Kritiek Aster — Ukuthula

Olivetti 45 — I keep deleting every sentence I write here this week. I have so much to say to the 51 800 of you who don’t read my regular column and yet, in my humble opinion, my message comes out wrong every time.

To Nelson Mandela, in my colleague’s words, hamba kahle, and in mine, ukuthula. Nothing describes the scenes outside your Houghton home on Friday night 6 December better than the photos I have taken. I went there on a whim, not by assignment of my editor. I went there for me, I needed to be there.

Tears streaked my face when I entered that crowd. People were so lively, so passionate about their struggle songs, dances and your help in liberating them. Minstens die helfte van my familie frons na dáárdie sin. I enjoyed every second with my fellow South Africans there, for lo and behold, a true rainbow nation celebrated his life outside his home. Every culture, language and creed united there that night, and I was fortunate enough to be part of it.

My ouma glo in die outydse ‘hou die blink kant bo’ uitkyk op die lewe. Ek sê cry your hearts out for the man very few of us (who were there on Friday night) have had the pleasure to meet, and whom I never had the opportunity to appreciate for his work. Make a god-like icon of him or call him the terrorist that caused him to end up in prison – do what is appropriate for the side of the spectrum you agree with. Do it respectfully.

Forget keeping the blink kant bo and get passionate, although not brutal, about the people we adore and the people we deem inadequate. Like that crowd, get passionate about the changes that we demand, as a country. Get passionate. Celebrate. Criticise. Demand a better life. But get involved in the process, it might surprise you what happens when you’re right there in the middle of it. It surprised me.

Ukuthula, ’til next year.