Mandela (July 18, 1918-November 6, 2013)

What man or woman, friend or foe,

Could  deny  to  you, even in the worst

Of  pique,  your colossal due as a man

Above  the  customary  frailty  of man?

That  you  could shake the hand that locked

In  the best of your youth behind a dungeon,

And  share the glory of your second coming

With  the  beast that wished you dead,

And  open your heart, and a million hearts

Of diverse hue,  to  those that deserved

Not  reconciliation  but  comeuppance—

This    was  staggering-human  beyond

Belief or  apprehension.   In doing so, you

Blocked  the rivers of blood that were set to  flow.

Yet, O great Madiba, colour of skin was

Not an issue by itself, but the pernicious

Excuse  for denying to your people

Their  just dues  in land, and schools,

And jobs, and  in the  running of the  realm

As  equal  to those who were at the helm.

You  struck noble peace with  your tormentor,

And  accepted  a joint  prize, but Sweto

And  Steve Biko  and the  thousands

Whose  lives  were taken in the struggle

Ask  whether you did not step down too soon

From office,  busying yourself in  social causes

Worldwide,  looking back little to see

Whether  the  liberator  ANC  may  have

Lost  its  memory  to  power and glory.

Or  that  the expropriator of old  still

May not have relinquished his fair-skinned hold

On  lands and assets  that were taken from

The  people,  fearing no  rebuke from those

That  stepped into their shoes.

Mandela,  why does greatness thus

Always  fall short?  We think of the Mahatma

Who  shamed  untouchability  but  would not

Take  issue with  an   order that bred  and

Sanctioned it through  centuries of  rot.

As  you  go,  your  sufferance and forgiveness

Elevate us as did those of Jesus;  but  the same

Question  will haunt  the  wretched of your land

That  still afflicts the fortunes of the holy land.

Badri Raina