Rudimental. Estou rendido a estes miúdos.

Dear Mandela,

This small letter will find you on your last way to a deserved and final freedom. I must confess, to be honest, that I am not really sure why I am writing this letter. Somehow I feel this strong need to do it, but I also feel that it doesn’t make sense. We both know that nobody is eternal but you know, Nelson, I can’t avoid feeling a bit like an orphan. We all know that you were not a saint, unless we see a saint as a sinner that keeps trying. You said it. The problem, my dear Nelson, is that you were the last public personality alive that I truly admired. That’s why I feel a kind of fatherless. And I am old enough to know that most of us, all over the world, that cried your death will forget your teachings and your legacy. We will say “no we won’t” but we will. And you will not be here to remind us with your wisdom, your kindness, your love and above all your strength, your faith and your goodness. It has already happened with Christ and Mahatma Gandhi. Nobody on earth is able to do what you have done. It’s not about reading what you said or what you did. It’s about your unique character. A unique character and courage of a simple man that puts himself a task considered impossible by many, but which made possible the miracle of reconciliation of a nation: freeing both the oppressed and the oppressor. It’s not about doing the right things when life smiles at you. It’s about doing the right things when life turns its back to you. The job is never done, isn’t it? But your job has been done. I recognize that smile of yours. The smile that only men and women have when the job is done. Well done in your case, I would say.

With my deepest respect and warm regards.

Farewell, Nelson Mandela.


O valor da paz. Descobri-o no interior de Angola.

O Bailundo é uma pequena cidade histórica do imenso planalto central angolano. O Bailundo é como uma pessoa. Uma mulher de raça negra do interior de Angola. Uma mulher envelhecida, com cabelos já brancos e muitas rugas vincadas num rosto dorido. Uma mulher magra, com os ossos a marcarem cada contorno da pele. Uma mulher que viveu a guerra e sobreviveu a ela, mas com fantasmas chamados memórias ainda e sempre a ocupar a sua vida. Uma mulher de olhos tristes, cansada, mas que nunca deixa de nos acenar com um sorriso. O sorriso que a paz lhe trouxe e que é mais importante que a pobreza. Só dá, verdadeiramente, valor à paz, quem viveu a guerra, ouvi no Bailundo. Envelhecida, ainda cansada da guerra, de cabelos brancos, muitas rugas no rosto, magra e com memórias amargas. Mas porque é que, mesmo assim, eu achei a tua terra bonita Edite?