I have been waiting for my words to come, but they have not.
They may yet come, but not quite yet.
Instead, as so often in my 4 years here, I have found myself listening.
Listening to stories.
Stories of those denied the vote for half their adult lives.
Stories of those unable to try on clothes in shops for the majority of their lives.
Stories of those forcibly removed from family homes.
Stories of those whose loved ones suffered or died as a result of inadequate medical care.
Stories of those who felt they were finally forgiven.
Stories of those who say he was a terrorist who turned good.
Stories of those who say he was a freedom fighter in a just war.
Stories of those still trapped, but given hope.
It is not for me to wail or cry or even mourn.
In many respects he remains my Tata, but this is my time to listen and not speak.
The time for my words is coming, but not now.
Hamba Kahle Tata.