So, finally perhaps,
Mandela, Mandiba, is free.
Man of perpetual dignity.
He who used love
as a political strategy.
Did not seek recrimination.
delighted in non discrimination.
A ladies man they cry,
a gleam, a twinkle, under African sky.
Fighter, boxer, lawyer.
Sometimes the state’s version of a terror,
and yet, this man left us replete, but, and I repeat,
not with horror,
for he was a healer, not a destroyer.
His photograph for years denied
to those he served, who cried
struggled, Soweto dirt dusted
still in invisible Mandela they trusted.
The day before this colossus departed
our political leaders here in the UK
enjoyed another Parliamentary day.
In the ‘mothership of democracy’
the bear pit beckoned;
and debate was the language of shouts and jeers,
and also, some might say, an urn of crocodile tears,
a style that leaves the voters cold,
disillusioned, depressed, down hearted.
So much said, yet not enough to say.
Perhaps it’s time, and more, to walk and talk,
practice, preach and ourselves outreach
in living life, the Mandela Way.
HAMBA KAHLE WETU (Go Well, friend)
No more troubles,
and for your vision,
please, not the end.