in the green jersey:
everybody expected him to walk on water
but he rather met old tannies,
boere tannies, with lots of baggage from the past,
who had innocent names like Betsie
and uncomfortable surnames like Verwoerd,
had tea with them,
smiled jovially,
genuinely, with his eyes
and a heart full of memories
but devoid of any hatred.
It is the tall man, the tall tall man
in the green jersey:
everybody expected him to feed all of the poor
on five loaves and two fishes,
but instead he
covered up the scars of the past
with his two hands,
hung up the boxing gloves,
opened the clenched fist
into a warm handshake,
greeted, without any grudges.
in the green jersey:
everybody expected him to turn water into wine,
but instead he carried this land
on his back,
like a father would
carry a child,
the man who was an island,
the man without a face
with the splinters of Sharpeville,
the shattered letters of Ruth First,
the bitter, long years of yearning
for child, for wife,
locked away behind bars
every little detail carved deep into his soul,
yet all neatly tucked away on the surface.
in the green jersey, number six,
who wants to now pass this country unto us all,
carefully, like a rugby ball.
The tall man, who once was an island,
became a rock, a universal beacon,
the man became the best that humanity could be.
Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika.
© Clinton V. du
Plessis 2013
