(Perhaps you read this post I leave written 8 July he has died. Today meet 95 years. Perhaps never die or I do before. It may be true that he is immortal; at least will be his work. ¡Amandla Madiba!).
I have over three years trying to live it. How a God Dies? Only one left on the planet, one only. I have to tell journalistic curiosity for personal and live. I arrived in March 2010 South Africa with that question in my head: How a God Dies? I am also part of the tribe, of those who worship Him. Three years waiting for a moment that is always unavoidable and never comes and now I'm in front of him what do I find?
I have often seen defeats South Africans celebrate with outbursts of madness
I find too many realities to summarize in one. I feel the sincere homage of a people in hospital in Pretoria and I am also a big circus, a plate of stupid, freaks y oportunistas. Television cameras surround the shaman in his underwear trying to honor his memory as drunk as disheveled before a media success based on these two variables. You always tend to imagine in your mind right now with some epic. Imagined songs, I have often seen defeats South Africans celebrate with outbursts of madness: World, disparaging the protests over toilets, the mining riots, but not this semi-circus mounted under the window of the holy man. There is also much love and respect, but the time has cornered the good intentions.
I also imagined a country standing, but I'm an idiot that does not end happily ever understand that life never stops. I will when I die, his funeral will be a roar of pain and love that shake the world for days and will end with dancing and a great binge. He held the crying. Africa live with the death of a more natural that Westerners. For them death is the living downstairs neighbor to ask for sugar. For us it is a breach in the sky that mercilessly out a demon or angel that comes to fuck the soul.
Life and death in Africa is a circle: of the ancestors to ancestors
I have been to funerals in this land in which silence fell like a downpour for more than an hour and suddenly all the women burst into tears as if life did not fit in their mouths for five minutes later to sit down again and share a food with a silence that already had more routine than anything else. I think this will be the death of Mandela and so must be. So it is with mothers and children. Mandela is that, a parent, but of millions of people, to be returned to their ancestors. Life and death in Africa is a circle: of the ancestors to ancestors.
I certainly did not imagine that is the embarrassing spectacle that is giving your family. I, of the tribe of God as I recognized, I have at times, with the dozens of articles that touched me write, the need to go up to the hospital room to get them out kicking. It had a great article John Carlin a few weeks ago a story dreadful. He says a good friend of Mandela arrived home and found two girls talking next to Madiba, sitting on a couch, sin ya just percibir nothing. When he approached the hotly heard about how they would divide up the dishes and furniture of the house of his father ".
Mandela when he realized he was losing the memory began to take notes of what was said at the family gatherings
Harder still is the story that tells an intimate friend of God and ANC spokesman, Mac Maharaj, in which he explains that "Mandela when he realized he was losing the memory began to take notes of what was said at family gatherings so you will not deceive you". I guess it's fucking have to go talk to your daughters openly and. Desmond Tutu, as always, says it better and more clear that no family and asks his friend to "stop spitting in your face '. (My adoration equals Tutu I feel for Mandela).
Imagined, in the end, almost permanent silence, contained breathing, sensible darkness to daylight. But, South Africa continues. In Soweto women go to sell their fruit; in Sandton executives walk their suitcases under the giant statue of Madiba in Nelson Mandela Square without even turning their gaze; Parkhurst small restaurants are full of middle class talk about their monotonous lives. And while, I, Spanish journalist who came to count as God dies, in an impasse of inaction after lunch, I approach a Zara I have discovered and see if there is a sweater that I tape the throat. Life goes on though God is going.
