INVICTUS

For some reason i find myself thinking of the movie Invictus and found myself stumbling across the poem, if you have watched it you might remember the poem recited by Morgan Freeman close to the end and that it was a favorite of the man he portrayed so well in the movie. I think Obama also makes reference to the poem in his speech at Nelson Mandela's memorial service, especially in the lines, "I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.".

The poem was originally written by William Ernest Henley in my opinion to show might in the face of adversity, the Latin meaning for Invictus is after all "unconquerable"!

A Man and his work

A few years ago i read an article in the Daily Mavrick where Jonathan Jansen speaks about servant leadership and his work at the University of the Free State, i have also had the privilege of meeting this giant of a man at WITS and yes he is indeed a giant in humility and spirit, i have never met a man more dedicate to the needs of his children (students) or that resonates such peace. His love for people and his mission for change literally speaks without him needing to say a word.

Recently some of his other work has been making its way into my inbox and around Facebook, the more i read the more affirmed i am that it should definitely be shared. One of my favorites is his writing on South Africa through his eyes.

My South Africa by Jonathan Jansen (Published: 9 February 2011)

My South Africa is the working-class man who called from the airport to return my wallet without a cent missing. It is the white woman who put all three of her domestic worker's children through the same school that her own child attended. It is the politician in one of our rural provinces, Mpumalanga, who returned his salary to the government as a statement that standing with the poor had to be more than just a few words. It is the teacher who worked after school hours every day during the public sector strike to ensure her children did not miss out on learning.

My South Africa is the first-year university student in Bloemfontein who took all the gifts she received for her birthday and donated them - with the permission of the givers - to a home for children in an Aids village. It is the people hurt by racist acts who find it in their hearts to publicly forgive the perpetrators. It is the group of farmers in Paarl who started a top school for the children of farm workers to ensure they got the best education possible while their parents toiled in the vineyards. It is the farmer's wife in Viljoenskroon who created an education and training centre for the wives of farm labourers so that they could gain the advanced skills required to operate accredited early-learning centers for their own and other children.

My South Africa is that little white boy at a decent school in the Eastern Cape who decided to teach the black boys in the community to play cricket, and to fit them all out with the togs required to play the gentelman's game. It is the two black street children in Durban, caught on camera, who put their spare change in the condensed milk tin of a white beggar. It is the Johannesburg pastor who opened up his church as a place of shelter for illegal immigrants. It is the Afrikaner woman from Boksburg who nailed the white guy who shot and killed one of South Africa's greatest freedom fighters outside his home.

My South Africa is the man who went to prison for 27 years and came out embracing his captors, thereby releasing them from their impending misery. It is the activist priest who dived into a crowd of angry people to rescue a woman from a sure necklacing. It is the former police chief who fell to his knees to wash the feet of Mamelodi women whose sons disappeared on his watch; it is the women who forgave him in his act of contrition. It is theCape Town university psychologist who interviewed the 'Prime Evil' in Pretoria Centre and came away with emotional attachment, even empathy, for the human being who did such terrible things under apartheid.

My South Africa is the quiet, dignified, determined township mother from Langa who straightened her back during the years of oppression and decided that her struggle was to raise decent children, insist that they learn, and ensure that they not succumb to bitterness or defeat in the face of overwhelming odds. It is the two young girls who walked 20kms to school everyday, even through their matric years, and passed well enough to be accepted into university studies. It is the student who takes on three jobs, during the evenings and on weekends, to find ways of paying for his university studies.

My South Africa is the teenager in a wheelchair who works in townships serving the poor. It is the pastor of a Kenilworth church whose parishioners were slaughtered, who visits the killers and asks them for forgiveness because he was a beneficiary of apartheid. It is the politician who resigns on conscientious grounds, giving up status and salary because of an objection in principle to a social policy of her political party. It is the young lawman who decides to dedicate his life to representing those who cannot afford to pay for legal services.

My South Africa is not the angry, corrupt, violent country those deeds fill the front pages of newspapers and the lead-in items on the seven-o'-clock news. It is the South Africa often unseen, yet powered by the remarkable lives of ordinary people. It is the citizens who keep the country together through millions of acts of daily kindness. 

* This article originally appeared in Mango's in-flight magazine.

Remembering...

My uncle was a remarkable man, he lived his life with such vigour and ease. He was a silent man most of the time yet when he walked into a room you would know that he is there.

He was sometimes hard headed and cocky but he loved being the only uncle we had; he relished being the big brother to his 4 bossy sisters (my mom and aunts), a husband and a father to his sons. As a teenager he use to knock down my room door just to check if i am alive, he is one of the few that never saw my eccentric nature as weird. He literally just let me go with it and i loved him dearly for that.

Knowing his really gone is harder than we all thought it would be, even though we have had months to prepare for it and say our "goodbyes" there still feels like a decade has been left unsaid.

His wife will miss him most as she watches their grand kids grow up and their sons marry off and start their own lives. My mom and her sisters will also miss their steadfast brother, even though they have years of memories he won't be a phone call away anymore. He won't be there anymore.

In all this sadness i take heart in knowing that God called him home at the right time and He has my uncle safely nestled against His side watching us all as we continue to soldier on. I pray his soul has found peace and that he knows he was loved and will always be missed.

“It has been said, 'time heals all wounds.' I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.” ― Rose Kennedy

In loving memory of my Uncle Greg
26 January 2013