06 December 2013

Madiba

Madiba.


Nelson Mandela was know to those who loved him by that name. I use it now to try to honor their love for him.

Obviously, I did not know this man. However, when I heard about his passing, I felt like something had subtly dimmed. Like a light had gone out in the world.  His story is one I knew before I could understand, before I could tell it back to anyone else. All I have available to me are stupid, pretentious words, but I mean them wholeheartedly. I feel like his life has shaped mine in some indescribable way, although a thousand miles and a continent, a lifestyle and a family completely unknown to him separate us.

His story echoes in my head today. I feel its telling in my blood, and I am moved. I find myself mourning. It's as if his experiences - dramatised a hundred times by writers, film makers, and media partners the world over- have somehow been inked on my skin. Beneath it maybe. Because in a way, the tale and the man both- the life that has become a story, are part of me too. They're part of all of us. Even so many miles, so many lifetimes away. That story created the world I know, and it made the one I'm struggling to achieve possible.

I am honoured.