Dawn raining in Johannesburg. Much. Mandela's funeral would be cold and rain. We leave the hotel early. Water slipped around the crystals of our car and it seemed so normal, It seemed that he wouldn't have gone. How can the city move when Mandela is no longer? But it moves, It has moved all these days because life always expires. It must be so, In the end there is only a new principle. Other, I do not know, or for us, what difference does it make, He had left.
And then we arrive at the stadium. Our press accreditation allowed us to cross the strict security controls. It was early, It was cold. And then, seven in the morning, I left the car and heard a distant song that came from the colosseum. We went to the press center, A few minutes to load some batteries, And the song was there, perennial. South Africa sang as many times I have heard her. He was celebrating his pain again like nobody. Only pain for your foul, The rest is the party of having lived.
He was celebrating his pain again like nobody. Only pain for your foul, The rest is the party of having lived.
And we couldn't anymore. You had to go there to see it, To listen to it. We walk under intense rain. Next to us hundreds of people with their ANC flags, Your mandela caps, His faces of joy without time to chew the crying. At the door there is a guy who sells framed photos of Madiba by 50 Rands (4,5 EUR). Other, They make them and print for 20 Rands. Other, They sell plates or scarves. Others…
We pass the door. I'm there again. The first I saw Spain to be world champion, The third I see to go to the last myth that we had left. "Our best mirror broke", I. I will never forget this place, as I will never forget this country I admire deeply. And the voices followed, The songs. Three older women want to take some photos with us. Three African breasts that dawn at night to get to the field. The three were 23 years in this same place listening to a newly released Mandela: "It was so great to listen to him that we were free", tell us. Then, The politician gave the first speech in 27 years in what was your home, and Soweto.
And the song followed, that it was already a roar. He listened and felt the stack of the stadium.
And the song followed, that it was already a roar. He listened and felt the stack of the stadium. Then we ask about the press zone. We arrive at a tribune with hundreds of colleagues. And the song on our heads could be heard. "Let's go" I tell Francesca, “It's there, at the party, Where we must go ".
And we climb up to the stadium through the endless ramps. And, suddenly, We arrived at a stand where there were thousands of people dancing and singing. They sang “Mandela, You are my president "and" When Mandela speaks we hear ". And it was impossible not to shudder, Do not get excited about that mass of people who had dawned to say goodbye to their father. "We express our feelings like that, But that doesn't mean we don't feel it ", a man tells me.
It was impossible not to shudder, Do not get excited about that mass of people who had dawned to say goodbye to their father.
I then talk to the elderly for a report in the newspaper. And we take photos and some videos (of low quality, sorry) and we sang and we got excited and they took photos of us and I lived what I had been waiting for for years just as I had imagined it.. And I narrated it live with an impossible connection in El Mundo and I lived it live with my eyes and my hands.
And that's how Mandela's funeral went until the ceremony arrived and he was stolen from us. And I saw the people sit down and shut up and stop dancing and singing and I knew that Mandela was gone.. It was raining a lot in Johannesburg but no one had cried.
