The sun desperately tries to push the clouds out of the way of the Eastern Cape skies.
It is hard
but the sky is trying to observe protocol so that all the traditional work that must be performed may continue without the rain.
An ox must fall to the ground with the great tree.
The people of the Eastern Cape must look on while the world buries its most prized son.
A son it never had the opportunity to enjoy since prison’s doors bound him.
A father whose children never had the opportunity to enjoy because he was a slave to freedom.
A husband who was never to be because he was married to a nation in bondage.
Still, there shall be no privacy. No moment to mourn privately. He belongs to the world even when his head falls to the ground, our ground.
I lament for the Mandela children’s loss,
I mourn for the loss of the Madibas, the loss of the Thembu tribe,
the loss of the Xhosa nation,
the loss of the Eastern Cape
for a son so great sown to the world.