So Nelson Mandela has died.  A couple of generations are reeling.  There’s a third generation out there (I think) who are caught up in this, quite stunning, outpouring of emotion.  I cried.  Not full-on blubbering, but every now and then, through the day, a tear would leak.  And I just couldn’t figure out why.  Yes – the obvious.  The man had died.  But he wasn’t my father or grandfather.  Of course he had done so very much for his country and had set into motion the deep and moving concept of peace and reconciliation.  But I’m from Canada.  I live in the UK.  I’m of a “certain age”.  I have successfully (and luckily) made it this far without ever having experienced what black South Africans have lived through for decades and decades.

I distinctly remember my father explaining apartheid.  First of all, he corrected my pronunciation.  (I was saying it “apart-hate”.  Much more apt, don’t you think?) And then, he proceeded to tell me about the systematic separation.  I knew about American segregation, and that was all done with. (Ha! – that’s a whole other blog…)  And here was this far-away country – in a continent with LOTS of black people that was still getting away with this nonsense.  And the categorisation – black, coloured, asian.  Crazy stuff!  How’d those white people get away with it?  Dad did not tell me about the ANC.  That came a few years later, when on a trip back to Winnipeg (where my parents landed upon emigrating from Trinidad), we met up with my brother’s godparents.  Genuine SA coloured folk.  Genuine SA militant (as in blowing up things) coloured folk.  I was in awe and a little bit afraid.  These were angry folk, tense.  Acknowledging all that Canada had offered them, but itching to to get back and “fix” things.  I can see them in my mind’s eye, asking my parents to donate funds – “buy a brick!”- to help build a school house.  My brother only told my recently that they were asking for money for arms.  We had a tiny part in the struggle!  I belong.  I also digress.

South Africa was out of my mind until my final year at university where, half way through my final year, it was reported that my esteemed institution had investments (no idea how big, how many) in S.A.  In true student fashion, a sit-in began.  Hell – they went one further and built a symbolic shanty town.  Timing, of course, was everything.  Archbishop Desmond Tutu was the commencent speaker that year.  Awesome timing.

It is October 2015 now.  Stuart Hall has died.  Maya Angelou gone as well.  As it happens, my next work project has to do with a celebration of Mandela.  Timing is everything.  Great people go and a little gap opens up in the universe.  As time passes and I get older, I like to think that my ability to look back at what these people have achieved.  To look back at what effect their lives – their struggles – have achieved.  Honestly, I’m still struggling to remove my pessimistic skin.  Plus ça change, plus la même chose.  However, what would this world be if they hadn’t been…