Dic 05 2013 "When we hear talk Madiba"

"When we hear talk Madiba"… A chant sung in Zulu by hundreds of people who lament sounds, to victory in defeat, South Africa too used to losing gaining. The street is a people boil. Hundreds of people watching, dance, sing, photograph, pray, callan. And there, through the window of one of the rooms at the Medi-Clinic in Pretoria still lying Nelson Mandela. Live Now, already dead, and eternal. He does not listen, not hear, he just is the father of all that. As close as closely eternally away.

South Africa seems so contained as ever. His idol is teetering in which it seems is his last battle and the streets bleed for the same injuries that make this place so different. No one can claim to forgive as much as this country to continue to exist. Around the current hospital smells Madiba noise folklore and sadness. This afternoon we have come up here dozens of ruling party youth, CNA, to pay tribute to its creator. Mandela was when all of them were not born once chaired the powerful ANC Youth League.

His idol is teetering in which it seems is his last battle and the streets bleed for the same injuries that make this place so different

In their shirts policy is transmitted as can not be otherwise in the most political animal in recent decades. Her clothes amarrillas betray them. They are descendants of immortal man. Proudly wear their badges. "We come every evening since being admitted", says one political party disguised marriage whose father holds the hand of his son of not more than ten years of proud bearing caps "guerrilla" party. In the backs of all these young people who sing from time to try no messages about freedom, education, progress. Some, even, take a photo of the current president Jacob Zuma. Mandela is the ANC, though perhaps the ANC while Mandela is not.

Not far from there three Nigerian students take pictures with the few whites that are in the vicinity of the clinic, most workers resigned guard troupe of journalists. "It is the greatest", dicen photo in photo. Back, faint, John is, a young white South African who has brought a group of kids to pay tribute. "They wanted venir", I said with a tender smile. They are five nests with physical problems, one blank, just dropped a flower in the makeshift altar people built along the fence of the hospital.

Nobody wants to think so, but in every conversation you sense that everyone knows that the end is near.

On the wall, messages accumulate before there was time for the night vigil where candles are lit. The hospital wall is a collage of letters, photos, dedications and tributes. In Venezuela, Tanzania and Japan are read texts. There are flowers on the floor. All photos and pictures do on their phones. Keepsake Videos historic moment. A huge box with the face of Madiba serves too backdrop of cameras. A young African proudly carries his country's flag painted on a board where people write messages of love for the old leader. Tata, also known as Mandela, is the end or beginning of many of these messages.

And behind? Behind Mandela invisible to everyone. For television cameras by dozens crowd around this inert mass of cement. They come across rooftops, on balconies and placed in line out the door of a parking lot is expected out of him, dead or alive. Journalists have cornered all, until one of the granddaughters call them "vultures". Too much pressure for the family of an icon that says goodbye to an old. Nobody wants to think so, but in every conversation you sense that everyone knows that the end is near.

Behind the songs and chants are Zulu. The old gears reminiscent of the days of the struggle for freedom. Night falls, the silence is slowly approaching and then perceive that nothing stops. Traffic is as devilish as ever on our way back to the hotel. Pretoria and Johannesburg retain their air of soulless cities in which it seems that is always close to a dust storm download.

It's cold. Tomorrow we might be dead Mandela. And then? What will all when she's gone?

We finally arrived after dark to our hotel, el único hotel de Soweto con cuatro estrellas enclavado en medio de la más absoluta miseria. All accommodation is a tribute to Mandela, a la Libertad, to struggle from the bowels of this district ended the apartheid. In each room there is a box on the bed Madiba. From my window conflicting Kliptown neighborhood hear the silence broken only by some police sirens coming and going. You hear the train and see some fires. It's cold. Tomorrow we might be dead Mandela. And then? What will all when she's gone? Then sing, dance and mourn the death of his father heartily. They will do as he taught them to do. "When we hear talk Madiba".

This chronicle has been published today in the daily paper El Mundo