The man

It is the tall man, the tall tall man

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.

 

It is the tall man, the tall tall man

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.

 

It is the tall man, the tall tall man

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