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Welcome home, world!

The day had come, and it started in a typical dramatic South African fashion.
I was woken up with the news of the death of Zenani Mandela. It proved to be, not Madibas daughter Zenani, but his great grandchild.
The whole world wanted to see the grand old man at the opening of the World Cup, and he finally agreed, despite the cautions from his family due to his frail health. The morning of the opening the news arrived of the death of little Zenani in a car accident with the driver being arrested for drunk driving.
Again Mandela was faced with the hard choices between his official duties and his private sphere, a theme that has run through his life. But this choice was probably not so difficult.
Zenani was a favorite grandchild (see picture). A great sadness in his life has also always been the death of his son in a car-accident while he was imprisoned on Robben Island. So he stayed at home but, as FIFA president Blatter said in his opening address, “The spirit of Mandela is in Soccer City.”
And indeed it was.
The opening line of the event captured the grandeur of the moment:
Finally, there we all sat in the calabash, and felt – yes, at home… at last…
Until the world celebrates its roots, and thus forgives itself for all the atrocities of the past against the “lesser brethren” in general and as a continent Africa in particular, we will not feel at home… anywhere.
So finally it had come, the day, the big, big day of celebration.
And the excuse for the celebration – I mean the football game, was there any reason for celebration there?
Well, you all probably saw it and I don’t think this is the place to look for a match commentary, but yes, the Bafana came out dancing from the dressing room and a bit later a magnificent left from Tshabalala made Tutu jive on the grandstand to the sound of tooting vuvuzelas. My heart and soul was dancing. My ears weren´t. To toot to Tutu is too to toot to two total tender eardrums; mine...


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