I had a rough morning today. Admittedly, it wasn’t as rough as the one that family and friends of the late Robert Guillaume had, as they mourned and managed his loss yesterday at the age of 89, after a lengthy illness. But it was rough nonetheless.
It took me a minute to figure out why Guillaume’s death hit me so hard. I didn’t watch his breakout series, Soap, or its spinoff, Benson during their initial runs. Both of those shows earned Guillaume comedy Emmys, and he was the first African American actor to win them.
I caught both shows in syndication and became somewhat of a fan, but Guillaume really didn’t win me over until, in 1999, he lit up the small screen again in Aaron Sorkin’s brilliant, relatively little known SportsNight. If you haven’t seen it, YouTube the second episode of the first season, or the episode entitled “The Six Southern Gentlemen Of Tennessee”…or any performance he gave on that show. Better yet, just pick up the DVD box set of the series. It’s brilliant television.
As good as Guillaume was in SportsNight, his performances there weren’t enough to elicit the tears I shed this morning when I read of his passing. Then, it hit me: Guillaume was also the voice of Rafiki in the animated feature film The Lion King. Rafiki presents the infant Simba to the world at the beginning of the film, and at the end of the movie’s second act, he convinces the young adult Simba that he had to go back and face the demons of his past, and that Simba would never be without the spirit of the father. Mufasa, Rafiki implored, would always live in Simba.
Lest you think a cartoon could make me cry (let’s just forget about Bambi’s mom for a moment, shall we?), know this: just last week, my family weathered the 15th anniversary of the death of our own Mufasa, my father, Charles Franklin Coleman. With each passing year, I see more of my dad when I see a reflection of myself in the mirror, a store window, or a pool of water. I revisited that Rafiki / Simba scene from The Lion King this afternoon, and I cried my eyes out. I miss you, Dad.
And my hat’s off to the legendary Robert Guillaume. May he rest in peace.