 

Yet, O great Madiba, colour of skin was

Not an issue by itself, but the pernicious

Excuse for denying to your people

Their just dues in land, and schools,

And jobs, and in the running of the realm

As equal to those who were at the helm.

You struck noble peace with your tormentor,

And accepted a joint prize, but Sweto

And Steve Biko and the thousands

Whose lives were taken in the struggle

Ask whether you did not step down too soon

From office, busying yourself in social causes

Worldwide, looking back little to see

Whether the liberator ANC may have

Lost its memory to power and glory.

Or that the expropriator of old still

May not have relinquished his fair-skinned hold

On lands and assets that were taken from

The people, fearing no rebuke from those

That stepped into their shoes.

 

Mandela, why does greatness thus

Always fall short? We think of the Mahatma

Who shamed untouchability but would not

Take issue with an order that bred and

Sanctioned it through centuries of rot.

 

As you go, your sufferance and forgiveness

Elevate us as did those of Jesus; but the same

Question will haunt the wretched of your land

That still afflicts the fortunes of the holy land.

Badri Raina