Better you don’t know how much they’re manipulating you.
Wannabe statesmen want to retain you as their Madiba –
ancestor of the nation, guardian of the world. Your closed casket is their open
season; now they can arrange you any way they like.
Madiba, embodiment of elderly wisdom, also serves to outlaw
the idea of Mandingo, i.e. ‘look at those huge fists, see the terrifying cock
on that black bull’. The magic of Madiba dispels the fantastic dangers of the
flesh (skin, boner and bare-knuckle fighter) conjured up in swart gevaar (Afrikaans for 'black
threat') mentality.
Meanwhile Tutu does a twirl because your political party, the African National Congress, has wrapped you
in its flag and drawn up the guest list for your funeral – minus a certain
archbishop. He has a point: the sight of your grandson Mandla harvesting Madiba’s
reputation – your most vital organ – is hard to watch.
But this is too one-sided. Any story which refers only to
other people’s machinations, is bound to be simplistic. Postcards from your
boxing days – bare-chested with stiletto-thin moustache – suggest that the idea
of Mandingo was not entirely alien to you. Your ‘dignity’ was never docile nor
disinterested; even in your prison cell, you always worked the room. Machiavelli
might have written The Prince with
you in mind; rather, he need not have done so, since you were already
mindful of it.
Conversely, I bet the dodgy geezer currently trading on Tata’s
persona, would still stake it all in order to play the grandson’s traditional
role: having accompanied his grandfather during the days leading up to the
funeral, speaking alone to the dear departing as he goes gently into the night.
Machiavelli, Mandingo, Madiba: Nelson Mandela has been something
of each of these; he was only as complex as the rest of us.
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