Heroes never die

I woke to a nightmare on Friday morning. Our hero had died. But on Friday night I knew I would rest easy, because heroes never die.

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Heroes never die

I was 10. An old white man was on TV talking about unbanning political parties - among them the ANC and he said something about Nelson Mandela going free. Who were these people, I remember thinking and why all the fuss about this Mandela character? I also remember someone shouting about the AWB saying "hulle ook".

I was alone in my parents living room when I watched De Klerk make that speech and it was the same when I watched Madiba walk free - his fist raised in the air in triumph.

I was 10 but that day was the day I became politically aware. It was the day that I began to understand what it is that makes this country so different to the rest of the world.

My parents never were political people. They were more content to live their lives the best they could and to provide for their children. If anything my sister and I are the political ones. Me probably more so. I was the revolutionary in the family - the rabble rouser - the troublemaker. That was thanks to Nelson Mandela.

To be honest it was hard not to be politically aware growing up in South Africa in the nineties.Like so many other South Africans who grew up in that time, my life was dotted with vivid memories of Mandela.

The speech at CODESA where he chastised De Klerk - an ominous warning that this proud, tall black man who was willing to negotiate was not someone to be messed with.

The Rugby World Cup - a uniter of people whose gesture brought together a nation still divided by its past.

The numerous occassions where he would put a child on his lap and relate a story to him or her as if the entire world and its media were not watching.

These are things that shaped my opinion of the man. For other's there might be different occassions which stick in their mind and shape how they remember him.

There were so many moments of greatness, humility, strength, kindness, leadership, integrity and inspiration that it would be impossible for all of us to have the same experience of Mandela.

As South African's many of us developed a deeply personal view of  Madiba and his significance. That he will be remembered as the most important man in the history of this country there is no doubt but the man, - the human being stripped of being a politician or the leader of a liberation movement  - will be loved and admired differently and for different reasons.

As such we all will have dealth differently with his death.

People grieve differently. Some of us dance and sing, some of us retreat into ourselves - we become reflective and choose to remember the person we have lost in a much more personal way.

I chose to wear black today. I hoped to make it to the stadium to pay my respects but it is not the only reason I did so. Where I come from it is fitting to wear black when you are in mourning.

I prefer to grieve and mourn alone.

Even now as I write this I do so away from the crowd which has gathered around the TV to watch his memorial. I find their prying eyes intrusive, the celebrity-spotting annoying. I would prefer that they sit in silence and allow this moment to pass with reverence and respect. It's a vain, selfish attempt to hold onto some sort of personal piece of a man who meant so much to all of us.

I know someone who went to Mandela's house in Houghton to grieve but what she found there made it impossible to do so. Instead she found a minute on a quiet park bench to pay her respects to a man who had meant so much to her on a very personal level.

Long after the noise has subsided and the singing has stopped, I too will sit alone in a room and remember the man who shaped my sense of self as a black man in South Africa.

I will remember the revolutionary who wore his hair in a sidepath, his lips pursed in defiance of those who sought to jail him for wanting to be their equal.

I will remember the slightly greying man with his glasses fixed to his face, standing up tall in that assembly hall, chastising the leader of those who oppressed his people for hundreds of years.

I will remember the smiling man, who adopted the sport and colours of those who oppressed his people and revelled in their success on the rugby field because he believed, above everything else, that they were his country men.

I will remember the man who cracked a joke at his retirement - the jester in a court full of clowns telling us "Don't call me. I'll call you".

I will remember the man who loved us all as if we were his own children.

I will remember Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela. I will remember our hero.

Hamba Kahle Tata. Enkosi kakhulu